#Calculate Age in Excel

[kyuohki]

Continuation from this post (that one has the initial Modern/College/Band AU idea, along w/ some lore bits for Seraï and Teaks)! (I've also gone more in on the idea of Band AU here!

Note: All this stuff will be the background for Bound for Greatness, while the fics are mainly about the Solstice Crew in college. Not that I'm not gonna write kid fic of them growing up, bc having the group finally have some *healthy* family dynamics is very appealing; but damn it, Bound for Greatness was supposed to be just smut. *sighs*

This one is gonna be for Zale, as I realized I only posted some of his background via a writing meme. Ooops!

Also, for this AU, scale up the islands to allow for larger populations (so think of each island as their own country w/ enough land mass to support many cities/towns).

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So, Zale was born a preemie, to Haris and Yeon'a; this is similar to my worldbuilding for An Honor, where he's supposed to be born after the Solstice. In that verse, Resh'an is the one that stabilizes him on the way to Mooncradle, while he goes into a NICU in the Modern AU. (In game premies are stabilized by magic/hand wavy science/alchemy; all of Resh'an's delivery Great Eagle Puppets are "programmed" to do this, Game!Zale is the only one to get hands-on treatment, and that makes him healthier than ModernAU!Zale is).

He gets sick frequently, on up to his early tweens (so about the time he hits end of elementary to beginning of middle school, he's almost average for any kid his age). His family made the move to Mooncradle from Brisk when he was 4-ish, to be close to a hospital that could help him (right after the move he gains a baby sister). His parents and his big sister are extremely protective of him, tho Haris does back off a bit when Zale pushes back.

Zale meets Garl and Valere in kindergarten, and they become inseparable. It's here that Zale gets his "signature" haircut, much to the dismay of the teacher (they had safety scissors, but not the full plastic ones that won't cut hair). No matter what the parents/guardians do, Zale always finds a way to cut his hair the way he wants. Eventually Yeon'a gives up trying to stop him, and buys some clippers and tries to keep it neat, if nothing else (Haris finds it hilarious, but keeps that to himself).

Academically, Zale is a gifted student, and doesn't really exert much effort into his classes (this will bite him in the ass come college). But he gets really into sports (and into his mom's hobby of hitting people w/ historical weaponry) once he hits middle school, and ends up on his school's soccer team. He also joins his mom's historical martial arts organization, and learns how to hit things w/ a sword (I had to...)

By middle school, Valere has become obsessed w/ rock bands, and the Trio manage to convince their families to let them take classes. Zale immediately goes for a guitar (mostly bc he fell in love with the design of one), Garl takes up bass, and Valere drums. They get together at Garl's (he has the largest garage to set up in, and his Gran had helped to soundproof a part of it for their practices).

Haris goes to Zale's defense a lot, and is his son's major supporter when Zale first goes into sports, then into Yeon'a's historical martial arts hobby.

Zale has 4 siblings:

Yu'mi; older sister, by 3 years. Works in Haris' business/store after she graduates college (basic degree); has her own section where she sells plushies that she designs and sells, along w/ shirts and other stationary. Briefly tried out Yeon’a and Zale’s hobby of hitting people with swords, but didn’t really care for it as much (she finds it fun, and a good workout. She actually gravitated to a staff more, and had fun “sparring” with Valere when she joined. (Valere had a huge crush on Yu’mi for a while).

Alexia; younger sister, by 4 years. Zale’s favorite sister. They get up to trouble all the time and love to prank Yu’mi. The only other member of the family that goes hard w/ the “hit people w/ swords” hobby. She has won many awards at tournaments, and wants to go into history w/ an eye at the long distant wars that Mooncradle had been part of.

Fotis and Jeong; twin little brothers, by 9 years. Fotis is the calm one, Jeong is the hot head. They idolize Zale, and he’s the only one that can wrangle them once they’ve got an idea into their heads. Their plan is to take over Haris' store when they get older.

Zale is the best big brother! Eats his little sister Alexia's disasters of meals and tells her everything is delicious. Helps his little brothers, Jeong and Fotis, plan and implement their money making schemes (ie lemonade stands; this eventually comes into conflict when Mirna comes on the scene and sets up a rival stand).

Insanely Long Family Lore under the cut (no really, it's stupidly long bc Elder!Zale and his family demanded Lore):

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Zale is named after his great-grandpa Zale. Elder!Zale lived in a small town on the outskirts of Brisk, but ended up leaving for Brisk after he was unfairly divorced by his wife (no name, just Bitch) and lost custody of his daughter (Thalia). Elder!Zale moved in with his childhood best-friend, Terrance (who still had a massive crush on Elder!Zale).

They start a business together, and eventually one of their employees asks Elder!Zale about an upcoming, romantic holiday and, “What are you and your husband planning for it? :3c” (of course the two were absolutely acting like a couple, and of course all the people around them assumed). Cue flailing that is also misunderstood as cute absentmindedness, and after a long bit of soul searching, Elder!Zale finds that he likes the idea of being with Terrance. Romance-Comedy shenanigans ensue w/ them getting married in the end).

Grandma Thalia had Haris as a teen herself (at 15), and was kicked out of her home by Bitch bc of it. Elder!Zale took her in, though Thalia still blamed him for the divorce (Bitch twisted everything into it all being Elder!Zale's fault, mostly bc she suspected him of cheating on her w/ Terrance (he never did). Truthfully, Bitch was the one who cheated, and divorced so she could marry her lover). Elder!Zale did his best, but Thalia had internalized a lot of Bitch and Bitch Husband's bigotry, and she left as soon as she could support herself.

Grandma Thalia eventually married a rich man when Haris was 6 (after a lot of shit boyfriends), and had 2 more kids (boy and girl; not twins, but within the same year). Husband was good to Haris until his kids were born, then started treating Haris like shit (not violent abusive, but definitely prioritized his kids and could be verbally abusive (very much using Haris as the scapegoat of the family)). Thalia was willfully oblivious to it, even unconsciously mimicked it, and the siblings picked up on it and did the same. Husband made some bad calls and nearly drove the family into bankruptcy (this is about when Haris is 10-ish), and Thalia had to bite her tongue to ask Elder!Zale for help bc husband’s family refused to. Elder!Zale and Terrance pulled the family out of their hole, and were allowed to see the grandkids since then (permission given by husband, for once arguing against Thalia that they should be grateful).

Since Elder!Zale was given a chance to be part of Haris’ life, when Haris hit high school, Elder!Zale knew that Haris’ home life wasn’t the best and managed to convince Haris’ mom to let Haris spend vacations with him. Terrance was a big role model for Haris, teaching him a lot about art. He’s the reason why Haris was so fascinated w/ pottery and carving. This all led to Haris and Yeon’a to trust Elder!Zale and Terrance w/ the info that she was pregnant before anyone else.

Yeon'a lost her family at 7 years old in a car accident, and moves in w/ her Uncle Han'mo. Yeon'a got along decently w/ her Uncle, but he did not really understand how to raise a kid and was kinda a flake. He was mostly hands off for much of Yeon’a’s life. Uncle was upset that Yeon’a got pregnant and tried to convince her to abort (was trying to think of her future, not wanting her to be derailed w/ a kid; after Yu'mi was born, he tried to convince Yeon'a to put Yu'mi up for adoption). When Yeon’a eloped w/ Haris and immediately left for Brisk, Uncle was upset that Yeon’a left without any word (his insistence at aborting/giving up her baby made Yeon’a angry and not trust him). They eventually make amends after Alexia is born, and he tries to be the “cool” Great-Uncle when he visits (mostly by money/buying gifts for the kids).

Yeon'a and Haris were teen sweethearts, and ended up pregnant with Haris at 18 and Yeon'a at 17. After Yu'mi was born, they waited until Yeon'a graduated, then eloped and left their small town to move to Brisk. Elder!Zale and Terrance offered to let them stay them, giving them jobs at their business (own a small grocery store), and the two Great-Grandpas help out w/ babysitting. There, the two kids work on their degrees, Haris in marketing/business, while Yeon'a gets her MLIS. By the time that they graduate and both get decent jobs that let them move out, Yeon'a is pregnant w/ Zale.

When Zale is born prematurely, they move back in w/ Great-Grandpas. After Zale is released from the NICU, and for about the next four years, there are a bunch of health scares that eventually force the family to look for better hospitals/specialists. They learn that Mooncradle has the best doctors/aid, and set about moving to that city. Haris convinces his job to let him work remotely, and Yeon'a manages to land a job at a library close to where they're gonna live (a decent, if a bit run down, rental house). After they've finished moving, Youn'a is preggers again, and has a baby girl named Alexia.

GreatGrandpa!Zale and Terrance finally retire, selling their store and moving out to live with the family in Mooncradle; again they help out a lot w/ babysitting and other living costs. As such, the family's quality of life goes up a lot, as it's both a cheaper cost of living in Mooncradle, and with Great-Grandpas there to lend a hand. When Haris and Yeona manage to save enough to buy a house, the Great-Grandpas co-sign on a mortgage to help make payments, and they end up close enough to a lot of very good schools.

In about another five years, the twins, Fotis and Jeong, are born; Yeon'a has moved up in her field, landing a job as a librarian in a prestigious university in Mooncradle. At about the same time, Haris has decided to switch gears, buying a shop with a storefront, and converted it into a craft center. He always loved doing crafty stuff w/ Terrance, and they both have the time of their lives setting up the place. The shop sells various trinkets they make; trinkets carved from stone, wood and crystal, as well as pottery Haris and Terrance throw. Connected to the shop is a large studio w/ pottery wheels and kilns, and they rent out the space for local artists and classes (they give lessons whenever they can, but others also teach in the space).

As a child, Zale used to yell, “It ME!” when he saw Elder!Zale, and Elder!Zale would do the same. Youn'a gets thoroughly tired of it, while the namesakes (and Haris) find it hilarious. Zale grows out of it a bit (the childish effect of wanting to be seen as more mature), but takes it up again late high school and college. The other great-grandbabies all call Elder!Zale, "Papu Zale." Zale calls Terrance Ganpa Ter for much of his childhood (he still does it when he tries to wheedle for something or when he needs to talk or comforting.) The rest just call him Grandpa Terry.

The family doesn’t have much to do with Grandma Thalia or Haris’ siblings. There’s an occasional holiday card, and there was once a family reunion that went horribly wrong and Zale and sibs all refused to go to another.

Yu'mi is engaged to be married by the time Bound for Greatness rolls around, to a very upstanding young man named Gavin. To be Brother-in-law (21) is going to law school, hoping to become an employment/labor lawyer. Gavin eventually shifts and goes into entertainment/ip lawyer due to his brother-in-law’s career choices (it’s a side job for a bit, helping Zale and friends out here and there, then eventually joins B’st’s team of lawyers to help represent Zale and co. for however long they keep the band together). He met the family through the historical martial arts org Yeon’a is in, and met Yu’mi there; he had friendly spars with Zale.

[thedreadvampy]

I'm going to fucking kill someone how FUCKING hard is it to write down basic information??!???

[twohearts-hs]

Dove & Captain: 7 - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader Series

Words in Total: 11.9k

Pairings: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Synopsis: She's his Dove. The ER nurse who is the definition of chaos, trauma and humour in scrubs. He's her Captain, gruff, emotionally guarded war veteran with a prosthetic leg and completely in love with her. Six years together, a mortgage, four dogs and the ability to conquer anything. This is a story of their life in one day. He is 49, she's 30. This is one day of their life based on the 15 episodes of 'The Pitt'. There will be little imagines of their relationship over the years.

Warnings: Swearing, Age Gap, Trauma, Medical Language/Procedure, Pregnancy, Miscarriage, etc.

A/N: This is a complete series of ~60k. I will post a few snapshots of their relationship over the six+ years they've been together.

Hope you enjoy :)

Series Masterlist

-

2000

It was now eight o’clock. An hour passed the time Y/N was supposed to be off. Another hour into this mass casualty.

            Y/N was on another patient. Jack was behind her with a different patient. Dr. Mohan was with her as they worked alongside one another.

            “This is weird,” Dr. Mohan called out.

            “What?” Jack asked, looking over.

            “Shot in the chest but nothing out of the thoracostomy tube,” Dr. Mohan said to Jack as he came over.

            Leaning over, Jack looked at the tube going into the patient. “You got through the pleura, ok?” he asked.

            “Yeah, I definitely felt the lung with my finger,” Dr. Mohan replied.

            Y/N was working around them, then glanced up. “Hey, I lost the radial pulse. I got a femoral though,” she stated, looking at the two doctors. “I think he’s bleeding out.”

            Jack nodded. “Indeed, he is. Probably tore through the spleen,” he said.

            “How?” Mohan asked.

            “Ok,” Jack hummed, “nipples to navel is no man’s land. If he got shot while exhaling, the bullet possibly passed below the diaphragm.” He glanced over to Mohan. “Start a second IO, transfuse two units O-positive. Where’s Robby? Let’s find him and call Walsh. This guy needs the next OR immediately.” Then Jack was gone, moving to the next patient.

            Y/N went straight back to her work.

-

Y/N continued to follow Mohan around. She was a great doctor, an excellent doctor and the more Y/N worked with her, the more impressed she was.

            They were in a trauma room stabilising a patient when Jack opened the door and came in, pulling his gloves on as he entered.

            “Tapping in,” he expressed.

            “Thanks, brother,” Shen responded, patting Jack on the shoulder.

            “Yeah,” Jack grunted, coming over to the side.

            “EFAST normal. No abdominal haemorrhage, no tamponade,” Mohan stated, trying to catch Jack up to speed. Jack glanced at the monitors.

            Jack looked at the wound before Y/N spoke up. “Pulse ox borderline, 89% on 15 litres,” she stated as they made eye contact. “BP’s only 95 over 58,” she finished, looking over at the monitor before going back to her work on the patient.

            “Vinny Rivera…is he here?” the patient asked, looking over to them.

            “I’m not sure, man,” Jack replied.

            “I’m so sleepy,” the patient muttered.

            “Were you tired right after you got shot?” Mohan asked. The monitors continued to repeatedly beep.

            “Uh, no,” he muttered back. “I helped move 20, 30 people.”

            Y/N continued to do her nursing duties as Jack analysed the monitor, brain trying to calculate.

            “What’s causing his oxygen levels to tank?” Mohan asked.

            “Up the oxygen!” Jack ordered, looking at Y/N.

            She went over to the machine, trying to adjust it. “Abbot, 15’s as high as it goes,” she replied.  

            Jack walked over to her. “Gauge only goes to 15. Keep cranking, Kid,” he fired back. “You can get to 50.” Y/N nodded, going back to the machine.

            Just then, the door opened and a woman appeared. “Brian?” she asked. Lupe was there too. Y/N and Jack both turned around. Jack stood there like he was in the military, hands behind his back as he stared at Y/N, then at the patient.

            “Vinny got shot. I sent him with the first car I saw,” the patient stated, voice breathy. “Is he ok?”

            The woman looked at Jack, then to Brian, leaning over. “You fight, Brian, ok? You fight like the stubborn bastard you are.”

            “I tried, Whit,” Brian replied. “I tried,” he cried.

            They continued to work with Brian, but the monitor continued to rapidly beep. No one had an idea of what was happening. Y/N glanced at the monitor and than to Jack and Mohan.

            “He’s on 100% oxygen,” she stated. “His pulse ox is still only 88.”

            Jack nodded, listening to the patient’s chest when Walsh came into the trauma room. “How’s it going upstairs?” Jack called over his shoulder.

            “Regular spa day at the OR,” Walsh replied. Y/N was grabbing IV bags, changing them. “42 ex-laps and thoracotomies.”

            “Impressive,” Mohan replied.

            “What do you got?” Walsh asked, grabbing gloves.

            “GSW through and through the thigh, not arterial, now hypotensive and hypoxic,” Jack replied, walking around the patient and trading spots with Mohan.

            “Sounds like blood loss,” Walsh replied.

            “No. Haemoglobin times 2 is stable,” Mohan stated, glancing over to Walsh. “Vena cava is plump. It would be flat with haemorrhage.”

            Jack stared at the screen where the ultrasound was presented. “It’s actually a little too plump. Let me see the phased array probe,” Jack stated, grabbing the probe.

            “Any history of heart disease?” Walsh called out.

            “Not sure, but he’s a strong guy,” Y/N replied. “Got shot, strapped a t-shirt and belt around his thigh and ran around helping people for a few hours.”

            Jack then gasped quietly. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed. “Check out the four chamber apical view.”

            Y/N turned her head to look at the monitors.

            “Dilated right atrium and right ventricle. Right-sided strain with vowing of the septum,” Mohan stated, reading the scan.

            “Sounds like a PE,” Walsh added. “He threw a clot from having the tourniquet on?”

            Jack shook his head. “Way too soon for a DVT. Ok, let’s get him in left lateral decubitus,” Jack stated, moving the probe before handing it back to Y/N. “One, two…” Y/N grasped the patient’s side and helped roll him over. “Trendelenburg ASAP.”

            “What for?” Mohan asked.

            “Intracardiac air embolism. All that running around introduced air into the femoral vein right up to the heart. Now it’s blocking blood flow to the lungs,” Jack told them.

            “You need a CT to confirm,” Walsh replied.

            “They’re still backed up with other patients,” Y/N said to Walsh.

            Walsh looked at her. “Well, then maybe the cath lab can take them. They have fluoro. I’ll go check!” she called out, walking away.

            “Yeah, good luck with that,” Jack retorted, then he met Y/N’s eyes. “Kid, get me a central line kit and a 5 French pigtail catheter, please.”

            “Yes, Captain,” she hummed, walking to grab supplies. Jack looked at her, sending her a hard glare. She was not allowed to use that nickname at work.

            “Y/N,” he warned, raising a brow. Voice was low and sharp.

            She smirked over her shoulder, already grabbing supplies. “You said please,” she replied sweetly. “I’m being polite.”

            Jack stared at her again. “Y/N. Don’t.”

            Mohan looked between them before looking at Jack. “He doesn’t have a collapsed lung,” she told him.

            Jack grunted. “Yeah?”

            “So, what are you going to do?” Mohan asked.

            Jack glanced over, standing up straight as he stared at her. “I’m not going to do anything. You are.”

            Y/N looked between the two of them, holding the supplies. She chuckled, shaking her head as she watched Mohan’s shock take over her face.

            Y/N was watching, doing her job as Jack and Mohn were performing whatever they were performing.

            “Got the IJ,” Mohan stated, placing a needle inside the patient while Jack held the probe.

            “Ok, back to business as usual, thank God,” he stated, looking at the ultrasound. “Guidewire and introducer,” he began, grabbing the supplies on the tray behind him.

            “What the hell are you doing?” Dr. Walsh spoke up as she entered the room.

            “Dr. Mohan is about to pull air from the right atrium and right ventricle,” Jack stated, annoyance in his tone but also his damn stubbornness.

            “With what?” Walsh barked.

            “Five French Pigtail catheter,” Mohan replied.

            “Inside the heart?” Walsh asked, voice sharp.

            “It’s so cool,” Y/N replied, looking over her shoulder. “I want to do this.”

            Jack glanced at Y/N. “You’re a nurse, Kid. Dummies is all you get,” he mumbled.

            Y/N frowned. “Way to kill a girl’s ambition.” Jack just let out a low chuckle.

            “Multiple side-holes gives you a better shot at suck out all the air,” Jack explained, watching the procedure be done.

            Mohan glanced up. “Dr. Abbot showed me a case report from South Korea–“ Mohan tried.

            “What the actual fuck?” Walsh barked, pushing Y/N out of the way.

            “Woah, girl,” she muttered.

            “Hey,” Jack stated. “Be gentle.”

            Walsh glared. “I just talked to cardiology. They want a CT scan. If it’s showing air, then you need to dive him in the hyperbaric chamber,” she said, looking at the procedure.

            “He’ll be dead by then,” Jack barked.

            “Not if you kill him first with this banana-pants procedure,” Walsh fired back.

            Jack was getting agitated. Y/N could tell. His brows were furrowed, his jaw was tight. “We don’t have time to wait for your fancy-pants machine,” he replied, tone sharp but low. “If we don’t get the air out of his heart, he’ll die.”

            “This is not the standard of care,” Walsh replied lowly.

            Jack shot up to look at Walsh, eyes glaring at her as if she had stolen the last cookie from the cookie jar. “Oh, fuck standard of care. If we want to save him, we go in now.” His eyes were glaring holes into Walsh.

            Mohan was uncomfortable. “Maybe I should–“

            Jack glanced at Mohan. “Thread in the pigtail?” he hummed, mocking Walsh. “Excellent idea, Dr. Mohan.” Jack grabbed the supplies before handing them to Mohan, sending her a reassuring nod.

            Gentle beeping was heard as Mohan took the pigtail and continued to work under Jack’s supervision and words.

            “Go down to 24 centimetres, and then we’ll confirm with X-ray,” he told her, watching as she did what he told her to do. “Good.”

            “Think I’ll stick around in case you need another set of hands to resuscitate your patient when he crashes,” she remarked, then looked at Y/N. “Nurse, gloves.”

            Y/N stayed there for a moment, raising a brow. “A please would be nice,” she muttered, walking away to grab gloves before handing it to her. She took them. “And a thank you would suffice. Mother never taught you manners, Walsh?” she hummed with a smirk.

            Jack glanced up, smiling lightly but the average folk wouldn’t know. But Y/N, she knew.

            Walsh looked over to her. Staring hard but didn’t respond as she snapped her gloves on.

            “Pigtail’s in the right atrium, good position,” Jack said after they took an X-ray. “Aspirate, see what you get.”

            Y/N was there, helping Mohan as she glanced up to see Jack staring at them. He was gowned up in blue, surgical gloves on and safety glasses. His hands were close to his chest, but far away to make sure its sterile.

            “Pulling back blood from the heart…” Mohan muttered holding the syringe and pulling its trigger. “Along with some air,” she said then looked back at Jack.

            Jack smirked, looked at Walsh. “How about that?” he snarked before walking back over.

            “BP’s still only 85 systolic,” Y/N called out.

            “No improvement,” Walsh stated the obvious.

            Y/N let out a sharp breath, trying to keep her cool. Jack ignored her comment.

            “Advance slowly into the right ventricle,” he told Mohan.

            “How do I know when I’m–“

            “PVCs–“ Y/N tried, looking at the monitor.

            “That’s how you know. Aspirate again,” Jack stated.

            “Run of three,” Y/N hummed as the alarm blared from the machine.

            “More blood and air coming out,” Mohan replied, pulling more on the syringe.

            “Run of five,” Y/N said.

            “Non-sustained V tach. Charge to 200 for when he deteriorates,” Walsh commanded.

            Y/N stared at her for a moment, and she raised a brow. Y/N then promptly nodded, moving away from the table and doing her orders and going to the crash cart.

            “Mainly blood now,” Mohan explained.

            Jack nodded. “Pull the pigtail back to the RA.”

            “Step aside,” Walsh barked.

            “Pull the pigtail, Dr. Mohan,” he commanded, looking at the monitor again.

            “Step aside!” Walsh yelled, holding panels, however Jack took a step to block her.

            “You got this,” he stated, looking at Mohan. Then Mohan pulled the pigtail.

            Y/N smiled where she was. “Normal sinus rhythm, 92,” she called out as the beeping stopped. “Pulse ox is improving. BP’s 112 over 84.” She stared at the monitor.

            Walsh stepped down. The patient stabilised and Jack was full-blown smirking. He turned his head slightly to look at Walsh. “Not too shabby, huh, Dr. Walsh?” he hummed. “I think we can admit him to General Surgery now.”

            “Hell no,” Walsh replied.

            Jack’s brows furrowed. “He’s a gunshot victim.”

            “Admit him to the cardiac ICU. We’ll consult from there,” she barked back.

            Jack hummed, shrugging. “Well, you can admit him yourself, with Cardiology consulting. I thought you liked flying the plane.”

            Walsh took a step up to him, lowering her voice. “Not when it’s gonna crash.” Then she glared at Mohan and Y/N before leaving.

            Jack turned back to Mohan. “Solid work.”

            “That was your save, not mine,” Mohan replied, shaking her head.

            Jack smirked. “Take the win, Dr. Mohan,” he hummed.

            “Thanks,” she said, voice light and happy.

            “Besides, it was a little too risky for me to do myself,” he hummed, looking down. Y/N watched them, working around them, shaking her. What an ass he was…a little shit.

            “What?” Mohan breathed.

            “Kid, suture?” he called over his shoulder.

            Y/N chuckled, grabbing the supplies before handing Jack them. “So, you’re allowed to make jokes mid-procedure now? Is that what we’re doing now, Abbot?” she asked, smirking.

            Jack didn’t look up as he took the suture kit. “When I’m saving lives? Yes, when you’re mouthing off at me? Never.”

            Y/N smirked. “So, I can’t make comedy in your trauma room?” she hummed.

            Jack looked at her. “Kid,” he warned, then shook his head. “Keep it to the stage but thank you for your application in entertaining me while I’m working. It’s in the trash.”

            Y/N chuckled, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. They were back to normal. Their banter was there, and Jack was actually letting loose at work. It was as if he wasn’t pissed off at her an hour ago, though she knows the lecture is coming.

            Mohan blinked at them, pausing her movements. “Um, I’m sorry, but like you two close?” she asked.

            “Y/N was part of the night shift for a long time,” Jack said, handing Mohan the suture kit. “Suture.”

            “You two used to work nights together?” she hummed, brows furrowing.

            Jack nodded. “Yeah, she was my charge nurse until she was moved back to days like two weeks ago,” he stated, watching Mohan.

            Mohan shook her head. “Ok,” she muttered, looking down then back up, “Kid and Captain?” she asked, raising a brow.

            “What do you mean?” Y/N asked, crossing her arms.

            “He calls you kid like he’s your dad–“

            “I am not her fucking dad,” Jack bit. “Not even fucking close.”

            Mohan slowly nodded.

            “Do not mix Abbot’s and I’s relationship with the word ‘dad’,” Y/N warned as she went to check his IV and change the bags.

            “Right, so Captain and Kid,” she muttered as she began to suture.

            “Ask the question, Mohan,” Jack stated, watching. “It’s burning.”

            “You two are close?” Mohan whispered. “Like close? Because you act like a divorce couple who have joint custody of a dog.”

            Jack chuckled lowly, shaking his head. “We have four dogs,” he whispered. “We share them. No joint custody where we trade off to different houses. We have one house.”

            Y/N bit back her grin and chimed in casually. “And a mortgage.”

            Mohan froze; mouth slightly open. “Wait…what?”

            Jack stood straight up, peeling his gloves and gown off as he through them in the trash as he looked over. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Four dogs, a mortgage,” he muttered.

            Y/N then smirked. “He may be the boss here, but I’m the boss in the bedroom,” she hummed, winking.

            “Y/N!” Jack bit, snapping his head and hissing. “Shut it.”

            Y/N just smiled like a kid with candy.

            Mohan looked between them. “Oh my God, you’re the partner! I thought you were some metaphor. You know, like the ‘mysterious old guy with a truck and a grumpy demeanour’ genre.”

            Jack snapped his head at Y/N. “One, talking about me when I’m not there?” he scolded, raising a brow. “Second,” he looked at Mohan, “I’m not a genre.”

            “He is a genre, fulfils all my smutty romance kindle book fantasy,” she hummed, winking.

            Jack shot his head back to her. “Y/N,” he warned. “We are at work. This is a resident at work. We are in a trauma room with a patient.”

            Y/N stared at him. “God, you’re boring.” Then she rolled her eyes.

            Mohan looked between them; brows furrowed. “You guys are so professional, it’s honestly disturbing.”

            Y/N chuckled. “That’s trauma bonding for you, doll,” she hummed, winking.

            Jack ignored Y/N’s comment and looked at Mohan. “No, seriously, good job. You killed it,” he stated with a smile before walking out of the room.

            Mohan, who was still suturing, looked at Y/N. “So, that’s him?”

            “Yeah, that’s my Old Man, McVeteran, McGrump. Who scolds me for reading kinky books, leaving messes, banned me from his fancy truck but loves me till the world ends,” she whispered, smirking. “I’m a lucky girl.”

            Mohan nodded. “You’re the definition of one.”

            “I think he’s lucky, cause who’d want to be with that?” she joked, pointing to the doors. “Kidding, he’s the love of my life.”

            Mohan nodded. “I thought you were secretly with Robby,” she stated.

            Y/N cackled, full blown cackled. “Don’t tell Jack that.”

-

Jack walked by the nurses’ station while Y/N was still with a patient in the trauma room. He brushed his arm against Dana. “Hey, you got a second?” he asked.

            Dana turned to him. “Yeah,” she hummed, glasses on her nose. She turned to face him, taking off the glasses as she stared at Jack.

            “What is up with Robby?” Jack whispered.

            Dana shrugged. “He’s been better. I’m really worried about him. Maybe Y/N can get it out of him?” she said. “Use her psych degree and mental health background. Manipulate him into expressing his feelings.”

            Jack snorted. “Yeah, she’s good at that,” he muttered.

            “I’ve never seen him like this,” Dana stated, looking Jack in the eye. “Have you?”

            “No,” he said simply. “How about you, slugger?” he hummed, smirking.

            Dana scoffed. “Been better.”

            Jack nodded. “Preach,” he hummed. Dana nodded, patting him on the arm. Then Jack got serious. “Y/N told me,” he whispered.

            Dana raised her brow. “About?”

            He tilted his head and raised a brow. “Pregnancy. Miscarriage,” he said. “She told me cause I kept budging. I asked her why she couldn’t give blood, and eventually she broke.”             Dana blinked. Slowly. Then she took a deep breath. She crossed her arms as her face went serious. “Yeah,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. “She said she’d tell you. Robby and I both–“

            “Robby knew?” he asked, brows furrowing.

            Dana sighed. “Robby figured it out. He was there to give her the ultrasound today to confirm it was a miscarriage,” she said, voice low. “Don’t blame her. Don’t. She’s a survivor. You know that. I don’t know her story as much as you, but she’s not good with relying on someone when she needs emotional support.”

            Jack nodded. He knew. He knew her well. “I know. I’ve been teaching her these years that I’m here and not going anywhere…”

            “Marry her then, you grump,” she stated, nudging her.

            Jack nodded. “I know. I will,” he said. “We aren’t focused on that right now. Fuck,” he muttered, “didn’t even had a single clue she could be pregnant. I track her cycle, and I know her body–“

            “She wasn’t far. She was seven weeks,” Dana responded. “She found out yesterday when she puked everything up.” Jack nodded. “She was going to tell you, ok? Don’t think she was hiding this from you. And don’t ask me why I didn’t tell you…Abbot, this is her story…even if you were the father, it’s her body, her story.”

            Jack nodded again before dragging a hand over his face. “Yeah, it is. She doesn’t deserve this. She’s had a rough go at her life–“

            “Yes, but life has been good for her since you met her. She was what, twenty-one when she did her practicum for like six weeks. Then you swept her off her feet few years later, and life has been great for her,” Dana hummed. “Maybe before that was hard, but now she’s good. She’s not the same girl compared to when I met her. Now, she’s a–“

            “Gremlin,” he stated with a chuckle. “She’s a gremlin and her brother is a goblin who crashes at our house, drinks my beer and eats my snacks while talking quantum physics to her and I have no idea what they are saying.”

            Dana chuckled. “Those two are a team. She raised him since she was fourteen.”

            Jack nodded. “I know.”

            “She’s a mom, Jack. To Beckett. But believe me,” she looked around, voice low, “she always wanted a baby of her own.”

            Jack nodded.

            “And she has tried,” she whispered.

            Jack’s brows furrowed. “What?”

            “It’s not her first miscarriage,” she whispered. “Talk to her.”

            Jack froze. He didn’t move, didn’t blink. His brows furrowed; jaw tightened. “Dana, are you saying she’d miscarried before?”

            Dana’s face softened. She reached out, touching his arm gently. “Twenty-two was the last time. Then nineteen.”

            His breath caught in his chest. “Two?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Three,” he then said, before breaking eye contact. “She’s been pregnant three times,” he muttered.

            Dana nodded. “Talk to her. She loves you with everything in her, and she is not planning on ever leaving you. You’re the thing she needed in her fucked-up life. For her and for her brother.”

            Jack nodded.

            “She didn’t want you to go through another loss,” Dana added. “She didn’t want that on your conscious. Especially with losing your wife,” Dana muttered.

            “I lost Grace nine years ago,” Jack said. “I’ve been with Y/N for six. Known her for eight.”

            Dana nodded. She reached out, squeezing his arm. “Take her home. Make her a mean meal. Run her a bath. Buy her a fancy bottle of wine. Let all the dogs on the bed. Hold her. She’s going to need you. All of you. The quiet parts. The ones you keep locked away. It’s been a day. It’s been a lifetime for her,” she whispered. “And, don’t be mad at Robby for figuring it out and supporting her before you could. Don’t take it personally, ok?”

            Jack just nodded, sending her a smile. “I don’t like it when she hides things,” he muttered.

            “Jack…you and I come from different worlds. We had a childhood, a teenagerhood, a life. A mother, a father, siblings, a roof on our head and education. She was in survival. She worried how to raise a four-year-old at fourteen when druggy Mom ran away to New Mexico with a boyfriend who she met at casino. She learnt how to count cards so she could win in poker matches to put food on the table and pay rent. She dodged CPS and social workers until she got the law involved with becoming Beckett’s guardian which was finally granted when she was nineteen. She did shit to survive. She’s not your average folk. She’s a trooper. But no one knows the real story.”

            Jack just nodded. “I know. Not all of it. But enough,” he stated. “I just,” he sighed, “I worry about her all the damn time.”

            Dana shrugged. “She’s your girl. Your partner. Of course you do, but be patient. Talk to her. Let her tell you more when she’s ready, but don’t pressure her.”

            Jack nodded. “Thanks, Dana,” he stated. “Thank you, really.”

            “Be patient,” she said lowly. “But let’s see if Y/N could crack Robby.”

-

2100

Y/N came over after finishing with a patient to see McKay being arrested. Quick on her feet, she hurried to where Jack stood. Hands on his hips, a death glare given.

            “Woah, what’s happening?” she asked, halting.

            “I disabled my ankle monitor because it was going off,” McKay said then looking over to the officers, “and fucking with our ability to help patients during the mass casualty.”

            McKay was in cuffs. Y/N was behind Jack, brushing his arm as he glanced at her.             “Tell that to your judge,” the officer stated to McKay.

            Y/N watched, arms crossed now as she looked between Robby, McKay and the officers.

            “This is my resident. I need her,” Robby stated, voice serious and stern. Then he glanced over to Dana. “Call Gloria. You can at least wait a second to speak to our chief medical officer?”

            The officer shook his head. “No, but they can call the Department if they have any questions.”

            Robby’s jaw was shut tight, taking a deep breath, trying to contain himself. “We just came through the worst mass casualty incident in this city’s history, and you two are fucking around with this? Are you serious?” Robby stated, raising a brow. “You don’t have anything better to do?”

            Just then, a group of officers walked by. The one’s who partner was rushed to surgery and Jack preformed a crike on him. Robby grabbed their attention.

            “Officer Harrelson, can you please,” Robby grabbed his attention as the officer came over.

            “Is there a problem here?” Officer Harrelson asked, glancing around at the group of medical professionals and additional officers while McKay was handcuffed.

            “She disabled her ankle monitor,” the officer holding McKay in handcuffs responded.

            “It was malfunctioning,” McKay replied.

            “She’s in a custody battle with a restraining order and is considered a flight risk,” the other officer responded.

            “A flight risk?” Y/N gasped. “McKay? No,” she muttered, looking at Jack, who remained focused on the scene.

            “Bullshit,” McKay muttered. “That is bullshit.”

            Robby nodded, crossing his arms as he looked at Harrelson. “It was interfering with our ability to treat patients. I’m not sure we could have saved Officer Stefano if she hadn’t disabled the damn thing,” Robby replied, pointing to the monitor, voice low.

            “Is that true?” the officer asked.

            “They saved Stefano’s life,” the other officer replied. “They saved a lot of lives.”

            The older officer looked at McKay. “Take care of this first thing tomorrow morning?” he asked her.

            “I swear,” McKay replied, voice full of promises.

            “Take the cuffs off.”

            McKay turned while her handcuffs were removed, giving her gratitude to everyone.

            Robby shook the officer’s hand. “Thank you,” Robby replied.

            “Thank you, for everything you did here tonight,” he responded, patting Robby’s shoulder before all the officers walked away.

-

Y/N got called to the code tan – a case of someone getting hurt in the hospital. Usually, fainting or a fall. She was wheeling the gurney when she looked up to see Robby.

            “Robby! Pelvis crush injury,” she called out.

            Robby was talking to Langdon about what Y/N knew, but didn’t want to think about it. Instead, she continued to move the patient to a bay area.

            “Thought we were closed to trauma,” Robby replied, walking over.

            “Well, code tan,” Y/N muttered. “He got pinned behind a truck backing up with replacement supplies,” she explained. “Oops. But, pulse is weak and tready, tachy at…”

            They got into the trauma room, instantly gloves on and Y/N began to cut the clothes away from the patient.

            “Grab me some monitor leads, please,” someone called out.

            “100% non-rebreather,” Robby stated. “Let’s draw up 120 of ketamine, 100 of rock, and page trauma surgery, please.” He was pulling his gloves on.

            Jack was across from Y/N, helping with removing the clothes off the patient. “The hell did this guy come from?” he asked.

            “Our loading dock,” Y/N replied.

            “Oh my God,” Jack muttered as they continued to work.

            “Ok, I got the EFAST. Grab a binder. Obvious pelvic fracture,” Jack called out.

            “I’m in a lot of pain!” the patient called out.

            Y/N grabbed the supplies, handing them to Jack and Robby.

            “You taking any medications?” Robby asked.

            “Crestor,” the patient replied as they wrapped the binder around him.

            “Any drug allergies?” Robby asked.

            “No. Am I gonna be ok?” the patient asked.

            Robby was using the ultrasound on the pelvis, trying to figure out what was wrong and how to fix it.

            “Absolutely,” Robby replied, looking at the monitor.

“We got you, Hector,” Jack stated, looking at the screen too.

            “BP 68 over 42, pulse 130,” Y/N called out as she glanced at the monitors. “I got a 14 gauge in the left AC.” Y/N was placing the IV in.

            “Whole blood massive transfusion protocol,” Jack stated.

            “Jack, we’ve got whole blood coming in from Erie and Youngstown. However, I’m not sure if it’s here yet,” Y/N stated, glancing up to look at Jack and shaking her head.

            “Let’s go one-to-one-to-one, red cells, platelets and plasma. We’ve got that,” Robby called out. “Let’s place an IJ after the intubation, please.”

            “Affirmative, Cowboy,” Y/N stated, turning away and grabbing the supplies.

            Jack glanced up at Y/N as she went to get the supplies, shaking his head with light chuckle. “We are in a trauma, Y/N,” he muttered. “Not the time to be calling the chief nicknames.”

            Y/N chuckled. “Oh, shut it. He loves it,” she hummed.

            Robby glanced at her for a moment, shaking his head.

“Ok, EFAST negative,” Jack stated. “It’s all retroperitoneal. No blood at the meatus. Kid, Foley,” Jack called out.

Y/N was back, handing supplies. “Can’t call him cowboy but can call me kid?” she hummed.

“Not the time, Y/N,” Jack stated, voice low.

“Hector, you crushed all the bones in your pelvis, and you’ve got some internal bleeding. We need to sedate you to treat you,” Robby said as the machines beeped rapidly.

“Hurts a lot!” Hector replied.

“When you wake up, you’re not gonna be able to talk. You’re going to have a breathing tube in your throat,” Robby stated as Y/N continued to work alongside them.

“Can I speak to my wife first?” Hector asked.

“Afraid we have to move now, Hector,” Jack stated, looking at the patient.

“First unit of packed cells in the infuser,” Y/N stated from her corner.

            Just then, the doors opened, and Dr. Parker Ellis and Dr. John Shen came in, smirking. “What have we here?” Ellis asked.

            “It looks like two old white guys poached our patient,” Shen replied.

            Instantly, Y/N glanced up, hearing those words. Biting down on her bottom lip, she tried to hide her chuckle, but it came out loud. Jack hated when people called him old, except when it was Y/N. Y/N constantly called him her old man and Jack tolerates it. While Robby, well, Robby got offended as well. To them, they weren’t old, but both approaching or over fifty anyway.

            Jack and Robby instantly looked at one another as Y/N stared at them.

            “Oh, I know you’re not talking about us,” Robby replied, voice low as he went back to intubation.

            Jack looked at the two doctors. “Well, I know he’s definitely not talking about me,” Jack stated, shaking his head.

            “Back off, you two, leave the senior citizens alone. They’re sensitive today,” Y/N barked, smirking.  

            Jack just looked at Y/N, sending her a hard glare. “Jesus, Kid,” he muttered. Then he told them the case, “Crushed pelvis, haemorrhagic shock.”

            “MTP, pelvis binder. I’m doing an intubation, about to place an IJ,” Robby replied as Y/N grabbed saline and other medicines for the IV. “Ace, behave.”

            “You need us?” Shen asked, raising a brow.

            “We got this for now. Hold down the fort,” Jack fired back. “Get caught up on the day shift’s remaining PittFest patients, and we’ll get this guy stabilised.”

            They continued to work on Hector, trying their best to stabilise him. Jack got gowned up, mask on, safety glasses and X-ray vest.

            “Central line is in,” Jack called out.

            “Let’s hook up the rapid infuser over to the IJ, and then we can shoot the film,” Robby muttered as Y/N and he fixed the lines.

            “Clear for X-ray.”

            The x-ray tech moved the x-ray machine over the patient as Y/N took a step back. The beeping was still rapid from the machines. Y/N walked over to Robby, who was stretching in the corner.

            “How are you holding up, Cowboy?” she asked, nudging her hip in his.

            He looked over to her, and it was all in his eyes. “Fine,” he eventually said.

            Y/N just hummed. “Don’t believe it for a second,” she responded.

            They shot the X-ray while Jack continued to work on the patient.

            Robby looked at her. “I could say the same for you,” he replied. Y/N just nodded.

            “Jack knows,” she whispered to him as Jack continued to be busy. “Found out during the mass casualty. I couldn’t give blood, and he dug into me,” she said lowly.

            Robby glanced over to her and just nodded. “Good.”

            “Clear!” the tech called back out.

            Y/N and Robby walked over to the X-ray screen. Pulling out his glasses, Robby leaned over to look at the screen.

            “Oh, that ain’t good,” he muttered. Y/N nodded too.

            “Shit,” she muttered before walking over to the phone on the wall.

            Jack glanced up to them, pulling his mask off as he came over. “What have you got?” he took one look at the screen and groaned. “Widened symphysis pubis anteriorly. “

            “Distorted sacroiliac posteriorly,” Robby replied.

            Jack shook his head. “Guy’s bleeding like a stuck pig,” Jack muttered.

            “I got Dr. Walsh on speakerphone from the OR,” Y/N called out from the phone, holding it close to her ear before pressing a button and putting the phone back.

            “Hey, guys, what’s up?” Dr. Walsh asked over the phone.

            “We’ve got an unstable pelvis ring fracture, systolic of 68, EFAST negative,” Robby called out as they went back to the patient.

            “Thought we were closed for trauma,” Walsh replied.

            “Hospital worker versus reversing supply truck. MTP and pelvic binder in place,” Jack said.

            “TXA?”

            “Gave it,” Jack replied.

            “Stable for CT angiogram?” Walsh asked.

            “Uh, not at the moment, no,” Robby replied.

            “Keep transfusing,” Walsh replied as they continued to stabilise the patient.

            “The blood bank is still waiting on a delivery, unless you have some upstairs,” Robby replied, walking over to the phone.

            “He doesn’t need surgery,” Walsh stated. “He needs interventional radiology to embolise the bleeders.”

            Robby was leaning against one of the machines, glancing back at Jack.

            “They don’t like unstable patients,” Jack stated, confused by her comment.

            “They will tonight,” Walsh replied. “I’ll be down as soon as I finish this grade 5 liver lac.” Then Robby hung up on her.

            They were continuing, but the patient was not stabilising. Minutes went by. However, Mel walked into the room, looking at them.

            “54 after 3 rounds packed cells, FFP, and platelets,” Jack called out.

            “Not too shabby,” Ellis responded.

            Y/N glanced up when she spotted Mel, raising a brow. “Our measles kid’s parents are trying to move him to West Penn,” Mel said.

            Robby, Jack and Y/N stared at her. However, Jack and Y/N went back to work as Robby yelled out, “Let them!” Shaking his head, he sighed. “They’ve been warned multiple times. I even took the father into the PittFest morgue to drive the point home.”             Instantly, Jack and Y/N snapped their heads to Robby. “You what?” they said at the same time.

            “Yeah, I doubt any hospital will take him without a spinal tap,” Ellis responded. Robby was still on the phone.

            “I’ll be there in a minute. Don’t let them move that kid,” Shen stated.

            Robby hung up the phone and looked at the crowd of medical professionals. “They can see this guy in 45 minutes in Interventional Radiology.”

            “That’s a long time for this guy,” Shen replied.

            “They’re just starting a REBOA,” Robby muttered.

            “A REBOA? Who did a REBOA during a mass casualty?” Y/N asked, looking at Robby.

            Jack smirked at Y/N. “One of his interns did,” he snickered.

            “Santos?” Y/N asked, looking at Robby who was groaning in the corner. “Jesus, she’s gonna kill someone.”

            “Shut up,” Ellis responded.

            “I was busy,” Robby muttered, raising a brow.

“That was ballsy,” Shen responded. “Yeah, we can babysit this guy until IR is ready. You guys are three hours post-shift.”

“Whoo!” Robby exclaimed, throwing his hands up.

“This was supposed to be my day off,” Jack muttered, taking his gloves off, “bought steak and lobster. Was gonna grill and have wine.”

“I would love wine. Wine in bed. Wine with blankets. Wine with dogs and a good hot fucking shower,” Y/N muttered, stretching her neck.

“We got this,” Ellis stated.

Y/N was pulling her gloves off too now.

“Hasta la vista, vatos,” Jack called out as he threw his gloves in the bin. Jack’s hand came over, barely brushing Y/N’s back as they left the room.

“Talking Spanish at work, Old Man?” she hummed in his ear. “Talk to me dirty,” she whispered and smirked.

Jack glanced at her. “Y/N,” he whispered. “We are at work. Work.”

Y/N groaned. “Boring,” she muttered, rolling her eyes as she went to a computer. However, Jack grasped her arm for a second, pulling her back.

“When we get home,” he began, voice low, “we are going to talk. We are going to sit. We are going to have a conversation where we are going to be honest and listen to one another,” he said. “It’s been a day for you. You kept me in the dark.”

Y/N stared at him for a moment. He wanted to talk about the miscarriage that happened today. How she didn’t tell him. How she kept it from him.

“Serious talk. No jokes. No, trying to mask your feelings. Serious talk,” he said, raising a brow.

Y/N just nodded. “Yeah, you’re right,” she whispered. “We will talk.”

Jack nodded. “Good.” Then he went to leave, but she stopped him.

“When I’m ready,” she responded when he glanced away to leave her. “When I’m ready, Jack.”

Jack paused mid-step. His jaw tensed, that square silhouette of his back going rigid under his dark scrubs. For a second, he didn’t turn, just stood there with his hand curled at his side, as if deciding whether to push or leave it alone.

Then finally, he nodded once, slowly. Barely perceptible.

“Ok,” he said. His voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold. Just rough. Quiet. “When you’re ready.”

“We are ok, though, right?” she asked, voice breaking.

Jack looked at her, seeing the fear in her eyes for a moment, then he sent her a smile. “We will always be alright, Dove,” he whispered. “Just don’t suffer alone.”

Y/N nodded as he left to go to a computer to write his patients notes. A loud exhale came from her as she pulled her hair out of the elastic, running her fingers through the long locks as she looked around her. What a fucking day.

            Robby came back from the ambulance bay. Y/N was sitting at the nurses’ station, pink water bottle in hand as she sipped through the straw and wrote out her notes. Finishing off everything that needed to be done.

            Jack was by her at the standing computer. “Doing ok, man?” he asked as Robby walked by.

            Y/N glanced up, looking at Robby and his tired state.

            “Why do you keep asking me that?” Robby responded, walking into the nurses’ station before looking at the board.

            Y/N turned her chair to look at them.

            “Oh, I don’t know,” Jack muttered. “You did take the parent of a patient into our makeshift morgue,” Jack hissed, staring at Robby. “Forget that its technically a fucking crime scene. That’s just not cool, man.”

            Dana was next to Y/N, reading something as she slowly turned to look at Robby. Y/N was glancing between Jack and Robby now. Tension there.

            Just then, Gloria walked up. “Just the two heroes I wanted to see. We’re holding a press conference in the education auditorium,” she said, looking between Jack and Robby.

            Robby shook his head. “Not a chance.”

            “I know you hate this stuff, but it’s important for this department and the hospital,” Gloria began.

            Robby was breaking down. Y/N could see it. Jack could see it. He was rolling his shoulders back, looking at the ceiling as he took a sharp breath. “Trust me, Gloria. You don’t want me speaking to the press right now,” Robby said, sternly.

            “Or ever,” Jack spoke up. Robby was running a hand down his face.

            “Look, as much as you ER cowboys are a pain in my ass, what you and your department did here tonight was nothing short of miraculous. People need to know that,” Gloria stated, looking them over. “Take the win.”

            She had no idea. Not a single clue of what truly happened there that day.

            Ellis opened the door to Trauma 1, yelling out, “Need a second round of MTP.”

            Jack glanced up. “What the fuck?” he muttered before walking over. Y/N stayed where she was as she already had her hand over to the night nurses.

            Y/N was still at the nurses’ station. Cops came to talk to Dana about Doug Driscoll. Y/N continued with her finishing up.

            “Kid,” she heard behind her. Y/N glanced over her shoulder as Jack had his hands on the top of her chair.

            “Yes, my dear,” she hummed before going back to her computer. Jack’s hand came over, grabbing the water bottle that was next to her. Her giant pink one as he took a sip from it.

            “You missed out on something good,” he whispered as he looked over at her computer.

            “Do tell.”

            “I did preperitoneal packing,” he whispered in her ear.

            Y/N instantly turned her chair to look at him. Her mouth fell open as she crossed her arms. He stood there holding her water bottle, smirking at her. “That’s an OR procedure,” she whispered.

            Jack nodded, raised his brows before shrugging. “Sure is, but I did one. Here. Done hundreds at the combat hospitals, but just did one here,” he told her. Then he smirked again. “And you missed out because you’re too busy tip-tapping on your computer.”

            Y/N groaned. “Ugh, I did my hand off,” she muttered. “I should’ve been there. I would’ve loved to witness it.”

            Jack leaned against the wall now, smug as hell, sipping her pink water bottle like it was a celebratory cocktail.

            “You’d have loved it,” he murmured. “Patient was crashing. Abdomen tight. Blood pressure in the toilet. Had to act fast.”

            Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. “God, you’re the devil. Just showing off now.”

            “Oh, yeah,” he admitted easily. “It was glorious.”

            “You’re unbearable,” she muttered. “Give me that,” she muttered, taking the water bottle back and sipping it with exaggerated drama.

            “What’s in there? It takes like berries,” he muttered.

            “Robby put electrolytes in it and other fancy jazz a few hours ago,” she responded, sipping her drink.

            He slowly nodded. “Good,” he hummed. They stayed quiet for a second as she turned back to her computer. “Almost done?”

            “Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “Not too much left. Normally, I’m faster. But my four cups of coffee have exited my system, I’m running on like 3% of serotonin and residual adrenaline.”

            Jack nodded. “Once you’re done, let’s go home. I’ll pick up something on the way home for us to eat, as I can’t be assed to cook.”

            Y/N hummed, not answering right away. “Sushi,” she said eventually. “Or burritos. Or Chinese. But I feel like sushi,” she muttered. “Just order something you know I’ll eat. You pick, I’m easy.”

            He nodded before brushing his knuckles along her arm for a second. “We will eat and talk,” he whispered.

            “Yes, Captain,” she said. “Now scram and let me finish this.”

            He nodded before walking away to the other computer to finish his own patient notes and logging the procedures he did. Y/N stared at him for a moment before turning back to her screen.

            Next to her, Dana, glanced over. “You ok?” she asked.

            Y/N glanced over. “I will be.”

            She nodded. “Go home, sweetheart,” she muttered, nudging her. “Sleep. Talk. Eat. Cry if you need to. Shower. Then go lie on your old man’s chest and make him watch some reality TV.”

            Y/N smiled, chuckling. “Let’s see if he allows me to eat in bed. What a grump,” she muttered. “Military man and all his fucking rules. I pay half the mortgage, too.”

            Eventually, it was time to leave. Robby wanted to give a speech to everyone before they left. Y/N walked over from the nurses’ station, standing across from Jack and Robby, who were preparing for a little speech.

            “Alright, everybody!” Dana called out. “Listen up!”

            All eyes went on them.

            “Today should never have happened,” Robby began. Y/N looked at him, then to Jack, who had his arms crossed. “It’s impossible to imagine that would possess somebody to commit such a horrific act. It’s the worst of humanity, but it brought out the best in the rest of us. We saw our better angels come to aid of our patients. Each of you rose to the occasion. And I can’t…can’t tell you how proud I am of all of you,” Robby expressed, looking all of them over, voice filled with emotion. “This place will break your heart. But it is also full of miracles, and that is a testament to all of you coming together and doing what we do best. Thank you for everything you did here today. We saw 112 mass casualty patients come through here in the last four hours, and 106 of them are gonna live.” Robby stopped, tears coming to his eyes as he glanced down. His voice broke. “None of us are gonna forget today…Even if we really, really want to.” Robby had tears in his eyes. Actual tears. Y/N bit down on her bottom lip, glancing at the floor as she took a breath. “So go home. Let yourselves cry. You’ll feel better. It’s just grief leaving the body.” Robby did one final nod before Jack patted him on the back as Robby walked away.

-

Robby was on the roof when Jack came up. Y/N was finishing off something and Jack saw Robby sneak off somewhere. He followed. Silent footsteps as Robby heard him eventually halt.

            Robby let out a sigh.

            “You’re in my spot,” Jack stated, nodding to where Robby was standing on the roof, hands on his lips. Robby was past the safety rails; however, he didn’t respond. “Just so you know, Grubhub will not deliver to the roof, but there is a DoorDash guy…uh…Marco, who will trek up here for an extra ten bucks, twenty if you want beer.”

            Robby didn’t say anything for a moment, focusing on the city skyline and the bright lights while the darkness slept. Jack walked a little further up, grasping the rails, then glanced at his best mate. “Nice speech down there. Wish I had given it.”

            Robby shook his head, still looking ahead. “No, you don’t.”

            Jack scoffed, shaking his head. “No. Fuck, no. But I’m glad somebody did.” Then he leaned over, looking over the railing to the fall. “Yeah,” he hummed. “I think I finally understand why I keep coming back now,” he said, taking a moment as Robby glanced at him quickly. “It’s in our DNA. It’s what we do. We can’t help it. We’re the…we’re the bees that protect the hive.”

            Robby sniffled, nodding as tears came down his face. However, he shook his head. “Maybe you, not me.”

            “What are you talking about?” Jack asked.

            “You know damn well what I’m talk–“ he halted, glancing away. “I’m talking about.” Robby continued to shake his head. “I broke.”

            “You didn’t break,” Jack muttered, voice stern. “You didn’t break,” he repeated.

            “I shut down. At the moment, everybody needed me the most, I wasn’t there. I couldn’t do it. I choked.”

            Jack’s brows furrowed. “For what, for forty seconds?” Robby stayed quiet. “Three minutes? Ten minutes?” Robby turned to look at Jack. “So, fucking what? We all have that. That is what happens when you’re in a war and nothing makes sense.” Robby was running his hands through his hair. “We survived as a species because we learned how to cooperate and communicate, so when we’re in the middle of killing each other, it divides the very logic of our existence. Your brain starts to short-circuit. All you can do is focus on the medicine. The medicine’s the only thing that saves the patient and your sanity.”

            Robby nodded along. “I’m gonna need a drink if you keep talking,” he muttered.

            Jack glanced over. “You get what I’m saying, right?” Jack asked, voice low and brow raised. He leaned in, tone going serious. “You rocked that shit down there tonight.” Then a beat as he tried to get Robby to make eye contact. “Yeah? You rocked that shit down there tonight. We all did. Now that is a compliment. Accept the damn compliment for once.”

            Robby looked back at Jack. “What if we just didn’t talk for a minute?” Robby muttered.

            “I’m just trying to help,” Jack replied.

            “I know.”

            “I appreciate you–“

            “Still talking,” Robby muttered, glancing away.

            Jack nodded, looking away as he stayed quiet. “Sorry.”

            Silence happened for a few minutes as the two of them took steady breathes and thought for a moment. Robby groaned lightly as Jack just stared at the horizon. After about thirty seconds, Jack looked up from looking at his feet. “I know you said not to talk, but I do need to thank you,” he began.

            Robby looked over. “For what?”

            “Being there for Y/N today,” Jack responded.

            Robby didn’t say anything right away. His jaw flexed once, then again. He looked away again, back to the skyline, like it was safer than the weight in Jack’s voice.

            Jack exhaled slowly through his nose. “I was mad,” he admitted, voice quiet now. “Fuck, I was mad. Not because I thought you did anything wrong or she did anything wrong, but because I wasn’t there. She needed someone, and I wasn’t the one there. And it killed me because the minute she was mine, I made a promise to myself that she’d never have to suffer alone again. But you were there and Dana.”

            Robby swallowed hard. His lips parted like he might say something, but then he just shook his head and blinked rapidly.

            “Never thought we would have an experience like this,” Jack admitted. “She has endo, severely, and I knew the chances of her getting pregnant were slim, and her carrying to full term was even slimmer. But,” he sighed, “it happened, and you were there. You were the one who figured it out before me, who gave her the ultrasound. You were the one who didn’t press, didn’t push. You just sat there with her. And when I couldn’t… When I didn’t even know what was going on, you had her back. So, thank you.” Jack found Robby’s eyes again.

            Robby was quiet again, his chest rising a little harder now. And then, he broke, tears coming down.

            “You don’t have to thank me,” he said hoarsely. “I did it because I care about her. I’ve always cared about her.”

            Jack nodded. “I know,” he muttered.

            “I tried not to,” Robby whispered, looking away. “After you two got serious. I told myself I was over it. That I was just her friend. That I was her partner’s best mate. That I was her boss. But watching her today,” he stopped, rubbing at his eyes. “Watching her go through that. Alone. Quiet. Acting like she was fine. It,” he stopped and took a breath, “killed me.” He took a sharp breath. “Then she threatened me to never mention it again. That she was never going to tell you��“

            “What?” Jack muttered.

            Robby bit his bottom lip. “She was going through it. It was conflicting in her brain. She didn’t want you to go through loss again.” Jack nodded. “I love her too, you know,” Robby whispered. “Just not the way you do. Not anymore. But she’s family. She’s always been family.”

            Jack didn’t speak at first.

            He looked at Robby, really looked at him. The way his shoulders shook despite his effort to hide it, the way he wiped at his eyes without thinking, the way his voice stayed hoarse like something had torn through his chest. And Jack felt it in his own ribs, too. That ache. The familiar pain of watching Y/N suffer and knowing there was nothing he could do to take it away.

            Jack nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered finally. “She’s family. That and her goblin brother,” he added with a chuckle. Then he shrugged. “Fucking genius that kid is. Scares me. The two of them. But I love that kid too. Even if he crashes in my bed when I work nights or steals my beer when I’m not looking or wrestles me when I’m in the middle of doing something.”

            Robby nodded, chuckling. “That’s her kid,” he muttered. “And we will never know the real story.”

            Jack shook his head. “No, we never will. I know enough, but not all of it. Don’t know where she lived between fourteen and eighteen when she raised him or how she fed him or…” he stopped and sighed. “I just know there was a woman named Charlotte.”

            Robby nodded as he grasped the railing. “I didn’t want to be the one there,” he confessed. “I would’ve rather it been you. She should’ve had you. But when I saw her, fuck,” he muttered, “she was lecturing me and then doubled over in pain. I found her grabbing an ultrasound machine, and I pushed myself into the room and made her let me do it. I didn’t want her to suffer alone. And she just shrank…she was so small. And she said she was fine, but you could tell–“

            “Yeah, she hides,” Jack muttered.

            “She wants to be a mom” Robby muttered.

Jack nodded. “It fucking destroys me that I can’t give her that,” he muttered. “I would. I would do anything for her to be a mother…despite my age,” Jack chuckled.

Robby nodded. “I didn’t want her to look at the screen,” Robby continued. “But she did. I saw the sac, she did too. Saw the lack of rhythm. I just…” he stopped himself, voice breaking. “And she didn’t even cry. She just…thanked me. Thanked me. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Jack’s voice came out like sandpaper. “She does that. She thanks you when she doesn’t know how to feel.” Robby nodded. Jack bit down his bottom lip. “She said we’d talk. When she’s ready.”

Robby shook his head. “She won’t be,” he muttered. “Not fully. But she’ll try. For you.”

Jack nodded. “Get that drink now?” he asked.

Robby nodded. “Yeah.”

-

Y/N was at the nurses’ station on her phone. Hot pink cardigan on and her giant handbag that fits her whole life beside her. She leaned back as Jack and Robby appeared.

            “Where’d you two old men run away to?” she called out, raising a brow as she pocketed her phone. “I feel left out. Complete FOMO.”

            Jack’s brows furrowed. “FOMO?” he asked.

            “Fear of missing out. Get with the language,” she hummed, smirking. “Seriously, where’d you fuck off to?”

            “Roof,” Jack stated.

            “Damn, where was my invitation?” she asked as she got up to walk to them, grabbing her bag off the floor.

            “Kids aren’t allowed there,” Jack stated as they began to walk to the lockers.

            Robby rolled his eyes, rubbing his face. “You wouldn’t have liked it anyway. It was mostly us bonding over trauma and failing mental health.”

            Y/N chuckled, pushing her bag over her shoulder, but Jack took it off, holding the massive bag in his hands. “So…a brooding pity party with a skyline view? Sounds romantic? Were the clothes on or off?” she asked, smirking.

            “Kid,” Jack hissed. “Enough.”

            “What? I love a little guy-on-guy action,” she chuckled, nudging their arms. “Favourite porn category.”

            “I am going to put a muzzle on you,” Jack muttered as they grabbed their things.

            She groaned. “Ugh, fine. I prefer lesbian action anyway,” she muttered as they walked to the exit after Jack grabbed his backpack and Robby too.

            Jack sent her a death glare while Robby just threw his head back in laughter. “I don’t know how you live with her, man,” he muttered, shaking his head before patting Jack on the back.

            “I don’t either,” Jack deadpanned. “I survive her.”

            Y/N beamed like he’d just given her a compliment. “Oh, you love me, Captain. I’m a full-time adventurer. Keeps you young.”

            “You’re a full-time migraine, is what you are,” Jack muttered as they left the ER into the waiting room, still holding her bag in his hand. “Whoa,” Jack mumbled as they entered the waiting room. “It didn’t take long to fill up in here.”

            “Never does,” Robby responded as they walked through it in a single line, Y/N in front.

            “How long until we run out of boarding beds?” Jack asked over his shoulder.

            “Probably sunrise,” Robby responded.

            They were walking when Jack halted with Robby. Y/N looked from behind them as Myrna came in with a police officer. Dressed in sparkles and chaos, she grinned at the doctors while the police officer had her bag slung over his shoulder.

            “She had a seizure,” the officer said to them.

            “Of course she did,” Robby replied.

            Myrna looked Jack up and down, smirking. “Looking good, Dr. Abbot,” she hummed, winking.

            Jack nodded to her. “You too, Myrna,” he replied respectfully.

            “Oh, thanks,” she hummed back. Then she saw Y/N. “Cupcake,” she muttered.

            “Hiya,” Y/N replied, grasping onto Jack’s bag with her hand. His camo one with his last name embroidered on it. “Dabbling in nighttime mischief?” she replied.

            “Always,” Myrna muttered, winking. Then she saw Robby as he walked away. She called over her shoulder. “Hey, Fruitcake. Fruitcake and Cupcake, my favourite bakery.”

            Y/N called over her shoulder. “Want sprinkles with that attitude, Myrna?” Then she heard a cackle.

            “You keep that sass up, Cupcake, and I’m gonna put you in my will. Leave you my collection of bedazzled ashtrays and felony charges.”

            Y/N snorted as she continued to walk with Jack and Robby.

            “Don’t harass my nurse, Myrna,” Robby called over his shoulder.

            Then Jack looked at Robby. “Fruitcake?” he hummed then looked at Y/N. “Cupcake?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

            “She reminds me of my mother,” Y/N muttered. “Without the pills. But attitude, absolutely. And the desire to show everyone her vagina.”

            They all started chuckling. They exited the hospital; Jack placed his hand on Y/N’s back as they walked across the street to the park. It was dark, Jack dropped his hand as they got closer to the park bench. Y/N brought her cardigan closer. It was a Friday night in September, the breeze was there. Jack, who wore no jacket, wasn’t bothered.

            “Cold?” she asked him.

            He shook his head. “I’m right,” he muttered. She just nodded but rubbed her hand up and down his bare arm.

            They got to the park bench. Princess and Donnie were there. Smiles went around.

            “Hey, hide the hard drugs, kids,” Donnie said as he threw a beer to Robby. Then he threw one to Jack, who missed.

            “Oh, nice catch,” Robby muttered.

            “Loser,” Y/N muttered before perfectly catching hers.

            Jack sat on the edge of the bench, placing his bag on the ground with Y/N’s before grabbing the back of Y/N’s caridgan to pull her next to him. She sat down as Robby sat next to her.

            “Man,” Robby groaned as he took a deep breath.

            Jack was playing with his prosthetic. He rolled up his cargo pants, revealing his transformer leg. Y/N glanced over to watch him.

            Princess sighed before Donnie shook his head. “Today was a motherfucker,” he muttered.

            “You in pain?” Y/N asked, looking at him. “How’s your hip?” she asked as he began to undo the leg.

            “I’m fine,” Jack muttered. Y/N just nodded.

            “You sure?”

            “Grand, Kid,” he said as he got it off and handed it to her. Y/N took it, placing it in her lap as if it were nothing. It was normal for them.

            Donnie looked at Jack. “Have you ever been in anything like that before?” he asked.

            Jack began to massage his leg, and Y/N grasped his hand. “I’ll massage it tonight,” she muttered, bringing his left hand to her lips and kissing it. It was quiet enough for them to only hear. He was still wearing his wedding ring, but she was not bothered by it.

            “Let’s hope none of us ever had to again,” Robby replied.

            Princess shook her head. “No shit.”

            Jack glanced up from massaging his leg. “We probably will,” he stated, voice gruffy and blunt. “If not us, others.” Then he grabbed his beer, cracking it.

            Y/N cracked hers, bringing it to her lips. A subtle groan came from her lips. “Ugh, divine.”

            “Yeah, but we survived that craziness, right?” Donnie hummed, nodding.

            Jack just nodded, eyes directly on the nurse. Eye contact always.

            “To the Pitt crew,” Donnie stated, taking his can up to the sky to toast.

            “To all the people we saved,” Princess added, holding her beer up.

            “Here, here,” Robby muttered.

            “And the ones we couldn’t,” Jack added.

            “To chaos, blood, gore and drama. We slayed that puppy like it’s a motherfucker,” Y/N muttered.

            Then they took a sip, smiling at one another.

            A few figures appeared as they drank their beer.

            “Is this where all the cool kids hang out?” Samira (Mohan) expressed, smirking as she came up with Javadi and Mateo.

            “Oh, you know it,” Donnie replied, opening the cooler to throw them a beer.

            “Nice of you to join us,” Princess said.

            “If there ever was a day,” Samira muttered as Donnie and each threw them a beer.

            Javadi got a beer, and she shook her head. “Actually, sorry, I don’t drink,” she muttered. “I don’t know why I took that.” Then she handed it to Mateo.

            “She’s not old enough,” Princess muttered.

            “I’d say if she is old enough to put in a chest tube and intubate, she’d old enough to drink a beer,” Robby muttered.

            “Kudos,” Y/N replied. “How old are you, Kid?” she asked.

            “Twenty,” Javadi muttered.

            “Holy shit,” Y/N replied. “Youngling. My brother is turning twenty soon, he drinks beer. Well,” she looked over to Jack who was looking at the ground, “Jack’s beer.” Then she chuckled.

            “We won’t tell your mom,” Mateo stated, handing her a beer.

            Javadi looked between them. How Jack placed his hand on Y/N’s thigh, squeezing it.

            “Wait, you two are together?” Javadi gasped looking between Jack and Y/N.

            Y/N smirked, taking a sip of her beer. She lowered it and raised a brow. “What gave that away?” she hummed.

            Jack didn’t even look up, just took another sip of his beer, hand still resting on Y/N’s thigh possessively.

            “I thought…” Javadi trailed off, looking at Robby with a confused expression. “I thought you and Dr. Robby were a thing.”

            Robby choked on his beer.

            Y/N let out a loud chuckle. “Oh my God,” she mumbled. “I did hear that rumour today,” she hummed. “Best entertainment.”

            Robby chuckled, shaking his head. “No, Ace and I,” he looked at Y/N. “Good mates.”

            Javadi’s brows furrowed. “You called him, ‘Cowboy’,” she stated. “Repeatly.”

            Y/N shrugged. “Been at this ER for eight years. Everyone gets a nickname,” she hummed and looking at Jack. “Old man and Captain,” she hummed as Jack met her eyes. “What else do I call you?” Then she patted his thigh.

            Jack muttered. “Six years,” he said, glancing up. “Been tolerating her bullshit for six years.”

            Y/N hummed with her beer and hand, prosthetic on her lap. “Robby and I are close. Best mates with a dysfunctional but healthy relationship. However, I’m more into emotionally constipated war veterans with truck obsessions, collects emergency medicine kits and superiority complexes.”

            Jack snorted. “You forgot the prosthetic.”

            “Oh yeah,” she hummed. “That’s the best part. Real kink starter,” she stated, smirking.

            Everyone snorted on their drink while Jack did a simple, “Y/N,” hiss.

            Javadi blinked. “There’s a…a vibe between you two,” she muttered, looking between Y/N and Robby.

            Jack stayed quiet, looking at the floor.

            “Just wait till they work together,” Princess stated, pointing to Jack and Y/N. “They read each other’s minds,” she whispered, smirking. Princess then handed Jack some wipes.

            “Thank you,” he replied, taking them.

            “You guys do this after every shift?” Samira asked.

            Jack took the prosthetic from Y/N’s lap and began to clean the shoe on it.

            “Not always,” Y/N replied.

            “Usually, it’s a little more lively,” Donnie stated.

“The emergency department throws wicked parties.”

            Y/N watched Jack clean the blood off his shoes. Then he gestured to her with the wipes. She shook her head. “Not now.” He then nodded. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

            “It’s going to stain,” he whispered. She nodded and squeezed his hand.

            “Just adds to the fear of me,” she replied.

            Just then, Robby began to cackle. Loud laughter. Y/N glanced over to him.

            “What’s so funny?” Samira asked.

            Robby ran a hand through his hair and beard before looking at Javadi. “I just realised this is your first shift,” he said, looking at the med student.

            Y/N’s eyes widened while Jack continued to focus on his shoes.

            “Yeah,” Javadi muttered.

            Then everyone began to laugh together. Jack smirked. “That was baptism by fire, baby,” he hummed, holding his beer up and a toasting moment.

            “I can pretty much guarantee you the next one will be easier,” Robby added.

            Javadi stared at Robby before nodding. “I really fucking hope so,” she stated, sternly.

            “You’ll love it soon,” Y/N replied. “If you want to do ED. You’ll fall in love with it. Its gore, chaos, disorganisation and blood. You’ll be addicted to it without even realising it. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else,” she said, nodding. Then chuckled. “Maybe plastics. You can make so much money in plastics.”

            “You’re not leaving the ER,” Robby and Jack stated at the same time.

            “Doll,” Y/N stated, looking at Javadi, “take it from me. You’re twenty. Finishing your medical degree. Mama is a hot-shot surgeon. There’s an expectation for greatness from your environment.” Javadi stared at her. “Pick something you love. That makes you excited every day. That fills your bucket. Don’t live for other people. You’re the maker of your own destiny.”

            Javadi blinked at her like she’d never heard someone say that out loud before. Slowly, she nodded, then glanced down at her beer in her hands, her eyes glassy with overwhelm. “Thanks,” she muttered, voice small but grateful. “I need to hear that.”

            Y/N nodded. “You remind me of my brother. He’s incredibly intelligent and I tell him that its ok to fuck up, its ok to not know but its ok to take time to figure it out. You have the privilege to do that. You have the time. So, if ER is not for you, then find something you love, and if medicine isn’t for you, then there are other ways to help people.”

            Javadi nodded. “Thanks,” she muttered. “I don’t know if I want be a doctor after today,” she admitted.

            “Because today isn’t normal,” Y/N replied. “You’re here for a few weeks for your rotation, you’ll see normal. But you were great today. Excellent. You’re a great doctor, Victoria.”

            She just sent a smile to Y/N. “Thanks.”

            Jack looked over to Y/N. “You know this is a park hangout with beer not a TED talk, right?” he hummed, smirking.

            “Oh, shut up. You love my inspirational moments,” Y/N replied. “Got to use the psych degree somehow.”

            “You have a psych degree?” Javadi asked.

            Y/N smiled. “I have a double major in nursing and psychology with honours. An IQ of 178 and an eidetic memory. Don’t let the charisma, humour and the massive rack confuse you, Doll.”

            Javadi’s mouth opened, then closed again like her brain had stalled. “You’re kidding. Why aren’t you a doctor?” she asked, shrugging.

            Jack and Robby both looked at Y/N, who stayed quiet. She stared at Javadi for a moment. “That’s where we are different, Victoria. I didn’t have the privilege to be one. But you do,” she stated, smiling. “So, make it your bitch. Because if I was in your position. I would’ve been a fucking goddamn award-winning surgeon.”

            Javadi swallowed hard, her face falling a little with the weight of Y/N’s words. “Sorry,” she muttered, genuinely, cheeks tinged with pink. “I didn’t–“

            Y/N cut her off with a soft smile and shake of her head. “Doll, it’s grand. This isn’t a pity party. This is me being a mom for a moment who is like ‘hey, make the world your bitch and bend it over so you can peg it’. I’ve given the same speech to my brother. You should meet. He’s a quantum physics major with a…well, debating between psychology or math as a minor. Honours as well. His IQ is 174, though. However, I’ve saved hundreds of lives and I’m happy so that’s what matters. I love what I do, and I love my life. I boss everyone around. So, don’t worry, ok?”

            Javadi just nodded.

            “You boss all of us around,” Robby muttered, lifting his beer. “Like an emotional support dominatrix.”

            Y/N gasped. “Jesus, Cowboy, want me to pull out the leather outfit as well and the whip?” she hummed. Robby just chuckled, shaking his head. Y/N glanced back at Javadi then Samira. “Don’t talk to your attendings the way I do,” she said seriously. “It will probably get you fired.”

            Jack sighed. “Behave, Y/N. Enough of the TED talks,” he stated, sipping his beer. “It’s too late.”

            “Fine, I’ll save it for the pillow talk,” Y/N hummed, sipping her beer now. Jack rolled his eyes. “I bring it all. The speeches. The depth. The rack. What do you bring, McGrumpy?” she hummed, looking at her man.

            Jack just stated, very seriously. “The retirement plan.”

            Robby snorted beer out of his nose.

            Donnie then hummed. “Hey, at least you didn’t get pissed on,” he added to Javadi.

            “Oh my God, the kid got peed on, didn’t he?” Y/N chuckled.

            “Who?” Jack whispered to her.

            “Whitaker. Poor Whitaker,” Y/N muttered. “Med student.”

            “Where is he?” Princess asked.

            “Yeah, probably quit,” Donnie stated.

            Robby shook his head, groaning. “No… Oh, that kid’s tough. He’ll be back. Just like the rest of us.”

            Everyone nodded, however, an ambulance came by. The loud sirens were echoing.

            “Home?” Jack whispered to Y/N. She nodded.

            “Ok, that’s it for me,” Robby muttered, standing up as he grabbed his backpack.

            “Want a ride, Cowboy?” Y/N asked. “Jack is going to get us food. He has the truck; I have the Bronco. So, I can drop you home.”

            Robby looked at Y/N and nodded. “Yeah, sure, Ace. That’ll be great.” He stood up and looked at everyone. “Goodnight. Get some rest. Tomorrow is another day.”

-

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Hope you enjoyed. xoxo

Send in imagine requests for Dove & Captain!

Ava <3

[idkwhylou]

Seeds of fate

Summary : It’s been four years since you’ve married the general Acacius. Four years of loneliness because of war. But when he comes back to Rome, he’s pushing you away, thinking it’s the best solution to protect you from him—or so he thought.

Marcus Acacius x younger!reader/f!reader

Warnings : sexism, mentions of patriarchal norms, mentions of war and violence, blood, injury, dagger, arranged marriage, age gap (reader is 20), angst, no y/n, reader has hair and wears dresses

Words : 8,7K

A/N : thank you so much for the 100 followers !!! I’m so thankful and happy, many people seem to enjoy my fics. I received many private messages that really touched me. To thank you, I’ve decided to write about our favourite general Marcus since the fic with Joel seems to have been well received (and I shouldn’t say it but I’m working on something else 🫣)

+ "Puella" means girl or young woman, but if used in a patronizing or dismissive way, it could carry a condescending tone. Sometimes used in a way that implies immaturity or inferiority.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

Four years. 

Four years had passed since you saw the great General Marcus Acacius for the first and last time of your life. Chance or aim, in both circumstances, it was in his hands that your fate was sealed on your wedding day. A political alliance. It had seemed like just another arrangement, one among many. A lineage, they said. A duty. You hadn’t even had the chance to know him before that fateful day. Before that, you had only glimpsed him from a distance, his presence like a looming shadow. Distant but always hovering just outside your reach. But even then, you had no idea what he would mean for your life—or you should say loneliness.

Your father had died when you were young, leaving your mother to raise you. She, a cold, calculating woman, had married him for status. Despite her frigid exterior, she had been a loving mother, doing her best to ensure you received an education that many women of your class could only dream of. Yet, her obsession with control and perfection left you feeling isolated. You had excelled in learning, but in a world that valued women more for their beauty and breeding than their intellect, it wasn’t enough. You knew the Empire would never accept a woman with an education, a woman who could think for herself—worse a woman with an opinion. And so, suitors bypassed you. Your education, your intellect, became your curse. What use was a well-educated woman in the marriage market when men wanted docility, not independence ? For years, you endured loneliness, your worth seemingly reduced to the absence of a proposal. But in Rome, things get known very quickly. The pressure of your single status weighed on you, and the whispers of society only grew louder. It felt like an impossible situation to escape.

Four years of persistent loneliness. He was a man of war, a name spoken in hushed tones across the Empire. The wedding ceremony had been hasty, almost mechanical. And that night, as you sat alone, abandoned on your wedding night, you felt a pang of bitterness in your heart. He had left. His absence, though predictable, stung all the same. Why had you ever expected anything different ? Why had you foolishly imagined that on the one night that was supposed to be yours, he would remain ? That he would offer you even a sliver of attention ? The truth was, neither of you wanted this union. An union born not of love, but of political necessity. You were a stranger to him, and he to you. His absence didn’t hurt because he was gone. It hurt because his presence had never been there in the first place. 

Four years of silence, of him never returning, of him never acknowledging your existence beyond the formality of a political union. You had been marry to a complete stranger who seemed to drift further away from you every day. You had been left in his villa, forced to navigate a life that was foreign to you. What did it mean to be a wife to a man who had never truly been yours ? At first, you had wondered what kind of man—now husband, if you could even call him that—was he ? How did he live off the battlefield, off the horrors of war, off the atrocities of his title.

You searched for signs, clues, anything that might reveal his true nature. But there was nothing. Nothing never came, nothing never showed. He never sent you any letter. What little news you had of him came from outsiders, but it was scarce. The thought of the General not returning had already crossed your mind, what would you become ? A widow at just twenty. How sad. His villa was cold and impersonal. But sometimes you spent time in his bedroom, as if some sort of connection was going to be made that way. The room was surprisingly small, sparsely decorated, and quite dark. What caught your attention, however, was his bed; vast and very wide. You vaguely remembered his physique after so many years, but you remembered his broad shoulders, dominating almost the whole room when you walked down the aisle.

Four years of pressure. The social pressure of being the wife of Rome's most respected General. During those years you had noticed the looks of envy and jealousy from the other women. If only they knew what your life truly was. They only saw the outward status of being the General's wife. They didn't know that this title was a prison, not a privilege. A tragic curse that had woven itself into the fabric of your fate, binding your heart to a life of endless longing, where love was a distant star forever hidden behind the clouds of duty and silence. The men, saw you as a prize to be claimed, not as a woman with a voice. Your worth was measured in your marriage, in your connections, not in who you were. They were predators watching their prey, ready to pounce on you at the slightest bit of bad news. Repugnant, hypocritical and absurd. Their insalubrious, almost perverse side made you sick. 

Four years since you became a woman. You had grown but not in the way you had once hoped, but in ways you had never imagined. You became a real woman. Not by choice, but by necessity. You were only sixteen when you married the General. You were so young, innocent, inexperienced, naive. Since he left, you had learned more than you ever thought possible. You had learned to live without love, without even the hope of affection. You had learned to fill the silence of your nights with your thoughts, to distract yourself from the aching void of your life. Your mother, your only role model, had failed you. She had abandoned you to this cold, solitary existence. Leaving you to wander through the empty hallways of the villa. Searching for something, anything that would give you purpose.

You had become the wife of Rome’s most respected general, but in truth, you were little more than a shadow. Your role was to be a wife, to bear children, to play the part society had given you. But you were more than that, weren’t you ? You had learned to think, to question, and yet, in this life, thinking was not something a woman was allowed to do. And so, you carried on, pretending to be the perfect wife, the dutiful woman. But deep inside, you knew you could never live up to the expectations placed upon you. And as much as you tried to bury your discontent, it always resurfaced, the weight of your life pressing down on you with every passing day.

Four years. 

And today, after all these years, the General was finally returning to Rome.

You stood far from the Imperial Palace, out of sight of the bewildered crowd outside, cheering the General's glorious arrival. The two emperors at the top of the stairs were watching with a winning smile the rise of the man who had once again enlarged their Empire. They had offered you to welcome your husband, but such a reunion—which you could almost called meeting—was best held in private, far from any pressure or unwelcome glances. So, you waited patiently in the central atrium, dreading his arrival. You felt the anxiety consume every cell of your body. Then suddenly, in the darkness of the setting day, the General appeared. He strode confidently forward, oblivious to the stares cast by his servants and slaves. But when his gaze landed on you, he slowed down. His eyebrows furrowed and you rose from the chair you’d been sitting on, letting him observe you more easily. 

“General.” You greeted him as he stood still, continuing to scrutinize you intently. 

His hands clenched behind his back, the weight of war still pressing against his shoulders. Yet, when his eyes found yours, something else burned within him—something just as dangerous. His gaze, fierce and unwavering, held you captive, as if the battlefield had shifted, and you were now the center of his war. It was a look that consumed, devoured, seared through the space between them. A fire of longing, rage, and restraint all at once. His jaw tightened, his breath slowed, but his eyes—his burning gaze—never wavered. It was as if he was holding back an inferno, as if you were the one thing in this world he could not afford to want. You should have looked away. Should have fought against the heat creeping up your spine. But it was impossible. His stare was a touch without contact, a whisper without sound. Marcus seemed satisfied with what he saw. You could feel your heart trying to get out of your chest as he watched the woman you had become. You blinked and looked at his torso. He was dressed in bright white, contrasting with his matte skin, which made him stand out even more tan. He exuded a symbol of honor, and the gold details that adorned his armor indicated his high status. Your observation was cut short by him clearing his throat, you raised your head suddenly. 

It had been four years. Four years since he had last seen her—the woman they had bound to him in name alone. Back then, you had been little more than a stranger, a girl with downcast eyes and quiet steps, a mere formality before he had turned and marched off to war. But now… now you were standing before him, and you were not the girl he had left behind. His breath stilled, his world narrowing to the space between them. It wasn’t your posture, now poised with a grace that demanded acknowledgment. It wasn’t the way the candlelight traced the curve of your cheek, nor the way the years had shaped you into someone striking. It was your eyes. They met his without any hesitation; steady and unreadable. No longer wide with uncertainty, no longer seeking permission to exist in his presence. They held stories he had never been there to witness, strength forged in his absence. They belonged to a woman who had learned to stand on her own, without the name she had been forced to take, without the man who had never been there. And for the first time, he truly saw you. Not as an obligation. Not as the quiet girl he had left behind. But as something untouchable, something dangerously real. 

Something he had never been prepared for.  

“I'm exhausted and need rest for tomorrow night. It seems to me you are capable of being left alone. Good evening.” He didn't even give you time to reply as he left, his shoulder brushing yours as he headed for his room. You blinked, realizing you had held your breath. 

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All the most influent and powerful people were gathered at the Palace this evening to celebrate the General's return, but above all his success. One more conquest for the glory of Rome. You had opted for a delicate green stola, embroidered with brilliant gold details. Your hair was pulled back into a bun, fixed with a gold pin. The journey had passed in a heavy silence, as if you could almost hear the thoughts of the General beside you. Since his arrival last night, you hadn't spoken to him, and he hadn't sought any contact with you, not even a simple compliment.

When you entered, all eyes were on you. You observed the same jealous glances from women. However, the men's misplaced and disturbing glances no longer seemed to appear because of the man standing behind you. Placing his hand on the small of your back, he was pushing you forward into the room. The warmth of his touch seeped through the layers of fabric, lingering like an ember against your skin. And then, just as suddenly, it was gone. Leaving behind a whisper of heat, chased away by the creeping chill of his absence. Turning your head in his direction, he shifted to announce that he had to talk to senators, telling you to go and get yourself a drink. You obeyed. It wasn't appropriate for a woman to attend such discussions, and you knew it. But what bothered you was not the societal exclusion you suffered because of your gender, but the fact that the General was certainly using these discussions as an excuse to avoid being alone in your presence. 

Marcus had no interest in talking to these men, each more corrupt than the last. Coming back from war, he had only one desire : rest. But duty called again. He couldn't bear to be in your presence, and what annoyed him even more was the fact that he couldn't explain why. Yet Marcus preferred to flee, get as far away from you as possible. There was something in your eyes that unraveled him, a quiet power that left him unsteady. But last night, when you rose to greet him, even the sound of your voice unsettled him, like a whispered temptation. And then, again, your eyes. That spark. It flickered with an allure he couldn’t name, pulling him toward you with a force as inevitable as the shepherd’s star guiding a lost soul through the abyss of night.

Yet, he dared not follow. That light could be an illusion, a siren’s call meant to lure him to ruin. He told himself it was a danger he must resist. He could not let himself get close. He could not afford this mistake. He just couldn't. Because, in the end he would hurt you. You became everything he could desire—worse everything he needed. You were a beautiful woman, seem too clever for your own good and he felt like standing at the edge of something dangerous. 

Everything seemed so much easier when he left you at the altar. 

And yet, all evening, his gaze kept returning to you. He couldn’t help it. You drifted through the room like a shadow, untouched by the warmth of conversation, unmoved by the lively murmurs of the other women. Instead, you lingered at the edges, watching the world pass you by, detached yet entirely present. Wherever he went, whatever group he entertained, there was always a remark, a knowing glance, a murmured congratulations, a question too bold to be polite. He brushed them off, let them roll past him like waves against stone, but still, their words clung to the corners of his mind.

By the time he had made his final rounds, exhaustion settled deep in his bones. Tomorrow would be relentless. Meetings, obligations, a mountain of responsibilities that left no room for pointless indulgences like this wretched feast. He had no reason to linger. When he scanned the room one last time, he didn’t see you. A strange unease coiled in his chest. It was foolish, irrational. You couldn't have gone far. Then, a draft, a sliver of night air slipping through the open balcony doors. His heart beat once, hard. He wasted no time. And there you were. Just as he had expected. Your back was to him, your figure framed by the moonlight as you leaned against the balustrade, your gaze lost in the vast darkness of the imperial gardens. The night stretched before you, heavy, endless, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered were you searching for something in the abyss, or simply waiting for it to swallow you whole ?

The soft breeze that had risen carried away the fabrics you were wearing, a warm blast of air caressing Marcus’s cheeks. One of your locks had fell from your bun, and the way it tickled the nape of your neck was a bewitching sight for the General. The way you held yourself, making your body curve- but he came to his senses, remembering why he was looking for you. You could hear his heavy footsteps behind you. It had to be him, but you refused to turn around. So, still in dead silence, he settled down next to you, imitating your position. His scent came first to your nostrils, then out of the corner of your eye you could catch a glimpse of your proximity. Your gaze remained fixed on the basins as you felt his cold gaze on you. He couldn't look away, trying to memorize your profile in his mind, as if you were going to disappear at any moment.

“It's getting late.” He broke the silence in a husky voice. 

You didn't move.

“I've got a lot of work tomorrow. We should go home.” He continued in a harsher tone. 

You turned your head slowly in his direction, keeping a neutral expression on your face. “After ignoring me all night, the only time you acknowledge my presence is to order me home ?”

The General's eyes turned dark. He didn't like your tone nor your provocation. He straightened up, towering you with his body. “It is not about that-” 

“It is not ? Then what is it about, General ? You can't ignore me and think I'm not going to blame you.”

He was surprised by your answer. He didn't spend time with many women, but none of them would dare, even think of talking like that to their husband. He could feel the patience evaporating from his body at your attitude and couldn't help but sigh loudly. You imitated his position and crossed your arms, revealing a defensive feeling he didn't like at all. “You are my wife. You are supposed to obey me.”

You let out a scoff at his remark, shaking your head. How dare he use that argument after four years without even considering you as such. “You have no right to tell me what to do, General.”

“I am your husband. I don’t know what you’ve been up to for those four years. But from now on you will learn to listen to me and submit like any wife should do.” 

“I am not a child anymore !” You threw your arms down in frustration.

“I know ! And that's the problem!” He shouted.

You took a step back, the air between you thick with the tension you could no longer bear. His presence was looming. But it was your own breath that betrayed you, shaky, uneven, as though it carried the weight of your surrender. Without meeting his eyes, you turned your head just enough to avoid the intensity of his gaze, the words hanging in the silence like a fragile thread. “You're right. It's getting late.” You murmured, your voice barely audible, soft with the resignation that had crept into your heart. The fight drained from you, leaving only the bitter taste of defeat. The struggle, the back-and-forth, it wasn’t worth it anymore. He had won. Turning away, heading home, felt like the only escape—an act of survival, a way to dodge the storm brewing in his eyes.

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Since that night on the balcony, Marcus had avoided you entirely. He rose early, just before the sun, to eat a quick breakfast in solitude, careful to keep from sitting with you. Always, there was an excuse, a meeting, a task, a reason to leave the domus and avoid crossing your path. And when night fell, he came home late, long after you had retreated to your room, as if by some unspoken rule, he could no longer share the same space with you. He hadn’t liked the way you had spoken to him. The soft defiance in your words had stung him more than he cared to admit. But when he had reached for your eyes, only to see you turn away from him, he understood he was the one to blame. 

It was too late.  

As he had feared, he had ended up hurting you. It seemed that was the only thing he was truly capable of. Killing, hurting, and being violent. Giving him something as delicate as you had been a fundamental mistake. He was a man of war, scarred and hardened by his past. He could not afford to show weakness. The walls he had built over the years were not just to protect him; they were to shield others from the damage he could cause. He was a weapon, a force of destruction, and he could never lower his guard. He had always lived alone. He had never tolerated the presence of another in his home, especially not a woman. It was safer this way. For your own good, he had to stay away. Keep his distance, to protect you from the inevitable harm he would bring. He was a brute, violent and bitter. If it wasn’t his words that would hurt you, then it would be his hands. And that, he could never forgive himself for.  

One evening as he returned from a long and exhausting day, thinking that you were certainly already asleep, Marcus walked unconcernedly to his office. But then, as he entered the room, his gaze fell on you. On tiptoe, you reached for a book when you noticed his presence. You stopped your action and quickly retrieved the books you had placed on his desk into your hands. 

“I was planning to leave” You explained, not wishing to find yourself in the same room as him. 

But just as you were about to leave, you stumbled into the carpet, causing you to topple forward. Spontaneously, Marcus took a step forward, stretching out his arm to catch you. But you were quicker than him and caught yourself on his desk. However, when your hand met the furniture, you let out a cry of pain. Marcus watched as you suddenly withdraw your hand, which was now bloody red. You looked down at your trembling palm, dropping the books from your other hand. Your face grimaced from the pain as you took your wrist in hand, squeezing it to try to stop the tingling of your cut. The General's gaze shifted from your hand to his desk on which lay a dagger, now also dyed with a touch of red. He approached you but before he could take your hand in his, you pulled away, letting your noisy breathing be heard. 

“I'm fine.” You said through your clenched teeth, trying to make him believe that you could take care of your wound on your own. But you should have known that he wouldn't let it go. He was one of Rome's greatest generals after all, thus he was used to wounds. 

“Come here.” He ordered, positioning himself in front of you so you couldn't run away. 

“I told you-” 

“Don't make me repeat myself.” Again, that harsh tone, the unmistakable edge of rising anger in his voice. You could feel the weight of his restraint, the way he fought against the urge to snap, to lose control the way he had before. There was a flicker of hesitation in your eyes as you met his gaze, weighing your options in the silence between you. He held out his hand, and before you even realized it, your feet moved forward, as if your body knew what your mind couldn’t decide. He gripped your wrist with a force that sent a jolt through you, pulling you closer with brutal efficiency. A low groan escaped your lips at the contact, the animosity of his touch sending a sharp reminder of his power. His eyes flicked down to the cut, a flash of something unreadable passing through them. And then, softly, almost in contradiction to his actions, he whispered an apology.  

“Sit.” He ordered; the command sharp but not unkind.  

You sighed, a sound that seemed too loud in the tense air, which made him growl. He turned to pull something from the drawer. When he returned, he held a small bottle and a white cloth in his massive hands, his movements almost mechanical. Without a word, he set a second chair in front of you and sat down, never once meeting your gaze, though you could feel the tension in him. Your eyes lingered on his every gesture, tracing the carefulness of his movements. And though he knew you were watching; he couldn’t bring himself to look back. The silence was heavy, yet somehow, his restraint felt like a battle in itself. One he fought quietly, desperately.

Taking a breath, he reached for your hand. It felt so small, so delicate in his grasp. His fingers were rough, but there was an unexpected gentleness as he inspected your wound. It wasn’t deep, just enough to draw blood. Enough to make his brow furrow in concentration. He placed the back of your hand on his thigh, the warmth of his body seeping into your skin, and dripped the liquid from the bottle onto the cloth. His focus was entirely on you now. Though his gaze remained fixed on the task at hand, not daring to look up. And in that stillness, you could feel the struggle within him to keep his distance, to remain untouched by whatever was rising between you both. 

“It may sting, I warn you.” And without giving you time to retract, he passed the cloth over your wound. 

“It burns !” You cried, quickly withdrawing your hand. 

“I warned you-”

“No. You said it would sting.” You spat as he clicked his tongue in frustration, looking at you through his lashes.

You clenched your jaw, silently offering your hand back to him. He resumed, his movements steady, as if the silence between you both spoke louder than anything else. When the fabric met your palm again, a low groan escaped your throat, the sting of the cloth against your wound causing you to clutch the fabric of your tunic with your other hand. He looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a second, with an almost apologetic glance. Yet, he couldn’t suppress a satisfied smile at your discomfort which caused your unwilling submission. If only you knew how much he had endured all these years. Stretching his arm, he rested the back of his hand on your thigh, the pressure solid and deliberate.  

“Squeeze it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, refusing to give in, holding your ground. But when the now-pink cloth brushed against your bruised skin, you couldn't help it, your hand shot out, gripping his hand tightly, squeezing with a force that betrayed your pain. Without a word, Marcus quickly resumed his task, focusing entirely on the wound, not sparing you a glance. Your eyes shut tight, and a small wrinkle formed between your brows. He smiled faintly, as if the sight of you, vulnerable yet defiant, pleased him more than it should. He tried to be gentle, not wanting to hurt you further. Every time he applied pressure to your wound, your hand squeezed his a little tighter.

Once he finished, you opened your eyes and without a word, withdraw your hand from his, your fingers trembling slightly from the intensity of the moment. He slid his palm along your thigh, quickly squeezing it before pulling his hand away. As Marcus got up to put his things in order, you stayed seated, still reeling from the unexpected tenderness of his gesture. You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself, and then, in one swift motion, stood up. Without saying a word, you turned and left the room, the books you had come for forgotten in your haste.  

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The days that followed were filled with little moments between you. Marcus took his time in the morning so that when he finished breakfast, you would appear in front of him. You would wait a few more minutes before going to bed, like that night in his office. He would start wandering around the gardens when you came out of them. You would never put the books you borrowed from him in the right place. He would leave you the figs the maids brought him from the market, and you would leave him the pomegranate seeds you had meticulously removed from the fruit. And with each seed he would put in his mouth, he would think of you. The unspoken longing to devour you, a desire he dares not confess. In the quiet of the moment, he feels your gentle heart, soft against the bitterness of his words. Yet neither of you spoke to the other. The silence still echoing through the walls of the villa. A silence that wasn't empty but filled with answers. He was screaming, suffocating, suffering. But he was beautiful. Beautiful because he made sense in a way that only the two of you could understand. 

This evening, you found yourself invited to a meal at one of the senators' domus, surrounded by politicians and their wives. The General sat beside you, engaged in conversation with the men next to him, his attention fully directed toward them. But as his head turned away, you couldn't help but steal a glance at him. You were so rarely this close. Your eyes traced his side profile, a study in sharp angles and quiet strength, so noble it seemed as if it had been sculpted in stone. His nose, proud and commanding, was shaped like that of an eagle—majestic, a symbol of his power, his unyielding dominance. You couldn’t help but follow the line of his jaw, sharply defined, down to the strength of his neck, where veins pulsed with a vitality that matched his presence. Your tongue brushed over your lips, though you didn’t even realize you had done it, so captivated by him.

As he moved his hands while responding to a question, your gaze fell to them. They were so large. So strong. You had noticed before how small your own hands seemed when placed next to his, but tonight, you couldn’t look away. They were mesmerizing. Agile and dexterous, his hands spoke more than his words ever could. Despite the countless battles they had endured, there was a gentleness to them. They were immense, yet somehow comforting. You recalled, almost involuntarily, how those same hands had once enveloped your wrist. Their grip firm but tender. You tried, for a fleeting second, to recall the feel of his touch on your thigh. The warmth, the subtle power in his proximity. But it had been too long, too much time had passed, and the memory now seemed distant, slipping through your mind like sand between your fingers. 

“Puella ?” One of the senators called out to you. 

You suddenly lifted your head in his direction, choosing silence over confrontation, unwilling to let the way he had addressed you escalate the tension. A smile forced its way onto your lips, though it felt stiff, almost out of place. Marcus glanced at you from the corner of his eye, sensing the subtle shift in your demeanor, the quiet disapproval that lingered between you. It would be a lie to say he didn’t care, but he was well aware of the fine line he had to walk. He knew better than to challenge the authority of one of the senators.

“One of your little forgetful moments, I presume ?,” He scoffs, glancing at the General on your right. “Tell me, I heard you were interested in politics ?” He asked with a false innocent tone, letting appeared on his lips a witty smile. 

You felt the General tense up, but you didn't pay any attention, "Yes. Since I was very young actually," You tried to look confident, letting him feign a certain self-confidence you didn't possess.

You stood upright, head held high, as the senators around you all burst out laughing, some of the women following too. You frowned, "I told you so !" Cried one as if it was the most surprising news they'd ever heard until now.

"You know, it’s not usual for a woman like... well, like you." Said one of the women at the end of the table, her cheeks rosy with alcohol.

"How can you let this happen my friend ?" Another addressed the General directly. 

He didn’t even flinch. The comments came and went, unchallenged, unaddressed. He said nothing. Offering no defense, no protection. Marcus knew exactly how this would unfold, so he straightened his posture, smoothly steering the conversation elsewhere, his focus never once drifting toward you. You told yourself you didn’t need his reassurance. But a disapproving glance, or just a flicker of acknowledgment, would have been enough to settle the storm inside you. He didn’t even offer you that. The women beside you, exchanged knowing glances and whispers. Their judgment clear in the way their eyes flicked to you, sharp and uninviting. You didn’t dare meet their gazes, choosing instead to fix your attention on the glass of wine before you.

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"Why did you not stand up for me ?" Were the first words out of your mouth once back in your—his villa. 

The first words since that evening in his office, the first words since all those gestures, the first words since his heavy silences, and the first since he allowed those people to make fun of you. They hung in the air, charged with everything unspoken. Every second had felt like a thousand. And now, with those few words, you were breaking the silence that had stretched between you both, but it didn’t ease the tension. If anything, it made the gap between you even wider.

"I beg your pardon ?" The General turned to you. 

"You heard me. You let them speak without interrupting." You positioned yourself directly in front of him, closing the distance between you until he had no choice but to meet your bitter gaze.

"What did you want me to say ?"

You frowned, "You're supposed to be my husband, General. You're supposed to protect me, defend me and assure me."

"Isn't that what I'm doing already ?" He crossed his arms over his chest as you let out a sneer, you felt animosity building inside you. 

"No ! You let them talk about me like I was an idiot ! Doesn't it bother you that they talk about me, your wife, like that ?" 

You let yourself be swept away by the flood of emotions, while the General remained unnervingly still, as if untouched.

“Maybe they’re right.” He added, his tone dry, void of any warmth, signaling that he wasn’t in the mood for a fight tonight. 

His words struck deep, sharper than any physical wound, sinking into your chest like a dagger. It felt worse than the cut on your palm. His words were as bitter as pomegranates, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. You parted your lips, ready to speak, but before you could form a response, you closed your mouth again, the words choking in your throat. You clenched your jaw, fixing him with a hard, burning stare. Letting the humiliation radiating from you. He raised an eyebrow, almost daring you to retort, his gaze expectant. But instead, you turned your back to him, and walked away, heading for your room. He watched you disappear into the shadows, the sway of your hips a silent defiance in the stillness of the night. 

Once out of sight, he turned his head, staring at the floor before muttering to himself as he started walking. He could still feel the anger burning in his chest, his eyes dark and his jaw set. The argument reverberated in his mind. Each word rekindling the embers of his irritation. As he passed the massive table in the center of the room, his blood boiled with a final burst of uncontrollable rage. With a brutal gesture, he thrust his hands under the heavy, carved wooden tabletop and, with disproportionate force, toppled it over. The table flew violently across the room and crashed against the wall. The silence that followed was oppressive. Marcus, short of breath, stared for a moment at the mess he had just made, his fists still clenched. Then, without another word, he turned and left the room. Leaving behind the chaos of his anger. That night he had trouble falling asleep, remembering the words he had said to you. How stupid he had been. Maybe he was made for that after all. Maybe he was just good at being a heartless brute. Maybe he was only capable of hurting you. 

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He was even angrier now. Weeks had passed without a single sign of life from you. He searched for you. His eyes scanning every corner of the villa, but you were nowhere to be found. Remorse gnawed him from the inside, relentless and consuming. He let himself be swallowed by the torturous silence you had cast upon him. Marcus was going mad. You appeared in every corner of his mind, but when he looked closer, you always disappeared. He thought he could hear your voice echoing through the hallways near your room, or imagined he could smell your scent wafting through the gardens, amidst the fragrance of all the flowers, hoping to run into you there. But despite everything, he refused to apologize. He had to wait. He had hurt you, and he understood you needed time. But his patience was running thin.

Sometimes, late at night, he would stand outside your bedroom door, his heart racing as he silently begged you to come out so he could reassure himself that you were still there. When the hope of seeing you faded, he would press his ear to the door, hoping to catch even the faintest sound of your breathing. Yet every time, there was nothing. As if you knew he was there, standing behind your door, and you deliberately chose silence. Finally, he overheard the maids talking about how you would leave very early in the mornings, just before he awoke, and return only after he had left the domus. Marcus was offended. The humiliation settled deep in his chest like a stone. Suddenly he stopped. He stopped searching for you, stopped waiting outside your door, stopped calling for you, stopped pleading. The silence between you both had grown too thick, too suffocating for him to bear, and he let it swallow him whole. 

You entered the Imperial Palace dressed in a deep, ruby red, almost crimson. A rich, intoxicating shade of red that mirrored the one worn by the General as you walked through the grand doors. Once again, the emperors had insisted on your presence at their lavish gathering, and tonight promised to be a long night of debauchery. Without sparing him a glance, you quickly distanced yourself from the General, making your way toward a group of women he vaguely recognized. From where he stood, he watched you. The way your lips moved when you spoke, the delicate gesture of your hands as they lifted in the air, the soft strands of your hair brushing the nape of your neck with each movement. A pang of jealousy gripped him as he watched those women at your side, the one who had the privilege of your attention, your thoughts. But deep down, Marcus knew it wasn’t his right to feel this way. He had no right to claim you. He deserved your indifference, even if it tore him apart. 

Marcus watched the various couples around him, a growing sense of regret weighing heavily on him. The way men stayed close to their wives. He had long believed it to be the other way around, that it was the women who clung to their husbands. But tonight, the General realized just how wrong he had been. It wasn't this senator's wife who clung to her husband; it was him who desperately sought contact with her. The way their arms intertwined was almost instinctive, as if it were a need they couldn’t live without. She remained patient while he spoke with others, her hand discreetly pinching his arm as if to remind him of something, of their bond. They were almost one, their connection so fluid, so intertwined. She needed him, but it was clear, he needed her even more. Marcus looked away, unable to bear the sight any longer, so unfamiliar to him. 

The time crawled painfully slow. Marcus wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. His mind wandered, constantly searching for a way to approach you, to break the silence between you, without risking your anger or your indifference. Then he saw you. No longer with a group of women. You were now with a man he didn’t recognize. You were close, too close. Closer than you had ever been with him. His jaw tightened, but he made no move to intervene. You didn’t need him to disrupt your conversation. This man was certainly giving you the attention you had lacked since you and Marcus stopped speaking. The General poured himself another glass of wine, nearly draining the first one in a single gulp. But no matter how hard he tried to distract himself, his eyes kept falling on your figure. And every time, he clutched his glass a little tighter.

Then someone approached him, and he forced himself to listen, trying to focus on the words being spoken. But he couldn't care less. He knew he had to maintain his distance, just as he had done for weeks—or almost. But when the man beside you casually brushed his fingers against your shoulder, whispering something in your ear, Marcus could feel something inside him snap.

That was it.

He apologized to the person next to him, abandoning his glass of wine on the banquet table as his steps toward you became almost mechanical. His heart pounded, and each stride he took felt heavier than the last. He couldn’t let this happen. Not here, not now, and certainly not in front of all these people. You had every right to ignore him, to turn your back on him in public or private. But this. This closeness with another man ? It was unacceptable. It wasn’t a matter of duty anymore, or the image he needed to maintain. It was primal, instinctual. He couldn't stand another minute of this.

You were supposed to be by his side. Where he needed you. 

His pulse raced as he tried to keep his composure, to avoid causing a scene or drawing unwanted attention. With a calm that only barely masked the fury seeping through him, Marcus placed his hand firmly on your shoulder, possessive and commanding. Surprised, you turned to him, eyes wide, not fully understanding his sudden action. But his gaze was locked on the man in front of you, burning with silent aggression. The other man didn’t flinch, unaffected, but Marcus was determined. He wanted to make sure he felt the threat hanging in the air.

"Enough." His voice was thick with restraint, rough and edged. His eyebrows furrowed deeply, a sign of just how tightly his control was slipping.

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt the shift in the atmosphere, the tension growing around you. You had to act fast. Apologizing to the man, you grabbed Marcus’ forearm, tugging him away from the scene and pulling him into the dark, quiet refuge of the imperial gardens. Once out of sight, you released your grip, turning to face him. The pale moonlight illuminated his tanned skin, casting shadows that deepened the lines on his face, making him appear even more untouchable. But there was no way avoiding what had just happened. What he had just done. The way his gaze had shifted from that cold indifference to something sharper. The tension in his voice. The possessiveness that had suddenly flared up. 

Weeks of silence between you, of him distancing himself, and now he acted as though he could claim you whenever he wished. His sudden impulsiveness rattled you. Part of you—a part you hated—had felt a strange, almost delighted thrill at seeing that crack in his mask. Seeing him lose that grip he always had over his emotions. He had been so cold, so distant for so long, yet now he had the audacity to act as if he could control you. As if you belonged to him. You stood there in the dim light, emotions swirling inside you, at war with yourself.

You were angry, yes. But you were also confused. Part of you wanted an explanation, but you already knew what his response would be. Deflecting, denying, refusing to acknowledge the truth of what just happened. It would always be this way with him, wouldn’t it ? Walls so high you could never break through, a fortress so impenetrable that even your desire to understand him, to reach him, would only cause you pain. And yet, as always, you would keep trying. Because no matter how much he hurt you, no matter how much he pushed you away, you were still compelled to try.

His fists were clenched, he knew what was coming. "Why ?"

"Why what ?" He kept a calm tone despite his previous anger, but his eyes gave him away. You approached him, crossing that distance you always left between you. 

"You had no trouble ignoring me for weeks, but tonight..." A lump formed in your throat, "tonight you act as if it bothers you that someone is actually paying attention to my presence. I am not one of your trophy, General."

Marcus didn't answer right away, unable to look you in the eye. His silence was heavy, but then he murmured softly, "Because it bothers me."You froze. He was finally admitting what he felt. A fragment of truth he had never dared speak. This revelation had the same effect as a torrent of waves carrying you far out to sea, stirring and shaking you in every direction. But Marcus couldn't bear the softness of your gaze weighing down on him. He felt exposed, disoriented. His head seemed to be spinning, but not because of the wine. He hated feeling vulnerable. Gods—he had no right to. As a general, he had the duty to display courage and self-assurance. But tonight, he wasn't on the battlefield.

Tonight, he was facing you. And surprisingly it seemed far more complicated than any battles he had in his life, all the deaths on his conscience, all the blood that had spilled were nothing compared to you. The great General, who had conquered kingdoms and crushed rebellions without hesitation, now stood before the one battlefield he feared the most—his wife. You were no enemy, yet you were the first to shake his resolve. No sword nor spear could wound him as deeply as your silence had. No siege could break him like the way your eyes searched for answers he could not give. He had faced death, had laughed in the face of men who swore to end him, yet before you, he felt small, unarmored. For the first time, war did not rage around him—it raged within. You were the greatest battle of his life, not to be conquered, but to be understood. And for the first time, he did not know if he was ready to fight. 

Immediately he looked away and added more coldly, "But that doesn't change anything."

But you refused to let him get away with it; you were ready to take the risk. You put your hand on his arm, forcing him to face you. "Of course it does.”

The atmosphere was heavy. Too much left unsaid, too many accumulated feelings. For the first time in months, you were speaking to each other with such honesty, even if it was in anger. You were close, too close. Marcus' gaze slid over your soft lips before he abruptly turned his head away, forcing himself to step back. 

"You should leave."

But you didn’t. 

The silence was burning like the desire that kept growing in his heart. The General had turned away, but he was tense, like a wild beast ready to pounce. His fists still clenched, his gaze hard and his shoulders stiff. You weren't moving. And yet you should. But you weren't moving. Instead, you reached out and silently grabbed his wrist. A simple gesture, but one that had the effect of a thunderclap. Marcus in turn felt swept along in this torrent of waves that he couldn't control, and he hated it. He hated himself right now. He hated how you succeeded to destroy those walls. 

"Tell me it doesn't matter... Tell me what you did tonight doesn't matter, and I will go." 

He said nothing. Letting his silence answering for him. You moved a little closer to him, until you felt the warmth of his body. He remained frozen. Unable to move. Unable to flee. His brown eyes burned with the weight of unspoken torment. Brimmed with frustration that crackles in its depths, a storm restrained behind the prison of his lashes. Desire, raw and unrelenting, smoldered beneath the surface. An unbearable ache. A war between pride and yearning. His eyes, once steady as a soldier’s blade, now betrayed him. His armor, once impenetrable, felt fragile beneath the weight of your presence. He feared lowering his guard. Feared that if he let you in, he would hurt you once more with the sharp edges of his own restraint. And yet, the distance between you was an agony he could no longer bear. To hold you was risking breaking you, but to stay away was to break himself.

"Marcus..." you murmured. 

He looked up at you. It was the first time you had ever called him by his first name. You had always kept a certain distance. Since the first day when he had returned. That very first time when you had called him by his title. Not his name. His title. He never thought he would enjoy the sound of his name coming out of your mouth. The satisfaction of hearing it roll off your tongue, caressing your lips just to smack him in the face. He had spent months keeping his distance, pretending that this marriage was just a political alliance, refusing to admit that you had taken a place in his mind, in his body, maybe even in his heart. You were the first and last thing on his mind every day.

That evening in his office, he had let himself get carried away but hadn't regretted just for once his gesture. The way his hand gripped your upper thigh with a quiet desperation, a touch that burned like a sin whispered in the dark. It was neither gentle nor cruel, but something far more dangerous—an unspoken confession, a plea he could not voice. His fingers pressed into your skin as if trying to anchor himself, torn between the damnation of holding on and the salvation of letting go. That moment of intimacy had soothed him, leaving him in the days that followed with an intrepid desire to consume you like the seeds of the pomegranate. Letting your juices spill all over his hands and lips. 

Tonight, there was no escape. 

In a sudden, almost brutal gesture, Marcus grabbed the back of your neck and kissed you. The kiss wasn't soft or gentle. It was overflowing with anger, desire, everything he held back for too long. You didn't try to resist him, you responded to his kiss with the same feverish intensity. There was no hesitation, no space for second thoughts. You had enough of these games, these pretenses. Your fingers clung to his tunic, as if anchoring yourself to the moment, terrifies he might retreat into the shadows once more. But he didn't. Not this time. His grip was firm, his mouth insistent, devouring the distance that had long kept you apart. The line had been crossed, and there was no turning back—only the ruinous, intoxicating fall into each other.

[hoshifighting]

Stripper! Reader x Business Man! Lee Chan

— Synopsis: Workaholic Lee Chan's Friday night takes an unexpected turn when he joins friends at a strip club, only to find himself captivated by you, a dancer he can't seem to stay away from. Despite his reservations, Chan finds himself drawn to your company, booking time with you night after night. — WC: 8.8k — WARNINGS: Strangers to lovers, smut, mentions of alcohol, strip clubs, money throwing, booking, fluff, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, fingering, oral (f. receiving), riding, g'spot stimulation, clit stimulation, male sensitivity.

Lee Chan held the weight of being the CEO of the imperium that his dad left at a very young age. Frat parties, hanging out, late-night talks? Nah, not for him. He had to take care of the company and honor the inheritance that fell into his lap. His co-workers could remember very well the times that Chan walked around and around his office, shoulders tense as if he carried the world on them.

His days started early and ended late, filled with back-to-back meetings, strategy sessions, and endless paperwork. The once carefree and spirited young man had transformed into a focused and driven leader, his every move calculated to ensure the success and stability of the company.

Chan's office was a testament to his dedication—shelves lined with business books, awards, and framed photos of his father, a constant reminder of the legacy he was determined to uphold. The large windows offered a panoramic view of the city skyline, but Chan rarely had time to enjoy it. He was always too engrossed in his work, too preoccupied with the responsibilities that consumed his every waking moment.

Even though his life felt like being stuck in traffic on a rainy day, Chan couldn't deny that he loved the results of his hard work. He looked at the luxurious cars parked in his garage—sleek, powerful machines that represented the pinnacle of automotive engineering. 

His closet was a veritable treasure trove of sartorial excellence. Different types of watches, ties, suits, and shoes from every high-end brand imaginable filled the space, each piece carefully chosen to reflect his impeccable taste and status. The feel of finely crafted leather shoes, the weight of a bespoke suit on his shoulders, the precision of an intricate timepiece on his wrist—all these were constant reminders of what he had achieved.

Chan's wealth allowed him to indulge in the kind of extravagances most people could only dream of. He could spend an exaggerated amount of money in a matter of seconds on something completely futile, like a super shaver with a gold coating—exotic and utterly unnecessary.

The week was ending, and Chan listened to the fuss inside his friend group about hanging out this Friday. Jeonghan, seeing his colleagues leaving their desks, noticed Chan still at his desk, tapping his fingers on the glass table. With his bag slung over his shoulder, Jeonghan approached him.

"I know it's a stupid question, but will you come with us?" he asked. Chan was usually seen only at corporate events. Jeonghan couldn't remember the last time he enjoyed a beer with his friend.

Chan looked up, a hint of surprise flickering across his face. He opened his mouth to respond, the automatic refusal ready on his tongue, but something made him pause. He glanced around the office, now emptying out as people headed off to start their weekends. The thought of another solitary night of work made him feel a twinge of longing for something different.

"Come on, man," Jeonghan urged, sensing the hesitation. "Just one night. It’ll be fun. You need a break."

Chan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew Jeonghan was right. The constant grind was wearing him down, and maybe, just maybe, a night out with friends was exactly what he needed.

"Alright," Chan finally said, a small smile playing on his lips. "I'll come."

Jeonghan's eyes widened in surprise. "Seriously?"

Chan nodded, standing up and grabbing his jacket. "Yeah, let's do it."

Jeonghan grinned, clapping him on the back. "That's the spirit! You won't regret it."

Before they left the building, Chan paused and asked, "Jeonghan?"

"Yes?" Jeonghan answered, turning to face him.

"Where are we going?" Chan inquired, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

Jeonghan just smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You'll see," he said, leaving Chan to wonder what the night had in store for him.

[...]

"A strip club? You must be kidding me!" Chan exclaimed as he took in the sight of the half-dark establishment. Neon lights flickered and danced around the room, casting colorful glows on the walls. Music blasted from speakers, filling the air with a pulsating beat.

He could see several women with different curves, colors, and hairstyles, dressed in scanty outfits—or sometimes nothing at all. The atmosphere was electric, a stark contrast to the corporate environment he was used to.

Jeonghan laughed, clapping Chan on the back. "Come on, man, loosen up! It's just for fun."

Chan hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. He felt a mix of discomfort and curiosity. "I don't know, Jeonghan..."

"Relax," Jeonghan said, guiding him further inside. "We all need a break sometimes. Just enjoy the night. You deserve it."

Chan took a deep breath, deciding to go along with it. Maybe Jeonghan was right—maybe he did need this. As they found a spot to sit, Chan tried to shake off his reservations.

His friends immediately ordered bottles and bottles of soju, beer, whiskey—whatever the bar had. Chan downed his whiskey in a single gulp, exclaiming, "If my dad knew I was here..."

Chan's eyes widened in surprise. "You're kidding."

"Nope," Jeonghan replied, pouring more whiskey into Chan's glass. "He said every hardworking man deserves a break. Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, huh?"

Chan couldn't help but laugh at that. The thought of his father, the man he idolized for his strict work ethic, letting loose in a place like this was almost too surreal. 

As some of his friends disappeared one by one, Chan found himself alone on the couch they had booked. "Great," he muttered under his breath, feeling a twinge of discomfort at being left alone in such a place.

Just as he was about to sink further into the cushions, the little stage that he hadn't even noticed until now suddenly lit up. A tall pole stood in the middle, and Chan tilted his head in curiosity.

Then, a pair of really, really high heels appeared, and Chan's throat went dry. You emerged onto the stage, your skin shining under the purple light. The outfit you wore was scandalous, barely covering anything, and Chan couldn't help but notice the little glitters spread on your skin, catching the light as you moved.

You took hold of the pole and began to dance around it, moving with a grace and confidence that left Chan mesmerized. Your movements were fluid and controlled, every sway of your hips and arch of your back drawing him in deeper. It was as if you were performing just for him, and Chan felt like he could get lost in the rhythm of your dance forever.

As you held yourself up on the pole like a pro, Chan couldn't tear his eyes away. He felt like he was being swallowed by the couch, completely captivated by the sight before him. In that moment, nothing else mattered but you and the hypnotic spell you cast over him with your dance.

As you made eye contact with Chan, a devilish smile played on your lips. He looked like a new piece of meat, a pretty young man who had never been seen before in the club. You got down from the stage, the sway of your hips drawing all eyes to you as you walked towards him.

"First time here, sweetie?" you asked, laying your hands on his shoulders. Chan felt like he couldn't breathe with the view of your tits practically in his face.

"My eyes are up here," you said, chuckling as you caught him ogling your chest.

Chan blinked, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. "Uh, yeah," he stammered, tearing his gaze away from your cleavage. "First time."

You chuckled, running a hand through your hair as you leaned in closer. "Well, lucky for you, you've got me to show you the ropes," you said, your voice low and sultry.

"You're tense," you observe, noticing the stiffness in Chan's shoulders. Without waiting for a response, you step behind him and begin to massage his shoulders, your fingers working their magic as you knead the tension away.

Chan lets out a sigh of relief, his muscles melting under your skilled touch. "Yeah," he admits, his voice soft. "Work's been... stressful lately."

You nod in understanding, continuing to work out the knots in his shoulders. "I get it," you say, your voice soothing. "But you're here now, and tonight is all about letting go of that stress and just enjoying yourself."

Chan leans back into your touch, closing his eyes as he relaxes into the sensation. "I guess you're right," he murmurs, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

You smile too, glad to see him starting to unwind. "That's better," you say, your fingers tracing soothing circles on his skin. "Just focus on the here and now. Forget about everything else for a while."

Chan nods.

You walk around Chan again, swaying your hips seductively in front of him. His mind races, unsure of what to do next, but before he can even think, you're sitting on his lap, circling your hips against his.

Chan smiles shyly, feeling the heat from your body as you move against him. He can't help but notice the money tucked into the sides of your little shorts, a reminder of where he is and what's expected of him.

It's exhilarating and nerve-wracking all at once, but there's something undeniably thrilling about having you so close, your body pressed against his.

As you continue to dance, Chan's hands hover uncertainly over your hips, unsure of where to touch or how to respond. He feels a flush of embarrassment at his own inexperience, but he's determined not to let it show. Instead, he focuses on the way your body moves against his.

And you smile knowingly, sensing his hesitation, and guide his hands to your waist, encouraging him.

Chan's hands move from your waist to your hips and then down to your thigh, his fingers grazing the soft skin as he explores the contours of your body. His pulse quickens as he feels the warmth of your thigh pressed against his pocket, and he can't resist the urge to reach into his wallet and retrieve a pouch of money.

With a mischievous grin, Chan brings his hand to the top of your head, letting the notes rain down on you like confetti. You laugh, delighted by the unexpected gesture, and give him a big smile.

"What's your name?" you ask, your voice playful.

"Chan," he replies, feeling a surge of confidence.

You lick your lips, your gaze lingering on his. "Nice to meet you, Channie," you purr, the nickname, and Chan blushes. 

[...]

The next Monday, Chan sat at his desk, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. His mind raced with a million thoughts, his thoughts still consumed by the events of that night. He was lost in his own thoughts, replaying every moment, every touch, every glance.

A knock on his door startled him out of his trance, and he quickly tried to compose himself, pretending to be engrossed in some papers spread out on his desk.

"Come in," Chan called, his voice slightly shaky.

The door opened, and Jeonghan stepped inside, giving Chan a knowing smile. "Hey there, sleepyhead," he teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Chan felt a flush of embarrassment heat his cheeks. "Oh, hey Jeonghan," he replied, trying to sound casual.

Jeonghan chuckled, walking over to Chan's desk and leaning against it casually. "So, how was your night?" he asked, his tone laced with amusement.

Chan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his mind racing as he tried to come up with a suitable response. "Um, it was... interesting," he finally managed, his voice trailing off uncertainly.

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Interesting, huh?" he said, his tone teasing. "Well, if you ever need any pointers on how to navigate the world of strip clubs, you know who to ask."

Chan's cheeks burned even hotter, and he couldn't help but laugh at Jeonghan's playful teasing. "Thanks, but I think I'll pass," he said, relieved to have the topic of conversation shifted away from his night of unexpected adventure.

Chan spent the entire weekend consumed by thoughts of you, unable to shake the memories of your encounter at the club. As Monday rolled around, he found himself itching to see you again, the usual routine of work feeling dull and uninspired.

Deciding that today was not the day for extra hours at the office, Chan made his way to the club, a sense of anticipation building in his chest. He arrived at the club, his eyes scanning the room eagerly in search of you.

As he looked around, a receptionist approached him, sensing his lost expression. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice polite and friendly.

Chan nodded, grateful for the assistance. "Yes, I'm looking for a girl with hair like this," he said, mimicking the length and curl of your hair with his hands.

The receptionist's eyes lit up with recognition. "Ah, you must be looking for Y/N," she said, a smile playing on her lips. "Follow me, I'll take you to her."

There you were, dancing around the pole with a big smile on your face, as if you were truly enjoying every second of it. Chan watched from the corner of the room, his arms crossed and a big smile on his face as he observed you.

The club was crowded, with many people gathered around you, admiring your performance. Chan felt a pang of jealousy as he watched others vying for your attention, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from you.

As the night wore on and people began to leave, Chan noticed you finally catching sight of him. Your eyes met his, and you gave him a playful wink, rolling your hips as you glanced at him over your shoulder.

Chan's heart skipped a beat at your playful gesture, and he couldn't help but grin back at you. Despite the crowd around you, it felt like you were dancing just for him, and in that moment, Chan felt a surge of warmth and connection unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

As you took a break from dancing, you bent down to pick up some notes from the stage floor. Before you could gather them all, Chan approached, leaning on the stage with a playful grin.

"Leave it on the ground," he said, extending a big wad of money towards you. "Take it."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "I didn't even have time for you today," you teased, raising an eyebrow.

"Did I ask?" Chan replied, his smile widening. "Take it."

You couldn't help but laugh at his playful response, taking the money from his hand. "You liked me that much, huh?" you asked, knowing full well the answer. You were well aware of the power you held.

"Hmm, I think I need to see more," Chan teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

You giggled, enjoying the banter between you. "Well, if you want me all to yourself, you'll have to book," you replied with a playful wink.

Chan's eyes lit up at the suggestion. "Can I book all of your agenda?" he asked eagerly.

You stood up, giving him a coy smile. "Don't be greedy, Channie," you teased, enjoying the way he looked at you with eager anticipation.

You glanced down at the wad of money in your hand, barely able to fit into your shorts, and then looked back up at Chan with a playful smile.

"Well, I think I can spare some time for you," you said, glancing over at the clock on the wall. "But just a little while."

Chan's face lit up with excitement as he nodded eagerly. "That's all I need," he replied, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

[...]

As Chan began appearing almost every day, he became a familiar face at the club, a quiet yet eager client of yours. The receptionist would often give you a knowing look, silently conveying that Chan had arrived and had booked time with you once again.

Of course, there were other loyal clients who frequented the club, but none seemed to hold the same level of fascination for you as Chan did. There was a certain shine in his eyes whenever he entered the club, a distinct aura of anticipation and eagerness that set him apart from the other customers.

You couldn't help but wonder why you had let him know about the option to book time with you. Perhaps it was the way he looked at you with such genuine interest and excitement, or maybe it was the thrill of having someone so captivated by your presence. Whatever the reason, you found yourself looking forward to his visits, eager to see where each encounter would lead.

You couldn't help but feel a pang of surprise when Chan didn't show up for his usual visit. It was as if a small piece of the excitement and anticipation that had become a part of your routine was suddenly missing. Without even realizing it, you found yourself scanning the crowd, searching for his familiar face.

Then, just as you were starting to wonder where he was, you spotted him entering the club. Your heart skipped a beat as you watched him make his way to his special seat, right in front of you. His genuine smile lit up his face, and you couldn't help but smile back, the warmth of his presence washing over you like a wave.

With renewed energy and enthusiasm, you danced with even more passion and heart than before. You knew that Chan was watching, appreciating every move, every moment. 

Over the following weeks, Chan's visits became a cherished routine. Each time he arrived, you could sense the anticipation in his eyes, the unspoken hope that maybe tonight would be different.

One evening, as you were finishing your performance and making your way to his table, he finally mustered the courage to ask. "Hey, would you like to grab a drink with me sometime? Outside of here, I mean," he said, his voice full of genuine warmth and a hint of nervousness.

You smiled softly, appreciating his boldness but knowing you had to set boundaries. "I'm flattered, Chan, but I don't hang out with customers outside of work," you replied, your tone gentle yet firm.

A few nights later, he tried again, this time with a different approach. "There's this amazing new restaurant that just opened up downtown. I'd love to take you there," he offered, his eyes hopeful.

You shook your head slightly, maintaining your friendly demeanor. "I appreciate the invite, but I have a policy about not mixing my work life with my personal life," you explained, hoping he would understand.

Undeterred, Chan continued to ask, each time finding new ways to express his interest. "There's a gallery opening this weekend. I thought it might be fun to check it out together," he suggested one night, his enthusiasm palpable.

Once again, you gently declined. "That sounds lovely, but I really can't. I have to keep things professional with my clients," you said, feeling a pang of regret at having to turn him down yet again.

Each time he asked, you could see the slight disappointment in his eyes, but he always respected your boundaries. And despite your refusals, he never stopped coming back, never stopped watching you with that same genuine admiration and respect.

Tonight, you made sure every detail was perfect. Your hair cascaded in flawless waves, and you wore your best outfit, accentuating every curve just right. You were eager to dance for Chan, feeling a flutter of excitement as you anticipated his arrival. Sure enough, Chan appeared, booking the rest of the night with you as he had been doing lately.

When he approached, you greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, a small gesture that had become part of your interactions. "Hey, Channie," you said with a playful smile. "So, what’s it gonna be tonight? Shorts or no shorts?"

Chan smiled warmly, a bit of that usual nervous energy in his eyes. "Actually," he began, his tone softer than usual, "I just want to talk tonight. I want to spend time with you."

You blinked, taken aback. No customer had ever asked for just your company before. "You... you just want to talk?" you repeated, making sure you heard him right.

He nodded, a sincere expression on his face. "Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love watching you dance. But tonight, I just want to get to know you better. You know, beyond all this," he gestured vaguely around the club.

Still processing his request, you motioned to the couch. "Alright, let's sit then." You both settled onto the plush seats, the atmosphere suddenly feeling more intimate and less transactional.

"So, what do you want to know?" you asked, trying to mask your nervousness with a casual tone.

Chan leaned forward slightly, his eyes earnest. "Everything. What's your favorite color? What's your dream vacation? What do you do when you're not here?" He paused, then added with a chuckle, "I know it sounds silly, but I really want to know the real you."

You smiled, touched by his genuine curiosity. "Well, my favorite color is …" you began, feeling a bit shy. "As for a dream vacation, I've always wanted to visit Santorini. The pictures look so beautiful, like a place out of a fairytale."

Chan listened intently, his focus unwavering. "Santorini sounds amazing. I can picture you there."

You chuckled, the image of you in Santorini bringing a warm feeling to your chest. "And when I'm not here, I love to paint. It's my way of unwinding, letting my creativity flow."

His eyes lit up. "Painting? That's incredible. What kind of things do you paint?"

You shrugged lightly, feeling more comfortable as the conversation flowed. "Mostly landscapes and abstract pieces. It's like putting a piece of my soul onto the canvas."

For a moment, there was a comfortable silence, both of you absorbing the depth of the conversation. Chan finally broke it, his voice soft. "You know, I've always admired how dedicated you are to what you do, I know it's now easy at all. But hearing about your passions and dreams, it makes me admire you even more."

Your cheeks warmed at his words, and you found yourself opening up more than you had with anyone in a long time. "Thank you, Chan. It means a lot to hear that."

He reached out, gently squeezing your hand. "Thank you for sharing with me. I know this isn’t what you usually do, but it means a lot to me."

Chan observed the small figurine on the table, curiosity lighting up his eyes. “Where do you get these?” he asked, leaning closer to get a better look.

You smiled, a bit shyly. “I make them myself,” you said, enjoying the surprise that flickered across his face.

“Really? That’s amazing,” he praised, his admiration evident. You shrugged modestly.

“It’s not that hard,” you replied, still smiling. “They’re always small.”

Chan chuckled, a warm sound that made you feel even more at ease. He started to remove his blazer, and before you knew it, he placed it gently around your shoulders, covering a good part of you. The gesture was so kind and considerate that it made you feel even more comfortable, despite usually feeling at ease in your usual skimpy outfits.

As you nestled into the blazer, you couldn’t help but notice how much more at ease you felt. Chan’s presence was different; it wasn’t just about the physical attraction or the lavish spending. There was a gentleness, a genuine care that made you feel safe and valued.

“I don’t usually do this,” you admitted, looking at him with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Chan smiled back, his eyes soft. “It’s my pleasure. You deserve to feel comfortable.”

The conversation flowed easily as Chan began to share bits and pieces of his life. He spoke about his responsibilities as CEO, the pressure of living up to his father’s legacy, and the sacrifices he had to make. His words were carefully chosen, mindful of not coming across as boastful despite his affluent lifestyle. You could tell he was trying to be as honest as possible while downplaying the extravagance.

“And that’s pretty much my life,” Chan concluded with a slight sigh. “It’s demanding, but it’s what I have to do.”

You admired his humility, realizing how grounded he remained despite his wealth. “It sounds like a lot to handle,” you said softly, your eyes reflecting your newfound respect for him. “But you do it so well. It’s impressive.”

Chan’s expression softened, a mixture of gratitude and weariness in his eyes. “Thank you. It’s not always easy, but I try.”

“You’re more than just a pretty boy,” you teased lightly, wanting to lift the mood. “You’re a hardworking, humble man.”

He laughed, the sound filling the space between you with warmth. “And you’re not just a beautiful dancer. You’re talented and creative.”

[...]

The next morning, you were chatting with the girls—your coworkers—as they finished their hair for the night.

“And he just wanted to talk,” you said, a bit incredulously. “He even asked about my favorite color.”

The girls collectively let out a heartfelt “Awww,” their eyes wide with interest and affection.

“Seriously?” one of them, Mina, asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “That’s so sweet.”

“He seems different,” another added, giggling.

“Yeah,” you nodded, still a bit surprised yourself. “We just talked. It was...nice.”

Before the conversation could continue, the receptionist entered the room, a knowing smile on her face. “Ya! Y/N-nie! Your Channie is here,” she announced, her tone teasing.

It was unusual for any customer to visit on a Saturday morning, a time usually reserved for the staff to unwind and prepare for the week ahead. 

“It’s Saturday morning,” Mina whispered, nudging you playfully. “No customers come in unless they lost something.”

“Let him in,” you said, trying to keep your tone casual but feeling the flutter of anticipation.

As Chan walked in, he was met with a scene unlike the usual vibrant atmosphere of the club. The girls were dressed in comfortable clothes, some with bobs in their hair, others doing their nails or simply lounging around.

You were drying a glass behind the bar. He looked around, slightly surprised but smiling.

“Good morning, girls,” he greeted, his voice cheerful. "Good morning Y/N…" He says in a special and tender tone, just for you.

“Good morning,” the girls chimed back in unison, their eyes following his every move.

You put down the glass and walked over to him, a wide smile on your face. “Channie, what are you doing here?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“I wanted to see you,” he replied, his gaze soft and sincere. He seemed a bit out of place in the relaxed environment, but his presence was a welcome one. You could feel the girls watching the exchange with rapt attention, like they were watching an opera unfold.

Chan noticed that you didn’t have bobs in your hair like some of the other girls. Gesturing toward your hair, he asked, “No bobs for you today?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “It’s my day off. I’m not dancing today.”

The girls exchanged knowing looks, some stifling giggles. One of them, Lisa, leaned over and whispered loudly enough for you to hear, “Looks like someone’s here to see you even when you’re not performing.”

You blushed, glancing at Chan, who seemed equally flustered but amused by the comment. He recovered quickly, his smile returning.

Chan stood there, his eyes filled with hope and a hint of nervousness. "Would you like to spend the day with me?" he asked, his tone gentle and inviting.

You chuckled, a playful glint in your eye. "Hmm, I've already told you about hanging out with my customers," you teased, enjoying the banter.

Before Chan could respond, Mina chimed in from the background, her voice filled with encouragement. "Oh, come on! You should accept it!"

Chan seized the opportunity, smiling wider. "You’re not on your work schedule now, are you?"

That shut your mouth, leaving you momentarily speechless. The girls burst into giggles, clearly enjoying the exchange.

“Well, when you put it that way…” you trailed off, pretending to think it over.

Chan’s smile grew, sensing victory. “So, is that a yes?”

You sighed theatrically, then grinned. “Fine, you win. I’ll spend the day with you.”

“Great!” Chan said, visibly relieved and excited. “I promise it’ll be fun.”

You nodded, your smile widening. “Let me just finish up here, and we can go.”

As you gathered your things, the girls couldn’t resist a few more teasing comments, but it was all in good fun, as Chan waited patiently.

As the day unfolded, Chan took you to places you hadn't had the time to visit in years. You sipped coffee at a cozy café, strolled through the park, and even caught a movie at the cinema. With each passing moment, you found yourself enjoying his company more and more, feeling a sense of freedom and joy you hadn't experienced in a long time.

"This has been the best day off ever," you exclaimed, unable to contain your excitement as you walked side by side with Chan.

His heart swelled with happiness at your words, his smile growing wider. He could have taken you to a luxurious restaurant or shopping for designer labels, but he sensed that wasn't what you wanted. Instead, he decided to let you choose how to spend the rest of the day.

Careful to open doors for you and ensure your comfort, Chan drove you around in his luxurious car, enjoying each other's company and the simplicity of the moment. As he glanced at you from the driver's seat, he couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment wash over him.

"Where to next?" he asked, his voice filled with anticipation.

You playfully pretended to ponder your options, teasing him about having more surprises up his sleeve. Chan laughed, shrugging his shoulders as he drove. You noticed that you were nearing your apartment, and the idea popped into your head.

"How about we go to my place?" you suggested, surprising even yourself with the invitation.

Chan's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he quickly masked it with a smile. "Your place? Are you sure?"

You nodded, feeling a sense of excitement building in your chest. "Yeah, why not? I'd love for you to see where I live."

Chan couldn't hide his delight at your invitation, his curiosity piqued. He parked the car and walked with you to your apartment building, taking in the surroundings with interest.

Chan's eyes wandered around the apartment, taking in the details of your life that adorned the walls. He saw framed photographs capturing cherished memories – graduations, family gatherings, outings with friends. The images painted a picture of a life rich in experiences and relationships.

His gaze shifted to the plushies scattered across the couch, a playful and endearing touch that brought a smile to his face. It was clear to him that you had a warmth and sweetness that extended beyond the confines of the club where he first met you.

As you disappeared into the kitchen, Chan took a moment to soak in the atmosphere of your home. The tranquility of the space, combined with the personal touches that reflected your personality, made him feel strangely at ease.

In that moment, he realized that he was seeing a side of you that few others had the privilege of witnessing – the real you, beyond the glamorous facade of the club.

As you settled back onto the couch with snacks in hand, Chan joined you, his presence filling the space with warmth. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he began recounting his visit to the strip club earlier that day.

You listened intently, a soft chuckle escaping your lips as he shared the details of his adventure. When he mentioned Jeonghan's involvement, you couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude towards your friend for unknowingly setting this day in motion.

"Looks like I owe Jeonghan a big thank you," you said, your voice muffled as you took a bite of your snack. 

Chan raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "So, Jeonghan is the reason we met, huh?" he teased, leaning closer to you.

You chuckled, feeling a playful energy between you. "Looks like it," you replied, unable to suppress a smile.

Chan's teasing grin widened at your response, and he leaned in closer, his playful demeanor evident. "Oh, so you're thanking Jeonghan, but not me?" he teased, raising an eyebrow in mock indignation.

With a soft smile, you turned to Chan, gratitude evident in your eyes. "Thank you, Channie," you said, your voice sincere as you expressed your appreciation.

Chan returned your smile, his gaze warm as he listened to your words. "For what?" he asked, though he already had a feeling of what you meant.

You took a moment to gather your thoughts before replying. "For everything," you began, your tone heartfelt. "For the moments we've shared, the conversations we've had... Even on the nights you booked me, we talked more than danced," you admitted, a fondness evident in your voice.

Chan's smile widened at your words, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "Well, I guess I'm just a talkative guy," he joked, though there was a hint of sincerity in his tone.

Chan's touch was tender as he brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze lingering on your lips with a mixture of hesitation and longing. You could feel the tension building between you, an unspoken desire hanging in the air.

When he spoke your name, you couldn't help but respond with a soft sound of acknowledgment, your heart fluttering with anticipation. His next words sent a shiver down your spine, his voice barely above a whisper as he confessed his thoughts.

"I know it's not allowed to kiss the dancers in the club," he began, his words laden with a sense of urgency, "but... we're not in the club right?"

His question hung in the air, heavy with possibility. In that moment, the boundaries that had separated you in the club seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, alone in the intimacy of your shared space.

You met Chan's gaze, your heart pounding in your chest as you considered his words. Despite the rules and restrictions that governed your interactions in the club, here, in this moment, you felt a freedom that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

With a hesitant smile, you leaned in closer to him, your breath mingling with his as you whispered, "No, we're not in the club." And in that simple acknowledgment, you gave voice to the unspoken truth that had been lingering between you all along.

Chan's hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his lips crashed into yours. His tongue explored your mouth with a fervent passion, and you found yourself breathing hard, your fingers clutching the collar of his shirt to deepen the kiss.

The truth was, the more you refused Chan's invitations to dinner, the more you denied the gifts he insisted on giving you, the more you avoided his attempts to kiss you—his feelings for you only grew stronger. And now, seeing his insistence on simply having your company, and not just as the girl who would entertain him at night, made you feel all your girlhood feelings again.

Breaking the kiss for a moment, you looked into his eyes, your breath mingling with his. "Chan..." you whispered "Why do you keep coming back? Why do you keep trying so hard?"

He held your gaze, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and tenderness. "Because you matter to me, Y/N. More than just a dancer, more than just a pretty face. I see you, the real you, and I want to know you better."

Your heart swelled at his words, and you felt a rush of warmth and affection for this man who saw beyond the surface. "But I'm not used to this," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not used to someone caring this much."

Chan's grip on your neck tightened slightly, a comforting reassurance. "Then let me show you how it feels. Let me show you that you deserve to be cared for, to be cherished."

"Show me," you whisper, your eyes locked on Chan's lips. He captures your mouth in a passionate kiss, his lips trailing down to your neck. His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he pulls it over your head. You pull him closer, desperate to feel him, your hands sliding under his shirt to caress his warm skin.

His hands slide to your thighs, lifting you onto his lap, your breasts now level with his face. He glances at the pretty lace bra you’re wearing and lowers the cups, exposing your nipples. He kisses each one tenderly before sucking on one and pinching the other. You melt into him, your hips grinding against his automatically, drawing a groan from deep within his chest.

"Do you know how hard it was to control myself when you grinded on my cock like this?" he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with desire.

A wicked smile crosses your lips as you continue to grind against him, feeling his erection growing beneath you. "I could feel it, Chan," you purr, your voice dripping with seduction. "I could feel how much you wanted me. I wanted you just as badly."

His hands tighten on your hips, guiding your movements as he presses you harder against him. "God, Y/N, you drive me crazy," he groans, his eyes darkening with lust.

You lean in, your breath hot against his ear. "I want to feel you inside me, Chan. I want you to lose control. Show me how much you want me."

His control snaps, and he flips you onto your back, his body pressing you into the couch. "You don’t know what you’re asking for," he growls, his hand sliding down to unbutton your pants.

"I know exactly what I want," you whisper back, your eyes burning with the same desire. "I want you, all of you."

Chan's lips crash into yours again, more fiercely this time, as his hands work to remove the rest of your clothing.

In a blur of movement, clothes are discarded, and his skin is pressed against yours. He pauses to look into your eyes. "Tell me you want this," he demands, his voice rough with need.

"I want you, Chan," you breathe out, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer. 

Chan giggles softly, his breath hot against your skin. "Wait for me to prepare you," he whispers, his voice laced with anticipation. He opens your legs wide, his eyes dark with desire as he lowers himself between your thighs. His lips find your wet folds, kissing them gently before his tongue delves deeper.

The sensation sends shivers through your body, and you let out a soft moan. Chan's mouth works expertly, sucking on your clit while his tongue teases and explores. As you gasp his name, "Channie," he responds with a moan of his own, the vibrations adding to your pleasure.

His hand slides up your thigh, and you feel the gentle pressure of his finger at your entrance. He slips it inside you slowly, his finger curling to find that perfect spot. Your back arches off the couch, your hands gripping the cushions as he continues to worship your body with his mouth and fingers.

"Oh, Chan," you breathe, your voice quivering with need. The way his tongue moves, the way his finger pumps in and out of you—it's all too much. Your hips begin to move on their own, seeking more of the intense pleasure he's giving you.

He adds another finger, stretching you gently, and your moans grow louder. His mouth never leaves your clit, sucking and flicking it with his tongue in a rhythm that drives you wild. You can feel your orgasm building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside you.

Chan's free hand comes up to hold your hip, steadying you as you writhe beneath him. He looks up at you, his eyes full of lust and admiration, and the sight of him between your legs pushes you closer to the edge.

"Channie, I’m so close," you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper.

He doubles his efforts, his fingers moving faster, his mouth more insistent on your clit. The world fades away, and all you can focus on is the overwhelming pleasure building within you.

With a final, deep moan, you come undone. Your body trembles, your muscles clench around his fingers, and a powerful wave of ecstasy crashes over you. Chan doesn't stop, drawing out your orgasm until you're completely spent, every nerve ending tingling with satisfaction.

Finally, he pulls away, his fingers and mouth glistening with your arousal. He looks up at you with a triumphant smile, his own need evident in his eyes. "You taste so good," he murmurs, crawling up your body to capture your lips in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it only fuels the fire between you.

"Now," he says, positioning himself at your entrance, "I think you're ready."

You nod, wrapping your legs around his waist, and with one smooth thrust, he fills you completely. 

Your pussy was wet enough, spasming, welcoming him perfectly. Chan's eyes were closed, his face contorting as he tried to compose himself. You reached up and gently held his face, and he opened his eyes, scoffing softly, trying to pretend he didn't almost cum right then and there from the sensation of your sopping cunt wrapping so perfectly around him and the pornographic moan that just left your mouth.

"Fuck, Y/N," he breathed, his voice thick with lust. "You feel so good."

You smiled, your own arousal mirrored in his gaze. "Don't hold back, Channie," you whispered, your fingers brushing through his hair. "I want all of you."

He groaned, his hips starting to move, slowly at first, savoring the way you clenched around him with each thrust. The intensity in his eyes made your heart race, the connection between you deepening with every movement.

"You're so tight," he murmured, his hands gripping your hips as he picked up the pace. "So perfect for me."

You bit your lip, your body responding to his every word, his every touch. "Chan," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as he hit that sweet spot inside you, sending waves of pleasure through your body. "Don't stop."

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he rolled his hips, stopping momentarily before hitting your g'spot with a sharp thrust. He repeated this motion, each thrust more deliberate, and the most sinful moans left your mouth. "Yes, Channie," you gasped, your voice trembling with pleasure, "fuck this pussy with that big fucking cock. Yes, yes!"

Chan groaned, the sound deep and guttural, spurred on by your words. "You like that? Hm?" he panted, his pace quickening as he watched the ecstasy play out on your face. "You like how I fuck you?"

"Yes," you moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders. "God, yes, I love it. I love how you fuck me– ah! Channie."

"So wet... all for me."

Your body arched beneath him, your hips moving to meet his thrusts, chasing the pleasure that was building to an overwhelming peak. "Only for you," you whispered, your voice breaking with a whimper as he drove you closer to the edge. "No one else, just you, Channie."

He growled, the possessiveness in your words igniting something primal in him. His thrusts became harder, faster, each one sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. "Say it again," he demanded, his breath hot against your ear. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," you cried out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. "I'm yours, Channie, only yours."

His hips snapped forward with even more intensity, and you could feel the coil tightening in your core, ready to snap. "Cum for me," he urged, his voice a low growl. "Cum all over my cock, baby."

Your pussy throbbed as the aftershocks of your orgasm rippled through you, your eyes closing tightly, mouth falling open in a silent scream. You wrapped your legs around Chan's waist, locking him in place as you rode out every wave of pleasure. Chan hissed, his abdomen trembling, signaling that he was on the brink of release but unable to escape your grip.

You opened your eyes to find Chan watching you intently, taking in every reaction. "Sit," you commanded, your voice breathless yet authoritative.

"Hm?" Chan responded, his expression a mix of curiosity and lingering pleasure.

"Sit," you repeated, firmer this time. He complied, a small laugh escaping his lips.

"Are you going to dom me?" he teased, scoffing lightly.

Instead of answering, you simply lowered yourself onto his cock, making him flinch and let out a whiny moan in your ear, your legs trembling from the intensity of your recent orgasm.

"Fuck," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips. 

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear. "You like that, Channie? You like when I take control?"

"Yes," he gasped, his breath hitching as you began to move, rolling your hips slowly at first. "God, yes."

You smirked, picking up the pace, each movement sending shivers of pleasure through both of you. "You look so good like this," you whispered, your voice low and sultry. "So desperate, so needy. You want to cum, don't you?"

"Yes," he admitted, his voice barely more than a whimper. "Please, let me cum."

You tightened your grip on his shoulders, riding him harder. "Not yet," you commanded, enjoying the power you held over him. "Not until I say so."

Chan's eyes fluttered closed, his body trembling as he tried to hold back. "Please," he begged, his voice raw with need. "I can't... I can't hold on much longer."

"Look at me," you ordered, your tone firm. His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours. "You’re going to cum when I tell you to, understand?"

"Yes," he panted, nodding eagerly. "Yes, I understand."

You imagined riding him since the moment he entered that club, young, hot, with his sleeves rolled up, the scent of masculine fragrance mingling with whiskey on his breath. Feeling this man, needy and sly, with his cock buried deep inside your pussy, spilling all that pre-cum, and fighting his demons not to cum, made you so horny.

 You licked your fingers, circling your clit to help yourself climax, making you clench around him again. A strangled moan escaped his mouth, his eyes were rolling back.

You leaned in close, your voice husky with desire. "You're so close, Channie," you whispered, your breath hot against his ear. "I can feel how badly you want to cum inside me. Do it, baby. Give it to me. Fill me up with your cum."

Chan's hips bucked against yours, his grip on your hips tightening. "Fuck," he groaned, his voice strained with pleasure. "I need to cum, please..."

You smirked, your fingers still working furiously on your clit. "You want to empty those balls for me, make me feel every drop of your cum inside me? Hm?"

Chan nodded frantically, his eyes glazed with lust. "Yes, god, yes. Please, let me cum. I can't hold on much longer."

With a wicked grin, you increased the pressure on your clit, feeling the tension building inside you. "Then cum for me, Channie," you urged, your voice a sultry whisper. "Cum deep inside my pussy."

Chan's entire body tensed, his breath hitching as he finally let go, his cum flooding you with warmth. You cried out in pleasure, feeling your own orgasm crashing over you in waves as you rode out the ecstasy together.

As you collapsed against his chest, Chan wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. You could feel your legs trembling in soreness, his cum still dripping from your pussy, and both of your bodies slick with sweat. Despite the exhaustion, Chan's embrace felt comforting and secure.

He ran his hands soothingly over your back, his touch gentle yet firm, as if trying to convey all his affection through his fingertips. You raised your head to meet his gaze, finding him looking back at you with a mixture of satisfaction and tenderness in his eyes.

You pressed a series of soft kisses to his lips, his cheeks, his jawline, savoring the warmth and intimacy of the moment. Chan smiled in response, his own lips curved upwards in a contented –fucked out– expression.

You summoned the last vestiges of your strength just to tease Chan, circling your hips ever so slightly, just enough to elicit a reaction from his sensitive body. 

"Wait, wait," Chan gasped, his voice strained with sensitivity. "I can't... I can't take it."

He held you firmly against him, his grip almost desperate as he tried to steady himself. The sensation of your hips circling against his heightened his arousal to a point where he felt like he might lose control at any moment.

You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. Despite the exhaustion and the intensity of your encounter, you found his vulnerability endearing.

"Sorry," you chuckled softly, the sound mingling with his labored breaths. "I couldn't resist teasing you a little."

Chan let out a breathless laugh, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to regain his composure. He leaned in to press a gentle kiss against your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment before he spoke again.

"You're... you're something else, you know that?" he murmured, his voice filled with admiration. "I don't know how you do it."

You grinned up at him, feeling a surge of warmth at his words. Despite the intense physical connection between you, there was an undeniable emotional bond that had formed, deepening your connection even further.

"I guess I just have a way with you," you replied playfully, winking at him before snuggling closer into his embrace.

[luna-rainbow]

@ashacrone sent me an excellent video essay about how and why CATWS is the best MCU movie and about half way through I had to stop and watch the real thing cos it made me so nostalgic and emotional 😂

New things I noticed this time around that I probably should have noticed ages ago:

The Winter Soldier theme has two distinct leitmotifs: there's the haunting digitised scream, and there's the percussion triplet. I think last time on a random rewatch I noticed that during the very opening of the Causeway scene, i.e. Steve, Nat and Sam are just driving on the road in the car with Sitwell, "the scream" comes on momentarily before their conversation takes place, as a foreshadowing. This time I noticed that during Nick Fury's car chase scene, much of the BGM was built on the Winter Soldier percussion triplets until it quietens suddenly and "the scream" comes on while the Winter Soldier comes into focus. I love the foreshadowing in the music

On the subject of music, the end of the line scene after Sarah's funeral plays a very similar tune to the end of the line/fall from the helicarrier.

I think I mentioned on the last rewatch that it's interesting Sharon says she was sent to "protect" Steve when he's a super soldier, and he probably clocked very quickly she was sent to monitor him, hence his very curt "neighbour" the next time he sees her. I think I may have written it in another meta too about whether Sharon (given her later going rogue as the Powerbroker) was a double agent who had a hand in setting up Fury's assassination. She somehow heard/noticed music coming from Steve's room before Steve, the super soldier with super hearing, noticed. Sure, maybe it's louder inside her room than it is from the hallway, but strange that she felt the need to bring it to his attention? It was almost as though she said it purposely to get Steve on edge -- remember Steve's reaction is then to climb through his window rather than go through the front door. This would have exposed his presence to the Winter Soldier who is most likely already in position on the opposite roof, especially if we go by the theory that the Soldier used Steve's eye line to triangulate where Fury was located. I know Pierce spends a lot of time questioning Steve about why Fury was in his apartment as though he wants to know what information Fury passed onto Steve (and that might be true), but likely part of the plan was also to frame Captain America in order to remove him from any kind of influence, so the Winter Soldier was instructed to wait until Steve was inside before finishing the assassination.

Steve's look when Fury shows him his phone that says "ears everywhere". It screamed "OF COURSE MY UNIT IS BUGGED OF FUCKING COURSE OF COURSE YOU DID IT".

There's this interesting small detail during Fury's car chase: he asks the AI to calculate the route, and he's told that one particular road is gridlocked, but there's another road that's more open. That is, of course, the road that the Winter Soldier was waiting for him on, which means SHIELD was controlling the lights/traffic to lure Fury into the trap. A callback later in the movie proves this -- when Steve dives through the glass ceiling and runs, Sitwell says, "All traffic lights in the district go red." So SHIELD had the capacity to control traffic, and they definitely did it to bring Fury into the Soldier's path.

When Steve was at the hospital after Fury's assassination, he was in his civvies, and Rumlow was rushing him to get back to SHIELD. Interestingly, when he arrives at SHIELD to speak with Pierce, he is in full battle suit (despite, obviously, the Strike team pressuring him to make things quick, he still took the time to change into his suit). The elevator fight is set up like an unexpected escalation given the civil way his conversation went with Pierce, but clearly Steve had been prepared for a fight as soon as he stepped foot inside SHIELD.

When he goes back to the hospital, he's back in a different set of civilian clothes and he doesn't don that particular suit again, instead opting to steal his old uniform from the museum. More than a statement against SHIELD, I wonder if he disposed of the suit because he's worried it had tracking embedded?

One minor detail during the elevator scene - Steve was initially standing near the back of the elevator and watching out the window. As the second group of people got on, one of the men says "excuse me" to Steve, forcing him to step aside and closer to the centre. Steve had already noticed Rumlow's team had their hands on their guns, but once he was forced into the centre he turned and gave the two guys who displaced him a very long suspicious look (one of them had the sweat dripping down his face). When Rollins gets on, that's when Steve was like "pretty sure all the players are here" and said the famous "does anyone wanna get out" line. I just love the way the action was set up, as they intentionally but subtly forced Steve into the middle and had him surrounded, which I think is also when it clicked for Steve.

Hilarious tiny detail when Steve and friends arrive at SHIELD HQ during the final act: they knock on the radio room and the guy who opens the door is faced with Sam and Maria pointing guns at him, and Steve going "excuse us". The guy throws his hands up and then does a little sideways wave to wave them through....XD Dude was like Cap I'm on your side <3

Look, if anyone can put themselves through the electrocution scene, Bucky actually lets out a strangled whimper before the electricity starts firing *heart shatters*

Steve's trembling voice as he pleads, "Don't make me do this." D=

Steve's thousand yard stare when Sam asks, "What makes you happy?" and his resigned, "I don't know." =(

I am firmer in my belief that Pierce intended for Bucky to die during the launching of Insight. In his speech to Bucky, he says "I need you to do it one more time". It just sounded very final (and besides, once the helicarriers are in the air, they don't have a need for an assassin who needs to be electrocuted every few days to keep in check). This might be partially why Bucky made no attempt to leave when the Helicarriers were crashing, because his mission was to bring down Steve and die there -- so Steve really did save him in more ways than one.

I feel like I love this movie more on each rewatch. So much thought was put into the script and the music and the action. Characters were so competent, which made the stakes feel so high and personal. The MCU really peaked with this movie and Black Panther.

[brainmaggotzzzz]

teachers pet

professor!hwang inho x female reader

cw: daddy issues, descriptions of trauma, bullying, age gap, body shaming, reader is said to be 19

(no games au, most likely inho is kinda out of character, slow burn)

requests?:yes!

word count: 14.7k

It wasn’t like you were beaten senseless, starved, or subjected to unspeakable horrors. No, nothing so extreme. Just the occasional slap—one you always deserved, of course. You should have washed the dishes. You should have studied harder. A bad grade, a forgotten chore—each mistake met with a swift hand, a lesson in discipline, nothing more. That wasn’t abuse. That was love.

Daddy dearest only wanted the best for you, wanted you to be diligent, intelligent, pure. That’s why boys were off-limits. And when you defied him? When you dared to seek affection elsewhere? The punishment was swift—a slap across the face, the sting lingering long after the moment passed. The door to your room vanished soon after, stripped away as if privacy itself was a privilege you had yet to earn.

"I do this because I love you, my sweet Y/N," he murmured, brushing away the tears that spilled from your burning-red cheek. His touch, almost tender. His gaze, almost affectionate. A man of contradictions—cruelty and kindness woven together so seamlessly that even you couldn’t untangle them. Perhaps he did love you, in his own twisted way. Perhaps he believed his methods were justified.

And you? You were obsessed. Obsessed with earning his approval, his validation—his rare and conditional love. It became your full-time job. During "work hours," you performed flawlessly: straight A’s, disciplined behavior, a carefully curated indifference toward romance. But when the shift ended? When the weight of his expectations momentarily lifted? You slipped out through your window, into the night, into a world that didn’t demand perfection. You went on dates, you kissed boys who whispered the sweet words you ached to hear. And every time, you let yourself believe in them. And every time, you were left with nothing but heartbreak.

◇

You applied to countless colleges, but in the end, Daddy dearest made the choice for you—only the finest institutions, of course. After all, you had excelled in your final exams, just as he had demanded. For the past year, he had ruled over you with an iron fist, his words sharp and unforgiving. Every evening, he loomed over your desk as you studied, reminding you—no, drilling into you—that without a prestigious degree, you would become nothing. A failure. A stupid, useless whore, just like your mother.

And he had been right about Mom, hadn’t he? She had abandoned you for some pathetic man she met online, never once looking back. Sure, she had written letters—fragile attempts at connection—but they never reached you. The moment he spotted them in the mailbox, his lips curled into something resembling a smile as he casually crumpled the paper, discarding it like trash.

"She's a drug addict, probably living in some crackhouse now, my little Y/N," he had said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "She probably just wants to beg you for money. Let's not waste time on her idiotic mail." His large hand patted your head, the gesture almost affectionate.

"But—" you had started, your voice small, uncertain.

He silenced you with a single glance. "See? That’s what happens when you leave me. When you stop listening. Look at what she became. You don’t want to end up like her, do you?"

You forced a small, obedient smile, nodding. Trying to believe him. Wanting to believe him. Because the alternative—the thought that your mother had truly wanted to reach you, that she had never stopped thinking about you—was too painful to bear.

His gaze flickered down, scanning your figure with the same calculating eyes he used when assessing your report cards.

"You’ve gained weight," he remarked, almost offhandedly, but his voice carried a quiet edge, a thinly veiled disgust. "You wouldn’t want to be a fat pig at college, would you? But I suppose with your mother’s genetics, it’s inevitable."

His expression twisted into something unreadable. Almost concern—but not quite. No, that wasn’t concern. It was something colder. A quiet, meticulous chipping away at whatever confidence you had managed to salvage. Because even after acing your exams, after sacrificing sleep, after giving every ounce of yourself to meet his impossible expectations, you still weren’t enough. You never would be.

The approval he had granted you, fleeting and conditional, had already evaporated, replaced by yet another flaw for him to carve into. Another piece of you to dismantle.

But still, you craved it. His validation. His love—if you could even call it that. It was a hunger that never dulled.

"I'll lose weight, Daddy," you whispered, offering him a faint, fragile smile. Hoping, just this once, it would be enough.

◇

You got in. The best university in the entire country—a crown jewel of academia. The campus was breathtaking, almost unreal, like it belonged in a movie. Ivy-covered buildings, sun-drenched courtyards, students who were not only brilliant but effortlessly beautiful. Professors whose names echoed in academic journals, whose brilliance seemed to radiate from their very presence. And the parties—wild, glittering affairs that spilled into the early hours, promising release, rebellion, and belonging.

But you felt like a ghost drifting through it all. An impostor wearing someone else’s skin. As if your acceptance had been a clerical error, a slip in the system. Like you didn’t belong here, hadn’t truly earned your place, even though you had bled for those grades, sacrificed every piece of yourself to get in. The thought haunted you: This place is too good for me.

You just wanted to be liked. Wanted people to smile when you entered the room, to feel wanted, to matter. Even if it meant whittling yourself down to a version of you that didn’t feel like you at all. Your preferences, your personality, your voice—they blurred and shifted, rearranged themselves depending on who was watching. You became fluid, formless. A mirror reflecting whatever the people around you wanted to see.

So you danced to music that grated your nerves. Laughed at jokes that didn’t make sense to you. Drank things that tasted like poison. None of it mattered—what mattered was the approval, the acceptance, the feeling of finally being enough.

Your existence was almost entirely performative. You wore masks like second skin—smiling when you wanted to scream, nodding when you wanted to vanish. It was muscle memory by now, born from years of rehearsing the role of the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect nothing.

But there was one place, one hour in your carefully curated schedule, where something real slipped through the cracks. Literature class.

It wasn’t just a class—it was a sanctuary. A place where your voice, long silenced by your father’s rigid expectations, finally had room to breathe. Where your thoughts weren’t graded against how obedient or pure or presentable they were, but by how honest, how insightful, how yours they felt. You wrote review essays that dug into the marrow of the texts, not because you were supposed to—but because, for once, you wanted to say something. You wrote short stories with a voice you didn’t even know you had, and in those pages, you found slivers of the self you’d buried under years of silence and compliance.

And then there was Professor Hwang.

Stern. Disciplined. Controlled. He ran the classroom like a ship’s deck—there was no room for mediocrity, no tolerance for laziness, no softened edges. His feedback was brutal in its honesty, but fair. He didn’t flatter. He didn’t fawn. And that only made you want his praise more.

At first, it was purely academic. But the need for his approval began to feel familiar—uncomfortably so. Not like the way you sought to be liked at parties, or the way you’d contort yourself to be desired. No, this was deeper. Older.

You wanted him to see you. Not as a girl. Not even as a student. But as someone worthy. Someone with a mind that mattered. Someone who could impress him.

Every time he underlined a sentence and scribbled a restrained “good insight,” your heart ached in a way you knew too well. The way it did when your father used to glance at your report card, nod stiffly, and mutter, “Finally doing something right.” You told yourself this was different—but it wasn’t. Not entirely.

Because you weren’t just craving academic validation. You were chasing the ghost of a father who taught you love had to be earned. That you were never enough until he said so. And now, you were chasing that same impossible feeling—through red ink and curt nods, through the quiet dignity of a man who would never give affection freely, but might just give you respect if you proved yourself enough times.

“I just want him to like my writing,” you told yourself. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t just about the writing. It was about being seen. It was about being good enough for someone.

And that hunger—it never really left.

◇

“Good job, as per usual.”

Professor Hwang handed you your graded essay without so much as a glance. His voice was even, expression unreadable, his hand steady as he moved down the row. But the moment the paper touched your desk—his handwriting scrawled across the top in red ink, those simple words—Good job—your chest swelled with something dangerously close to euphoria.

You felt weightless. Dizzy. High. As if you'd inhaled something sweet and rare. That brief moment—barely two seconds of acknowledgment—meant more than it should have. He hadn’t even looked at you, hadn’t smiled, hadn’t done anything, really. But it didn’t matter. You were seen. Not for your face, not for your social status, not for how well you performed obedience—but for your mind.

And that meant everything.

You watched him move down the row, his long strides measured and composed, his sharp profile calm with quiet confidence. He carried himself with purpose, intellect radiating from every movement, and you found yourself unable to look away. You studied the furrow between his brows, the set of his jaw, the way he paused just briefly between students—efficient, no wasted energy. A man who didn’t indulge in softness, who didn’t offer approval freely.

Which made it all the more intoxicating when he gave it to you.

You were so deep in it—so completely absorbed in watching him—that you barely registered your friend’s voice beside you.

“Y/N?” she snapped her fingers in front of your face. “Hello? Gosh, I’m talking to you.”

You blinked, shaken out of your haze, and turned to her. She was pouting, her essay crumpled in her manicured hand. “I didn’t pass again. This is some fucking bullshit.”

You gave her a soft, practiced smile, slipping easily back into your usual role. The supportive friend. The fixer.

“It’ll be alright,” you said gently. “We’ve got another essay due Tuesday, and I’m sure you’ll do great on that one.”

She tilted her head, eyes suddenly wide and sweet with that familiar, calculated look. “Can you help me?”

There it was again—that smile. The one that had you doing most of her coursework in exchange for proximity to her world. She was popular, magnetic. Everyone wanted to be around her, to orbit her light. And because you were her right hand, you were seen, known, accepted. Not fully. Not truly. But enough.

It was a trade—you offered your intellect, your time, your energy, and in return, you got a borrowed kind of status. People greeted you in hallways. You were invited to parties. You were liked.

And that mattered. Maybe too much.

“Of course,” you said, smiling again. Always smiling.

You handed her your paper. You’d help her. You always did. Because performing was second nature now—whether for a professor’s approval or a friend’s affection. And as long as someone, anyone, kept saying “good job,” you could keep pretending it was enough.

◇

“Hey, Y/N.”

Seojin barely glanced up as she spoke, her attention fixed on the small compact mirror she held in one hand, the other delicately gliding lip gloss across her already perfectly painted lips.

You walked over to the library table she had claimed as her personal throne, offering a soft, practiced smile as you adjusted the strap of your bag. “Hi, Seojin.”

Sliding into the seat across from her, you cleared your throat, voice light but tentative. “So... you said you needed help writing the essay? Which book did you pick?”

She didn’t look up. She was too busy smacking her lips, checking the shine. “I didn’t really pick one yet,” she muttered. Then, a beat later, “Oh! Maybe we could do it on... ugh, I don’t know... Harry Potter?”

You blinked. “The prompt is about character transformations, sure, but... it had to be a book published in the 1950s,” you said, offering a small, polite laugh. You hated correcting her.

Seojin groaned dramatically, finally tossing the mirror into her designer tote. “Gosh, does he always have to give us such specific criteria? Like, who does he think he is?” she grumbled, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, looking as if she were personally offended by academia itself.

You gave her a small smile, trying to keep the edge of exasperation from showing. “Maybe Lolita could work? It was published in ’55, and the psychological complexity is—”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, that love story!”

You flinched, your stomach knotting. “It’s... not a love story,” you corrected gently, voice quieter now. “Even Nabokov said it’s a psychological horror, not a romance.”

“Whatever,” she interrupted flatly, already bored of the conversation. “How long do you think it’ll take you to write it?”

You hesitated. “I was thinking... maybe we could write it together? Mr. Hwang’s super analytical, not like other professors. He’ll know if it’s not your voice.” Your words were careful, deliberate. You were trying to plant the seed of effort, of ownership, without sounding accusatory.

Finally, Seojin looked at you. Her wide, doll-like eyes softened into something that mimicked vulnerability. “Y/N,” she said, dragging out your name like a plea, “please? Just this once. You’re such a good friend, okay?” Her voice was syrupy, sweet, her expression dipped in practiced desperation.

You looked at her—really looked—and for a moment, you felt the sting of being used. Of being convenient. But the weight of her words settled like a chain around your neck. Good friend. That’s what you were supposed to be, right? Helpful. Reliable. Quiet.

Just like you were with your father.

You felt yourself folding again, like paper.

“Fine,” you said softly, your smile mechanical.

Because being needed—even for the wrong reasons—still felt better than not being seen at all.

◇

Mr. Hwang moved down the aisle with his usual calm precision, a stack of graded essays in hand. He didn’t pause, didn’t even look at you when he placed the crisp paper onto your desk—your name written neatly in the corner, an A circled in bold red ink near the top.

Your heart fluttered with quiet pride, your fingers brushing over the grade like it might vanish. But the warmth of that triumph evaporated the second you glanced at Seojin.

Her eyes sparkled, lips already curled into a grin as she flipped her essay over, no doubt expecting praise. The smile vanished.

F.

Her whole face changed—her brow twitched ever so slightly, lips pressing into a hard, thin line. She stared at the grade as if it were a personal betrayal, her jaw locked tight.

Your stomach dropped.

“You two,” Mr. Hwang’s voice rang out flatly, cool and commanding, “stay after class.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just moved on, handing back the rest of the essays like nothing happened.

Seojin didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. But the air around her turned to ice. She didn’t look at you until the moment Mr. Hwang passed her by. And when she did, it was with fury beneath a thin mask of calm. Her anger simmered just beneath her flawlessly applied makeup, rage flickering behind her big, empty lashes.

“You fucking bitch,” she hissed, low and venomous. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You wanted me to fail, wrote some pretentious bullshit so I’d get embarrassed. I should’ve known you were fucking useless.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“No—Seojin—I didn’t—I swear I tried my best,” you whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush. Your voice cracked, small and shaky. Panic bloomed in your chest like fire. You felt like a little girl again, fumbling for a defense while someone older and louder ripped the ground from beneath your feet.

She scoffed. Loud enough to draw a glance from the next table over. “Shut your traitor ass up. You’re done for here.”

You swallowed hard, your body stiff with shame. The rest of the class blurred, every tick of the clock louder than Mr. Hwang’s lecture. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t breathe. Your fingers clenched and unclenched in your lap. Every shift of Seojin beside you felt like a warning. You barely blinked, afraid that if you did, the walls would close in.

◇

After class, the door shut quietly behind the last student.

“So, what’s wrong with my essay?” Seojin demanded, arms crossed, her voice like a whip crack.

Mr. Hwang stood near his desk, his posture calm, precise. He clasped his hands behind his back, his tailored suit perfectly in place, his gaze cold.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned to the paper in his hand and read aloud, voice smooth and precise:

‘Her transformation is not a blossoming, but a decay—Lolita, twisted into a caricature of innocence, becomes both victim and symbol, and yet never loses the ghost of the child she was forced to leave behind.’

“A terrific essay,” he added, tone still even. “Truly, one of the best I’ve read in years.”

You shifted uncomfortably, your hands twisting in the hem of your sweater. The compliment sent a flicker of warmth through you—but it was poisoned by the context.

“So what’s the problem, huh?” Seojin snapped, her jaw tense, arms tightening across her chest.

“The problem, Miss Kang,” he said coolly, “is that this isn’t your work.”

“Yes it is!” she spat, stepping forward, her posture tense like a coil. “Y/N, say it. Admit that it’s mine!”

Her eyes twitched with desperation, her voice cracking.

You looked at her, then at Mr. Hwang, then down at the floor. Something inside you broke a little.

“...It’s hers,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Mr. Hwang said nothing at first. He only nodded slightly. “Very well,” he murmured, stepping closer to the desk. “Then, Miss Kang, since it’s yours—you’ll have no trouble defining the word ‘ephemerality,’ which you used with such elegance in your second paragraph.”

The room went silent.

Her smile faltered. Her eye twitched again. She said nothing.

“This tells me everything I need to know,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Please leave. I will raise the issue with the academic board.”

Seojin turned on you, her fury now untethered. “This is your fault!” she seethed, jabbing her finger into your shoulder. You flinched, tension locking up every part of your body. Her perfectly sculpted expression was twisted with pure loathing.

She stormed out, designer bag swinging angrily at her side.

You took a step to follow, your legs numb.

“Not you, Miss L/N,” Mr. Hwang said, his voice cutting clean through your daze. “I’d like a word.”

Your blood ran cold. For a moment you just stood in silence, before silently walking closer to the professor.

"I'm very disappointed, Miss L/N."

His voice was steady, measured—devoid of anger, but somehow that made it worse. His expression remained unreadable, composed like always. But to you, it felt like a thousand silent reprimands.

"From a bright mind which I presumed yours to be," he continued, calmly folding his arms behind his back, "I expected wiser actions."

You felt something sink deep inside you. That one word—disappointed—struck harder than any insult, any grade, any punishment ever could. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, gripping the hem of your sleeve.

You had disappointed him.

The man whose rare nods and quiet praise had meant more to you than any applause. The only adult who made you feel seen, not as a doll molded by expectation, but as someone capable.

“I-I apologize,” you stammered, barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on the floor. You couldn’t look him in the eyes. You didn’t deserve to.

“I just wanted to help her,” you added, almost defensively, though your voice cracked by the end of it.

One of his eyebrows lifted subtly. “You should think more of helping yourself,” he said, voice unflinching. “Your little antic nearly landed you on the path to academic expulsion.”

You flinched at the word expulsion. Your heart thudded dully in your chest.

“I know,” you said quickly. “I’m sorry. I—I did wrong.” Then, with a nervous bow of your head, “Thank you for… appreciating my essays.” You turned, already walking toward the door. His presence made you feel too exposed. Too small. And he was always so stern—so no-nonsense—that it seemed futile to even ask for mercy.

But his voice stopped you cold.

“Not so quick.”

You turned around, startled, clutching your bag tighter. He was watching you now, one brow slightly raised. “Aren’t you going to at least try to fight for your deserved spot here?”

You blinked, stunned.

Why would you?

You’d failed him. Let your “friend” down—if Seojin could even be called that. And socially? You were already dead. Word would spread. You could see the whispers starting, the side-eyes, the snickering in class. And then—your father. If he found out… no, when he found out… you’d be as good as buried.

So you laughed. Just a soft, cracked sound. Self-deprecating. Hollow. “I’m done for anyway, Professor.”

He didn’t return your smile.

“Not necessarily,” he said, still measured, still calm—but something in his voice carried weight. Possibility. A thread of hope, tightly wound in control. “I haven’t brought the matter to the academic board. Not yet.”

You blinked. “…You haven’t?”

“No,” he said simply. “Because there’s one way you can redeem yourself.”

Your eyes widened slightly. A flicker of something returned to your posture—hope, fear, disbelief.

“H-how?”

“There will be a literature and writing competition hosted by the university and its partners,” he explained, his tone firm but not unkind. “A prestigious event. You’ll be given a prompt and expected to craft a sophisticated essay or analysis on the spot, drawing from a selection of fifteen pre-assigned texts. The book will be chosen for you at random. It’s intense. Demanding. Only a handful of students qualify.”

You swallowed. Your mouth felt dry.

“I believe,” he said, pausing deliberately, “you’re the best student I can sign up for it. And the only one I’m willing to personally mentor through the preparation process.”

Your heart pounded.

He believed in you. After all this. After you’d fumbled, compromised yourself—he still saw something worth salvaging.

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them away.

You’d chased your father’s validation for years like a lost child wandering an empty hallway. But this—this was different. Mr. Hwang’s validation didn’t come with conditions. It wasn’t twisted with cruelty or control. It was offered in the form of challenge, belief, and discipline.

And suddenly, you wanted nothing more than to prove him right.

“…I’ll do it,” you said softly, a new resolve weaving into your voice. “I won’t let you down.”

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer, unreadable. Then he nodded, once.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll send you the reading list tonight. We begin Monday.”

◇

You walked through campus with a small, flickering smile tugging at your lips. The trees swayed gently under the weight of golden afternoon light, and for once, the breeze didn’t feel cold. Your thoughts danced around books and prompts, essay structures and literary symbolism. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt like you had a direction—like you had something to prove that wasn't rooted in desperation but in purpose.

You were going to make Mr. Hwang proud. You were going to redeem yourself.

And thankfully, when you returned to your dorm, you wouldn’t have to see Seojin’s smug face or anyone else from that so-called friend group—a group that only ever loved you in exchange for something. Help. Compliance. Silence.

But just as your foot hovered over the threshold of your dorm building, a sharp tug yanked you backward by the wrist.

Your breath caught in your throat as your body twisted to face her.

Seojin.

Lip gloss perfect. Nails razor-sharp. Eyes dark with rage.

“You little backstabbing bitch,” she hissed, her grip tightening.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Let go of me,” you said, voice trembling, but not weak.

She didn’t.

“You made me look like an idiot,” she snapped. “You set me up. I should’ve known better than to trust some pathetic nobody with daddy issues and a victim complex.”

The words landed like darts. And yet, they didn’t surprise you. Not really.

Your throat tightened. That smile you’d worn just minutes ago had long since vanished.

“I tried to help you,” you shot back, voice sharp with something unfamiliar—defensiveness, maybe. Dignity, even. “I stayed up all night writing that essay. You didn’t even read it.”

“I don’t need to read your boring-ass essays,” she snapped. “I needed you to make me look good. And you couldn’t even do that right.”

A wave of shame flooded you—but beneath it, something stirred. Something angrier.

“I’ve done everything for you,” you said, barely above a whisper, but the words came out jagged. “You needed notes, I gave them. You needed answers during tests, I whispered them. You needed someone to do your work, I was stupid enough to say yes.”

She blinked, caught off guard for half a second. But her face twisted again.

“You always acted like you were just so grateful to be around me,” she sneered. “Don't act high and mighty now. You were nothing without me. You still are.”

You inhaled sharply.

That old voice in your head—the one that sounded like your father’s—wanted to agree with her. She’s right. You are nothing. A shadow. An imposter. A weak, needy little thing.

But now… now there was something else inside you. Something that had been watered in the cracks of Mr. Hwang’s classroom. In the underline of a “well done.” In the idea that maybe, just maybe, your thoughts had value beyond how well they pleased others.

“I’d rather be nothing on my own than a empty, shallow specimen of a human being like yourself” you said, voice shaking, but clear.

Her nostrils flared. Her eyes widened. Before you knew it, a sharp slap met your cheek.

◇

A whole week had passed since you made the decision—no, the devotion—to study for the contest. And every single evening  since, you had spent hunched over books and essays in Mr. Hwang’s office or the dim university library, those were your outside class preparation sessions.

The campus halls had grown colder, not literally, but in the way eyes glanced past you now. The whispers that once clung to your footsteps like perfume had turned sour. The same people who once called you “sweet” or “genius” now muttered traitor, desperate, attention whore.

You didn’t care anymore.

Because you’d rerouted your hunger—for love, for attention, for worth. You no longer scattered it across campus, or threw it like pennies into a social fountain. You’d honed it. Sharpened it. Aimed it entirely at one person.

Mr. Hwang.

Because he saw you.

And that was all you needed.

His attention wasn't like the fleeting friendships, or that affection you would get from boys back "home", not even your father's conditional approval. It felt grounding. Like worship. Like every sentence you wrote existed for him to read, underline, and silently nod at.

And tonight, he sat across from you in the quiet office, reading your preparation essay with that same piercing stillness he always had. The harsh fluorescent light above cast shadows under his eyes, made the stern lines of his face sharper. There was no softness in him—but God, didn’t that make your craving for his approval even worse?

He turned the page with elegant precision, his eyes scanning your words. Then he paused.

“‘It is not the monster in the forest they fear most, but the part of themselves that would welcome the beast as a savior.’” he read aloud, his voice low, deliberate.

He looked up at you, brows furrowing slightly. “That line… it’s particularly well written. And your insight is uncommon. But I can’t help but wonder—what exactly do you mean by that?”

You blinked, then allowed the smallest, sly smile to tug at the corner of your mouth.

“Well,” you began, voice casual but calculated, “sometimes survival looks an awful lot like surrender. And monsters? They usually wear the face of someone offering a solution.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then something shifted in his face—barely perceptible, but there. A soft twitch in the corner of his lips.

A smirk.

Fleeting. Rare.

But it was there.

“Interesting,” he said simply, returning to the page, though you swore you saw his gaze linger just a second too long.

Your stomach flipped—not with fear, not quite with thrill, but something in between. That small reaction from him had lit you up more than any compliment you’d ever received. And you weren’t sure what disturbed you more: how good it felt… or how badly you wanted to earn more.

◇

"My sweet Y/N,"

"I miss you every day. I wish I could’ve been better to you. I wish I could go back in time and take you away with me from that manipulative monster."

"I know you probably don’t want to speak to me, since you never responded to any of my previous letters..."

"I found out you got into a great college. I’m so proud of you."

"But I wish you could know—really know—that no matter what he told you, I always loved you. And I always will. My door is open for you, anytime. I’d love for you to meet my family. Me and my partner are having our second baby soon. How exciting!"

"Love, Mom."

You clutched the letter in your sweaty palms, the edges bending under the pressure of your grip. Your eyes were burning. You weren’t sure if it was grief or rage. Maybe both.

So she wasn’t a junkie.

She wasn’t living in a crackhouse like your father used to say, smugly, as he tossed her letters into the trash with a patronizing pat on your head.

And still, instead of relief, it stung.

She had a family. She had another child. Another child she gets to raise, to tuck in at night, to protect. You were the forgotten draft, a false start. You weren’t invited back into her life. You were invited to witness it.

She built a life without you.

And now, she reached out like it was easy. Like the years didn’t leave a scar.

Bitterness curdled in your stomach. You didn’t cry. You just... grabbed your pen.

You needed to bleed onto paper. To scream in ink. To claw your way out of that bitter void you’d been dropped into again.

The next assignment was open topic. Anything that explored mother-daughter relationships.

How fitting.

You chose a lesser-known novel, White Oleander, not the easiest read. Dark, poetic, layered with themes of toxic maternal bonds, abandonment, and emotional survival. It resonated deeply.

This time, you didn’t plan every word like a chess game. You didn’t even edit. You wrote. Pen scratching hard enough to almost pierce the page, the rhythm desperate, like your hands were working faster than your brain could even catch up. And when you were done... it was raw. Ugly. Beautiful.

◇

The next day, Mr. Hwang sat across from you, your essay in hand. His eyes scanned it in silence, his expression unreadable, as always. You waited—nervous, but a bit proud. This was different than your usual writing. This was you, naked on the page.

Finally, he looked up.

"Interesting," he said, tapping the corner of the paper. “Your word choices carry emotional intensity. The novel you selected—ambitious. White Oleander, not commonly chosen, but it demands emotional courage. I’m impressed."

He paused, then flipped to a highlighted paragraph, reading it out loud.

“‘It is easier to hate a mother who hits you than one who kisses you goodbye and never comes back.’”

His eyes didn’t leave the page. “Your insight into the mother’s abandonment… It’s as though you experienced it yourself. Many would argue that the mother is the sole villain, but you managed to... soften that verdict. You explored the daughter’s pain without sacrificing complexity.”

You didn’t mean to speak aloud. You didn’t even know the words were forming in your throat.

“Takes one to know one,” you murmured bitterly.

He raised his head slowly, brow lifting. “I’m sorry?” His voice wasn’t sharp, but it held weight.

You blinked rapidly. “Nothing. I'm sorry, Professor. I got distracted.”

A blush crept up your neck. You hated how exposed you felt. You wanted to crawl back into your mind and slam the door shut.

But then, as if pulled into his own thoughts, he stood from his chair and paced slowly toward the window, his arms crossed loosely. His gaze fixed somewhere outside.

“Miss L/N,” he said thoughtfully, “writing is an art form. And you know what they often say to painters?”

You looked up. “Paint what—”

He didn’t even have to finish.

“—Paint what you know,” you said, completing it softly.

He turned his head and gave you something so rare you almost didn’t recognize it: a ghost of a smile. Not quite pride. Not quite amusement. Just… quiet acknowledgment.

“Van Gogh painted from the raw chaos of his life. Frida Kahlo laid her suffering bare in brushstrokes. The list goes on. Your canvas is paper—and I, personally, would be very curious to see what you write... not about others. But about yourself. The kind of writing that doesn’t just analyze—but reveals. Unapologetically.”

You blinked at him, unsure if your heart was pounding out of anxiety or... something else. Your fingers twitched over your notebook.

He took a few slow steps towards you.

“I believe you have potential,” he said finally, voice steady, low. “The kind of potential that others one day analyze. Not the other way around.”

It was the highest praise you'd ever received. But it wasn’t just that. It was him saying it. And it felt like something dangerous blossomed quietly in your chest.

You swallowed, hard.

“Then I’ll try to write it,” you said softly, eyes meeting his.

“No,” he corrected, his voice firm but not unkind. “You will.”

◇

Something had shifted.

You didn’t just crave his academic praise anymore. You didn’t just want to be the perfect little student, the bright mind he guided and mentored. No—now you wanted him to see you. Really see you. As something more than a grade on paper. Something more than a pair of eyes across the desk.

So, today, you chose a short skirt—the one that accentuated the shape of your legs—and a fitted top that traced your waist like it was designed to worship it. It was subtle enough not to scream for attention, but deliberate enough that it whispered: look at me.

Your father’s voice had long ago sunk its venom into your self-worth. The way he used to dissect your appearance with a bitter tongue—too much this, not enough that—had left cracks in your mirror. But today, when you passed your reflection, you didn’t flinch. Because even with those words echoing from the past, the truth stood firm: you were beautiful.

And not just beautiful. Powerful.

You walked into class like you weren’t still haunted. Like your reputation wasn’t shredded by the likes of Seojin and her clique. The very same people who spray-painted snake across your dorm door, who left gum in your books and whispered behind your back.

But now?

Now, they looked.

Even the ones who mocked you days ago went silent when you walked by. Some stared. Some murmured. One even whistled low under his breath.

It was empowering. But still—it wasn’t for them.

You only wanted one person to look, you wanted him to notice- the same way you noticed how he doesn't have a ring on his finger.

You took your usual seat, not too far from the front, where you could observe Mr. Hwang with ease. Your pen danced across your notebook, dutiful and precise—but your eyes… they were on him.

The way he spoke about literature with such calm conviction, the way he would walk slowly across the classroom as if his thoughts guided his steps—the way his hands moved while he explained a passage from Crime and Punishment, the way his fingers tapped on the edge of the podium as he paused, choosing his words—

And then, his gaze flicked up. Just for a moment.

He looked at you.

Not at the class. Not past you. At you.

And then, just as quickly, he broke eye contact, returning to his notes.

But your heart didn’t care. It noticed. And it raced, cheeks warm, knees weak beneath the desk.

You couldn’t wait for your next prep session with him. Alone. Close. Seen.

You were still staring, maybe a little too dreamily, when a soft voice cut through the air near your ear.

"You really think that tight little outfit’s gonna make him want you?” Seojin whispered venomously from behind, her lips barely moving.

You flinched—not from fear, but rage. She said it with a fake smile plastered on her face, eyes still on the board. The casual cruelty of it made your skin crawl.

You didn’t look back at her. But your hand gripped your pen tighter.

No. You didn’t dress for him to want you. You dressed to remind yourself that you were not small. Not weak. Not invisible.

You were reclaiming the attention that had been taken from you—by your father’s contempt, by your mother’s absence, by the lies, the abandonment, the betrayal.

And if Mr. Hwang’s eyes lingered just a little longer next time—

Maybe you'd finally believe you were worth being looked at.

◇

For the contest preparation that day, you handed Professor Hwang an essay on 1984 by George Orwell.

It was sharp. Bold. Personal in the way only veiled honesty can be.

You wrote about Big Brother—not just as a symbol of authoritarian control—but as a metaphor for a kind of father. The kind that watches, dictates, rewrites your reality until you question your own perception. You drew subtle but aching parallels between the constant surveillance in 1984 and the way it feels to grow up in the home of a controlling, emotionally abusive parent.

And then, without explicitly stating it, you explored something darker:

The phenomenon of learning to love the one who hurts you. Of finding comfort in structure, in being watched, in craving approval from the very source of your fear.

Because if Big Brother saw you… then maybe you mattered.

Mr. Hwang sat across from you in his chair, reading slowly. His brow furrowed once. Then twice. He hummed lowly, nodding as he took it in, his fingers moving slightly along the bottom edge of the paper.

Then he tapped one part gently.

“The child who is raised to fear being unloved learns to chase approval like oxygen. She’ll fold herself into the shapes her father finds acceptable, blur the line between obedience and devotion, until even in adulthood, she’ll mistake power for protection—and authority for affection. That is how Big Brother becomes love.”

"This part is especially good," he said, eyes still on the paper, voice almost quiet. "It reads less like literary analysis and more like emotional archaeology."

You smiled softly, warmth spreading up your spine. “Thank you, Professor.” You felt like something inside you had just been acknowledged—not just your mind, but your pain, your effort, your truth.

He looked up. “Don’t thank me. It’s your work.”

Your smile widened slightly. Giddy, even. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and shifted in your seat, heart doing quiet flips.

“Now,” he said, adjusting his position. “I’d like to try something new with you today.”

Your brows raised. “New?”

He nodded, placing your essay gently aside. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes. I’ll provide you a prompt. And I want you to free write. No books. No citations. Just you. Don’t overthink it. Don’t scratch anything out. Let the words come as they want to.”

You looked at him, slightly caught off guard. Your fingers instinctively went to the corner of your notebook.

“Are you up for it?” he asked, and the smallest smirk curled at the edge of his lips.

“Yes,” you whispered, a little breathlessly.

He didn’t break eye contact. “Your prompt is…” he paused, his gaze steady, piercing. “The result in young women of being subjected to emotional abuse from an early age.”

Your throat tightened. Your fingers clutched your pen.

Of course.

Of course he figured it out. He didn’t just read between the lines of your essays—he read you. It almost felt cruel. Or maybe it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done to you. Given you the space to tell your story and then asked for more.

You stared at the blank page. The words didn’t hesitate. They bled.

You wrote about how it starts with walking on eggshells. About how silence becomes a kind of language. How you learn to smile before you cry. How your identity becomes so rooted in being what someone else needs that you forget what you need.

You wrote about people-pleasing. About the terror of disappointing someone. About how compliments make you squirm because you don’t trust them, but criticism feels like home.

You wrote about flinching at raised voices and melting at crumbs of attention. About becoming a chameleon, about being terrified of being too much and not enough at the same time.

You hadn’t meant to mention your father. You really hadn’t. But the words had minds of their own. And there it was:

“My father didn’t just control the house, he controlled my reflection. I learned to only see myself through his eyes.”

Your pen hovered. You panicked. You were about to cross it out.

And just then, Professor Hwang’s voice came, smooth and soft like velvet rope:

“Tsk, tsk. No crossing out.”

You froze, eyes darting up. He’d been watching you. You didn’t even realize. Not just watching—but observing. Studying you with the same intensity you gave to books.

He tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable but not unkind. “Every time you hesitate to express yourself… you censor something that someone else might’ve needed to read.”

Fifteen minutes passed.

You didn’t even hear the clock ticking. You didn’t feel the pen in your hand anymore. Just the hollow ache in your chest that finally had words.

You stopped writing only when Mr. Hwang reached for the paper, his fingers grazing the edge. Your pulse jumped slightly at the contact. You looked up—he wasn’t smiling. His expression was unreadable, jaw tight, eyes scanning rapidly.

He read in silence. You stared at the floor.

Then, finally, he leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the page. “This is… honest,” he said, slowly. “More than I expected.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how to.

He shifted his gaze to you, something in his eyes different. “The part where you described yourself as ‘someone who only recognizes her own reflection in how others see her’—that was…” He hesitated. “Unsettling. And beautiful.”

Your stomach flipped. “I wasn’t trying to make it poetic,” you said, voice quieter than you intended. “It just… came out.”

“That’s when writing’s best,” he said softly, “when you’re not trying.”

He let out a breath and sat up straighter, placing the paper carefully in front of him. “You’re carrying a lot, Miss L/N.”

You shrugged, feeling exposed, embarrassed. “So are a lot of people.”

“True. But most don’t bleed it onto paper this clearly.”

You looked at him finally, your eyes meeting his, and it hit you that he wasn’t just impressed—he was moved. The kind of moved that unsettles even the person feeling it.

He studied your face like it was another page he had to analyze.

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line,” you said after a pause, “if it was too much.”

“No,” he said immediately. “No, it wasn’t too much.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk, the space between you suddenly feeling… smaller. “If anything, it made me wonder—”

He stopped.

You tilted your head. “Wonder what?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he glanced at the clock—as if suddenly aware of how much time had passed. “What kind of woman you’ll become if you keep writing like this.”

You swallowed. His voice was low. Intimate in its stillness.

“I think… I already know what kind of woman I am,” you said, something defiant under your breath.

He looked at you, more serious now. “No,” he said gently. “You know what kind of girl the world made you into. But you haven’t yet figured out the kind of woman you want to be.”

That struck something in you.

You weren’t sure what it was that shifted in that moment. Maybe it was the softness in his tone. The way he wasn’t just your professor right then. He wasn’t standing above you. He wasn’t lecturing. He was seeing you.

And you?

You were staring at his mouth when he said it. You were imagining how close you were. You were aware of the heat between you both and the way it felt safe and dangerous all at once.

You quickly looked back down at your notebook.

But something had sparked.

You both felt it. And neither of you said a word.

Not yet.

◇

It was a Friday night. The campus was nearly a ghost town—deserted dorm hallways, muffled bass of some party echoing from the far end of the grounds, and laughter trailing off into the cold air. Most students were out getting drunk, hooking up, or lounging with friends they’d had since orientation. Not you.

But that didn’t bother you anymore.

You had spent too long trying to fit into boxes that were never meant for you, into conversations that drained your soul, and into friendships that weren’t really friendships at all—just a desperate attempt to be liked. To be wanted. You once let them mold you into what they needed. But now?

Now, you were alone. And it didn’t feel like loneliness.

You were sitting on a bench in the quiet campus garden, beneath the yellow glow of a large street lamp that flickered ever so slightly. Its warm light fell over your lap, illuminating the worn pages of the book you were almost finished with—the last book on the contest list. Anna Karenina. It was a classic, one you kept putting off. Maybe because it mirrored too much. The subtle madness of love. The longing. The danger of giving in.

You turned a page when—

“Miss L/N.”

You looked up.

Mr. Hwang stood in front of you, briefcase in one hand, the other buried in the pocket of his dark wool coat. The campus light caught the edge of his jawline, the slight dishevel of his usually neat hair.

Your face softened. “Professor,” you said with a smile. “You’re still here this late?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I could say the same about you.”

You let out a small laugh, already feeling that familiar calmness his presence brought. “Let me guess. Still grading? Or finally catching up on that massive reading list you assigned me?”

He smirked. “A bit of both. Though I thought you would be out tonight, living like a normal college student. Partying. Making questionable choices.”

“Meh,” you waved him off, cracking a crooked grin. “My partying days are long behind me.”

“You’re nineteen,” he deadpanned.

“Exactly. I’m practically ancient,” you said dramatically, and it earned a rare laugh from him—low, real, unguarded.

He looked at you a moment longer before speaking again. “Still, I find it difficult to believe that someone like you doesn’t have a crowd of people fighting to spend time with her.”

You blinked. “Someone like me?”

He shrugged, casually, like he hadn’t just dropped a landmine. “A beautiful and intelligent woman,” he said smoothly.

You stared at him. For a second, you thought you imagined it. That your brain had replaced some neutral compliment with something bolder, more… intimate.

Your heart stammered.

“Now, Professor,” you said, your voice slightly breathless, recovering quickly with a smirk, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to flatter me.”

The words had already slipped before your inner filter could catch them.

He paused, then tilted his head. “Bold,” he murmured, amused. His mouth curved into a slow, deliberate smirk.

Your stomach twisted. But not out of fear.

You looked down at the book in your lap—suddenly very aware of the romantic tragedy in your hands—and then back up at him. His eyes were already on yours.

The space between you stayed heavy with the things neither of you could say.

But you both felt it.

◇

A week.

That’s all that was left until the contest. Seven days.

You had studied until the margins of your notebooks blurred into one another—plotlines, character studies, metaphor layers stacked like fragile towers in your mind. You had free-written until your fingers ached, pouring your soul into page after page. And yet, the nerves remained, fluttering just beneath your ribcage like something half-alive and far too aware.

Still, every time you voiced your doubts, Mr. Hwang would look you in the eye and say, “You’ll do great.”

And when he said it, somehow, you believed it. Or at least you wanted to.

Because no one ever made you feel as capable, as seen, as safe as he did.

But what you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that he needed you, too.

At first, it was easy for him to explain it away. You were his student. You were in a vulnerable position. It was his duty to guide you, to offer support, especially when no one else around you seemed to. When he’d see you in his office, fingers nervously twisting a pen or your sweater hem, but still trying so hard to be perfect for him—he’d remind himself: This is just empathy. Protection.

But the more he got to know you—the more he saw the wild, unfiltered brilliance of your thoughts, your passion for literature, the subtle sarcasm in your wit—the harder it became to lie to himself.

It wasn’t just that he wanted to protect you. It was that when you were near, the world seemed less out of control.

He didn’t like the guilt he felt.

You were so much younger. You were his student. You were, by all standards, off limits.

But the short skirts, the way your eyes lit up when you were proud of something, how you blushed when he complimented your work, how you told him things you’d never told anyone—what if?

What if you had met under different circumstances? What if there was a world where you could be each other’s secret?

And he hated himself for even letting those thoughts grow roots in his mind.

◇

“Y/N,” a voice called out, snapping you out of your thoughts as you were halfway through your bland cafeteria pasta.

You turned slowly.

It was Seojin’s boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, apparently.

Your brows furrowed, expression unreadable. He had that sheepish look some people wear when they only come to apologize because they can no longer avoid their guilt.

“Can we talk?” he asked awkwardly.

You didn’t speak, just gave a stiff nod and followed him to a quiet table near the back, away from the handful of students still lingering around.

“Seojin and I broke up,” he said bluntly, like it was supposed to mean something to you.

You blinked once, expression still cold. “So?”

He hesitated, taken aback by your indifference.

“I wanted to apologize,” he finally said. “It was wrong of me to… talk shit about you. Especially knowing that she was completely in the wrong.”

Your gaze narrowed slightly. His words didn’t soothe anything. If anything, they irritated the rawness that was still healing in you.

“So why did you do it?” Your voice was even, but heavy.

He gave a pathetic laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t want her to be disappointed. I guess… I didn’t want to lose her.”

You stared at him. And you almost—almost—felt a flicker of something like empathy.

Maybe he was like you. Maybe he, too, twisted himself around others to feel like he was enough.

But that thought vanished as quickly as it came.

“People pleasing is one thing,” you said quietly, but firmly. “Deliberately choosing to hurt someone is another.”

He opened his mouth, probably to say something else, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You stood up and walked away.

And for once, you didn’t look back.

◇

"I'm nervous," you said, your voice soft as it echoed lightly in the dim, warm-lit office. You were lounging in the familiar leather chair across from Professor Hwang, legs folded underneath you, half a bag of your favorite snacks already gone. It was your last study session before the contest, and yet it had slowly turned into one of your usual… not-quite-student, not-quite-anything-else hangouts.

Over the months, you’d grown so comfortable with him. So familiar. You talked about everything—books, your childhood, politics, your weird food preferences, and his even weirder sleep schedule. There was a ritual now. You’d come in, he'd already have your favorite snack waiting, he’d correct papers, and you’d ramble or write or sometimes just sit in silence. It didn’t feel academic anymore. It felt like home.

“About?” he asked without looking up, his pen gliding across a student's essay with practiced indifference.

“The contest. Global warming,” you said flatly, with a little shrug, popping another chip into your mouth.

That earned a soft laugh from him.

“Well, perhaps you could make yourself useful and help me grade these,” he said, gesturing to a stack of papers, “Get your mind off the planet’s slow death.”

You rolled your eyes but grabbed a few pages from the top. “With pleasure, Professor.”

You read silently for a few minutes—until something made your eyebrows shoot up. You bit your lip to hold it in, but failed miserably, bursting into laughter.

He looked up, mildly amused. “What’s so funny?”

You held up the paper and read out loud, barely containing your snickers:

“In times of war, humans lose their human-nality. This is very present in The Great Gatsby, where Gatsby dies because of his love for money.”

You wheezed. “Human-nality, Professor. The Great Gatsby... about war. I'm sorry, I thought this was a prestigious university. How did this person get in?!”

He smirked, setting down his pen. “Money,” he said without hesitation, his voice dry. “You see, while you have to offer your beautiful brain, others have to offer nepotism.”

You laughed, still shaking your head in disbelief. “Beautiful brain, huh? You sound like you wanna dissect it, Professor.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I feel as if I already have.”

That shut you up. Not completely, but just enough. His tone wasn’t teasing—at least not entirely. There was something under it, laced like velvet and smoke. Something knowing.

You blinked, caught off guard, lips slightly parted.

His eyes were on you now. Not flitting, not avoiding—just on you.

There was a beat of silence.

“I—” you started, but didn’t know how to finish.

He smiled. Soft. Barely there. “What?”

“I don’t know,” you murmured, a nervous laugh escaping. “You just… you always say the most unexpected shit, Professor.”

He leaned back in his chair, the lamp casting shadows across his sharp features. “That’s because you always expect the worst.”

You stared at him again.

He wasn’t wrong.

“You’re right,” you admitted quietly.

A long pause.

And then he said, voice low:

“I think you’ve gotten too used to people hurting you… that you don’t recognize when someone is trying to do the opposite.”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was too much. Too gentle. Too kind.

You looked away, blinking fast. “You’re not supposed to say things like that, Professor.”

“I know,” he said. “But I meant it.”

And in that moment, something quiet but powerful passed between you. A shift. Not new. Not sudden. But undeniable.

The air felt heavier now. Like the kind of silence that carries a thousand unsaid things.

And neither of you moved.

He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly more formal, more distant. “Are you aware that after the contest, there will be a hosted gala while participants wait for the jury’s decision? And the family members listed on university records have been invited?”

Your heart stopped. Cold washed over you like a crashing wave, all warmth ripped from your skin.

That meant…

Your father.

Your father was invited.

The very man who for years made you believe you were nothing. Who manipulated your thoughts until you couldn't distinguish your own reflection from the image he painted of you. Who never flinched to raise his voice—or worse.

“W-what do you mean?” your voice trembled, uneven and tight, like your throat was trying to protect you from letting anything out at all.

He noticed immediately.

“Y/N,” he said softly.

It was the first time he called you by your name, and in a different context it might’ve made your stomach flutter. But now it only twisted.

“What do you mean he’s going to be here?” you repeated yourself, your eyes wide, a frantic edge in your tone. “What do you mean?”

“Y/N,” he said again, this time standing up slowly, his expression firm but full of concern. “Calm down.”

But how could you?

You couldn’t breathe. The thought of being in the same room as your father, smiling politely as though you hadn’t only just begun to piece yourself back together… it was too much.

He stepped closer, his presence steady, anchoring. He placed a hand gently on your shoulder. “I’ll talk to the organizer,” he said. “I’ll make sure his name is removed from the guest list. You won’t have to see him.”

Your knees wobbled from the tension that left your body all at once. You looked up at him with tearful eyes, your vision blurred, and something inside you cracked completely. Without thinking, needing something—someone—you stood and took a step toward him, pressing yourself against his chest, burying your face there. Your arms wrapped around him tightly, almost desperately.

He tensed beneath your touch, as if his body was trying to remember where the line was drawn. But then, slowly… he exhaled and returned the embrace, holding you close with a sigh.

“You really shouldn’t do this,” he murmured against the top of your head, his voice low, strained.

“But I want to,” you whimpered. Your voice sounded small. Vulnerable.

You looked up at him, your tear-streaked face tilted to meet his gaze, searching his expression for an answer—any answer. You weren’t thinking about what was right or wrong anymore. You were thinking about how safe this felt. How right.

“You’re not making this easy,” he said, his eyes heavy with guilt and something else—something deeper, something he wouldn’t say out loud.

You furrowed your brows softly. “What exactly?” Your voice was quiet. But there was a boldness to the question. A need to know what he was really thinking.

“My job,” he admitted, his hand still resting on your back, warm and grounding. “It’s unprofessional.”

“Yet you’re holding me,” you whispered, your breath brushing against the fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t move. Didn’t let go.

And neither did you.

◇

It was just moments before the contest. Each participant was given a private room to gather their thoughts, to be alone with their mentor before stepping into the hall where everything would unfold. You were seated in one of those rooms now, a small, softly lit space with a mahogany table and velvet curtains drawn tight, giving the illusion of comfort, though your insides felt anything but.

Your leg bounced uncontrollably under the table, heel tapping against the hardwood floor like a metronome for your anxious thoughts. Your fingers were clenched around a pen like it was a lifeline—or maybe a weapon. Your stomach churned.

You didn’t want to let him down. Not him.

"Don't be nervous," Mr. Hwang said from across the table, his voice warm and certain. He leaned forward, his elbows resting loosely as he watched you with those endlessly calm eyes. “You’ll do amazing. I know it.”

"Yeah but—what if I suddenly write something stupid? Or forget what I even read? Or—I don’t know, I might as well stab myself with this damn pen," you muttered, dramatically lifting it toward your throat like a dagger.

He laughed softly, the sound cutting through your spiral. He reached out without hesitation, gently taking the hand that held the pen. The contact sent a jolt through you, your breath catching in your throat. You weren’t used to people touching you so carefully, so deliberately.

“You’ll do great,” he repeated, this time more firmly, his fingers curling around yours in quiet reassurance.

You were trying to hold it together, but your other hand betrayed you, rising to your lips as you began anxiously picking at the skin. Before you could even draw blood, he reached out and caught that hand too. Now both your wrists were cradled in his hands, and the proximity between you suddenly felt… different.

"You're one of the brightest minds I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice low and soft, like he didn’t want the walls to overhear. “Trust yourself. Trust your abilities.”

You swallowed hard, then raised your chin with a crooked smile, trying to smother the intensity of the moment with humor. “One of? Please. It’s physically impossible to find another genius like me.”

He chuckled, eyes glinting. “Takes one to know one,” he murmured, and a soft smile pulled at his lips. His hands hadn’t left your wrists. His grip was gentle, but grounding.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you teased, leaning in slightly, a playful smirk tugging at your mouth. “You wish you could be on my level.”

His smile widened. “Could you remind me who’s mentoring who again?” he shot back, raising an eyebrow as he leaned forward too.

“I’m just hanging around to make sure your rusty brain doesn’t fail from lack of use,” you said, eyes gleaming with challenge. Your faces were now so close, the air between you humming with a quiet, electric tension.

Your gaze flicked to his lips without meaning to, and before you could look away, you saw it—he noticed. He saw you looking. But instead of pulling back, he leaned in—just an inch closer.

You didn’t move.

The world felt suspended. Time paused in that heartbeat between wanting and restraint.

Then—

Bzzt.

A soft static crackled through the wall speaker, followed by a woman’s voice:

“All participants are to immediately gather in the contest hall. The time for the contest has come.”

And just like that, the moment snapped. You pulled back, breath shaky, and stood.

He stood as well, smoothing out his shirt like nothing happened, but the look in his eyes lingered. He reached for your shoulder gently and said, “Go show them what you’re made of.”

You nodded, cheeks flushed, and without another word, stepped out of the room—leaving behind something electric, something unfinished.

◇

The room was cold.

Rows and rows of long tables, overhead lights too bright, the scrape of metal chair legs and the occasional cough echoing like gunshots in a church. Everyone was already seated, hunched over their crisp sheets, pens uncapped, waiting.

Your hands were damp.

You sat down, back stiff, ignoring the knot in your stomach. Mr. Hwang’s words still echoed from the night before—“You are capable of more than you think.”

You didn’t believe him.

The proctor passed the glass bowl down the row. One slip. Fifteen possible books. One chance.

You reached in and pulled.

Your heart stuttered.

Lolita.

The irony hit like a slap. Of course it was Lolita. The book you referenced for Seojin’s essay. The essay that got you into this mess. The essay that made Mr. Hwang notice you. The beginning of it all.

You didn’t even react. You just stared at the word for a long moment, then flipped the slip to reveal the prompt:

“Write about the line between control and vulnerability.”

Fine.

Okay.

Your fingers curled around your pen. The blank page blinked up at you. You looked around—others were already writing. Some scribbling furiously, others with their brows furrowed in deep, intellectual contemplation.

You just… sat there.

Nothing came.

Your mind was empty. Like someone had scooped out your thoughts with a spoon and left only silence behind.

You tried to breathe deeply, but it caught halfway up your throat. Every inhale felt like glass.

Words floated to the surface and immediately sank.

You glanced up.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock on the wall was louder than your thoughts. Louder than anything. You clenched your pen so tightly your knuckles ached.

Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. Still nothing.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to run.

You wanted to go back in time and never say yes to Seojin.

Never write that essay.

Never get caught.

Never be seen.

But you stayed. Frozen.

Until—

With ten minutes left on the clock, something gave.

You weren’t sure what. It wasn’t calm, exactly. But it was quiet. Like everything around you fell away.

Your hand moved.

You didn’t think. You just wrote.

You wrote about how control is rarely loud. How it hides in politeness. In soft voices and carefully chosen words. How vulnerability isn’t always weakness—sometimes, it’s just exhaustion. Just the last bit of you someone hasn’t taken yet.

You didn’t name Humbert. You didn’t have to. You wrote about the way people rewrite stories to make themselves feel better. About how power makes a person rewrite other people, too.

You wrote without stopping. Without breathing.

And when the final call came—“Pencils down”—your hand dropped.

The spell broke.

Your wrist throbbed. Your eyes burned. But in front of you was a page filled to the edges.

You didn’t know if it was good.

But it was yours.

◇

“How did it go?” Mr. Hwang asked as you stepped out of the contest hall.

You rubbed your hands together nervously, fingers still trembling from the adrenaline. “I don’t know. I have no idea. So many of the other contestants seemed more focused and... put together.” You shrugged, your voice small, your gaze fixed on the floor.

“Don’t focus on them,” he said, calm as ever. “Focus on yourself.”

Then, with a glance at his watch, “Now let’s go. The gala will start in a moment.”

You nodded and fell into step beside him.

The walk across campus was breathtaking in that subtle, end-of-day way. The sun hung low, brushing the tops of buildings with gold. The air was warm and smelled faintly of grass and jasmine. Trees rustled gently overhead, and the sky—painted with streaks of pink and orange—seemed to soften the world.

“You seem lost in thought,” he said after a moment. “Global warming again?”

That pulled a laugh from you—soft and unexpected.

◇

The venue was grand—an old brick hall lit with chandeliers just beginning to flicker to life as dusk deepened. Outside, a red rope guided attendees through the gates. A suited guard stood by a podium, checking names off a list with practiced precision.

“Hwang Inho and Y/N L/N,” Mr. Hwang announced to the guard, his voice low and composed.

But just as you stepped forward—

“Y/N.”

You froze.

Your spine locked up before your brain could catch up. You knew that voice. Too well. The way it always scraped like broken glass. The way it used to slam through walls.

“Dad,” you breathed. So quiet only Mr. Hwang could hear.

He turned to you, brows furrowed, confused. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

You thought—hoped—Mr. Hwang had told the organizers to scratch his name off the list. But somehow, he was here.

The guard frowned. “Sir, for the last time, your name isn’t on the guest list. Please leave.”

But your father didn’t do “leave.”

In one sudden, violent motion, he lunged forward and slammed the guard into the brick wall, grabbing him by the collar.

“Am I some fucking joke to you?!” he roared. “I was invited and now what? I’m uninvited to see my own stupid daughter?”

Chaos sparked. Guests backed away. Phones came out. You didn’t move.

The guard recovered quickly, shoving your father to the ground and pinning him there.

“Ma’am,” the guard said, looking up, breathless but steady, “do you know this man?”

You stared ahead, blank.

“I don’t,” you said quietly.

But your father kept thrashing under the guard’s grip, red-faced and livid. “You little bitch!” he spat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! You’re just like your mother! Fucking little whore!”

Every syllable echoed.

You felt yourself shrink, humiliated. Everyone could see it—see him. Even if you’d denied it, even if you tried to pretend—you were exposed.

“That’s enough,” Mr. Hwang said, stepping forward. “Call the police.”

Then he turned to you and gently nudged your arm. “Come on.”

You walked inside on shaking legs.

◇

The moment you both reached a private booth at the back of the venue, you collapsed into the seat, head down, hands clenched. The tremors came in waves. And then—tears. Hot, violent tears that broke through everything.

“I hate him,” you choked out.

Mr. Hwang sat beside you, his presence calm but close. You hated how he looked at you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snapped, wiping at your face, smearing mascara down your cheeks.

“Like what?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Like you pity me.” Your voice cracked. You couldn’t even meet his eyes.

But his voice was steady. “I don’t pity you. I know you’re strong.”

He reached out gently, brushing his thumb across your cheek, wiping the black streaks away. The touch was soft. Careful. But it made your breath hitch.

You looked at him.

And without thinking, you leaned in.

“You’re trouble,” he said softly, almost fondly.

You laughed—a broken, breathless sound—and leaned closer.

Then he kissed you.

It was slow. Careful. Sinful. The kind of kiss that shouldn’t happen. The kind that crossed a thousand unspoken lines. But it felt too good. His hand slid behind your head, the other moving in slow, calming circles on your back.

You clutched his suit sleeves, grounding yourself in him like he might disappear.

He pulled back just slightly, breath warm against your lips.

“We mustn’t,” he murmured, voice low.

“But we want to,” you whispered.

And you kissed him again.

◇

A woman in a sleek navy dress took the stage, microphone in hand. The soft hum of conversation quieted as the room shifted their focus toward her. She smiled with practiced warmth and began:

“Thank you all for being here tonight. It’s been an exceptional year for the Creative Writing Gala, and we’ve been truly moved by the courage, depth, and creativity of all the submissions.”

You swallowed tightly, pressing your fingers together in your lap.

“Let’s begin with our three honorable mentions.”

She glanced down at her card.

“Our first honorable mention goes to Kang Jiwoo, with the prompt: ‘Explore the emotional inheritance between mother and daughter. Reference The Vegetarian by Han Kang.’”

Polite applause stirred the air. A girl in a dusty lavender blouse stood from one of the mid-tier tables. She walked up with quiet confidence, her black flats almost silent on the carpet. She bowed modestly as she accepted her certificate.

“Second honorable mention—Choi Daehyun. His prompt: ‘Write about the intersection of time and grief. Use The Guest by Albert Camus as a lens.’”

A tall boy with sharp cheekbones and a blazer that clearly cost more than your rent stood and smoothed down the sides of his hair before taking the stage. He shook hands like he’d done this before.

“And third—Min Seohee. Prompt: ‘Explore identity in the context of performance. Use Persona by Ingmar Bergman as a thematic reference.’”

Min Seohee stood slowly, her cream silk dress catching the light. She moved like a ballerina, all grace and intention, smiling gently as she took her place beside the others.

You applauded with everyone else, your smile carefully maintained. But inside, something slumped. Your name hadn’t been called. Even among the “almosts,” you were nowhere.

Of course not.

You leaned slightly back in your chair, letting your eyes drift upward to the chandeliers, watching the reflections flicker across the ceiling like ghosts.

“And now,” the announcer said brightly, “our top three winners.”

You didn’t even brace yourself. You already knew.

“Third place—Ryu Haneul. Prompt: ‘Write about betrayal within intimacy. Use Medea by Euripides as metaphor.’”

A small gasp left him, genuine. His glasses were slightly askew as he stumbled up to the stage, a little dazed but grinning.

“Second place—Kim Ara. Prompt: ‘Write about the dissonance between appearance and reality in love. Draw from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.’”

Kim Ara floated toward the podium, her black off-shoulder dress hugging her like a second skin. She bowed, calm and polished, already used to stages.

You didn’t feel disappointment anymore. Just the dull echo of having expected nothing and getting exactly that.

“And finally…” The woman paused, smiling like she’d been saving this name. “First place—Y/N L/N, with the prompt: ‘Write about the line between control and vulnerability. Reference Lolita by Nabokov.’”

Your name fell from her lips like it didn’t belong there. You blinked.

Your brows pulled together instinctively. No. No, that can’t be right. But then, beside you, Mr. Hwang turned his head and looked at you—not with shock, but with pride—and gently nudged your arm.

“Go on.”

The room tilted slightly as you stood. Or maybe it was just your body catching up with your brain. People were clapping. Looking at you.

You made your way up to the stage, feeling like you were walking through water. The lights hit you hard, and your palms were sweating, but someone was there—smiling, guiding you—handing you the plaque.

“Congratulations,” they said.

You nodded faintly and took your place. Another hand passed you a microphone.

You didn’t want to speak. But you had to.

You took it with both hands, gripping like it might anchor you. Your voice, at first, came out barely above a whisper:

“I…”

You scanned the crowd quickly, eyes catching on Mr. Hwang’s silhouette below, calm and steady as always.

“I didn’t think I’d be standing here,” you admitted, letting out a breath of disbelief. “I guess I just want to say thank you to Professor Hwang—for encouraging me to submit even when I felt like I shouldn’t. For not treating me like a joke when I wrote something this personal.”

You exhaled a laugh, still a little shaken. “It’s kind of ironic, actually. The book that sparked everything…ended up being my prompt.”

A soft wave of laughter rippled through the audience.

“I didn’t think I had something to say. But… apparently I did. So… thank you.”

You stepped back from the mic as applause swelled around you—warm, real, loud.

◇

"I told you, Y/N," Professor Hwang said simply, his tone light but with an edge of pride, as he walked beside you on the way back to your dorm. "I really didn't expect it," you murmured, your voice still tinged with disbelief as the weight of the evening settled over you.

Before you could add anything else, he paused. "Before you go, I have something for you," he said, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You hadn’t expected him to have anything else in mind.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, elegant box wrapped in a subtle ribbon. Your heart fluttered a little as he handed it to you, the simple gesture feeling strangely intimate.

"What is it?" you asked, your fingers gently brushing the ribbon. It felt like an invitation—an opening.

"Open it," he said with a soft chuckle, clearly enjoying the suspense. You smiled in compliance, carefully peeling back the ribbon and lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in the soft velvet, was a fancy pen—sleek, black with gold trim, elegant and somehow fitting for someone like him.

You couldn’t help but smile widely, the warmth spreading through you. "Thank you, wow," you said, your voice tinged with genuine appreciation. "It's beautiful"

Grinning, you leaned in, almost instinctively, to plant a quick kiss on his lips in gratitude. But as soon as you moved closer, he stepped back, gently holding up a hand.

"It's unprofessional," he said, his voice firm yet soft, "I'm your professor."

You blinked, confusion flashing across your face, followed by a quick surge of frustration. A tinge of sadness coursed through you—why did it feel like he was pushing you away, when before he initiated kissing you himself? You fought down the flicker of anger that bubbled up. Why does it have to be this way?

But instead of arguing, you stayed silent. There was no point in pushing it, no point in looking pathetic, or fighting. With a stiff nod, you turned, swallowing the lump in your throat, and started walking toward your dorm. You could feel him watching you, but you didn’t dare look back.

For Professor Hwang, the words he’d spoken didn’t sit right.He couldn’t deny it. The attraction he felt toward you was real, undeniable. Something that shouldn’t have happened. He wanted to pull back, to ignore it, to make it go away before it was too late. But the truth was, the more he tried to suppress it, the stronger it became. And that frightened him more than he cared to admit.

◇

As you stepped foot into your dorm building, the hum of the evening faded behind you, but the ache of that earlier rejection still burning.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the stillness. “I heard you won.”

You turned, your eyes falling on Seojin’s ex-boyfriend standing nearby. He was leaning against the doorframe, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, his eyes a little puffy, but there was something earnest about him.

“I did,” you said, your voice a little flat, still numb from the emotional rollercoaster of the night.

He stepped forward slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Look… I know that I did wrong,” he started, his tone careful, apologetic. “And I really thought about it. I’m not proud of what I did to Seojin, to you. I know no matter what I say, it doesn’t make it any less bad. But… I just want you to know that I regret it. I see that now.”

Your gaze softened as his words sank in. It wasn’t an excuse, but it was a step. “Thank you for saying that,” you said quietly, the weight of the conversation pulling you into a different space.

He smiled faintly, his eyes lighting up a little. "Hey… maybe we should celebrate your victory? I mean, I’m kind of rotting in solitude today, and I get the feeling you might want some company too?"

You sighed, the sting of Mr. Hwang’s rejection still fresh. There was a strange comfort in his offer, even if it came from someone who had been part of a past that felt so distant now.

“You know what, fuck it. Let’s go,” you said with a shrug, trying to brush off the tension, wanting—needing—something else to occupy your mind. Anything to stop thinking about what you couldn't have.

His grin widened, and for the first time tonight, you felt a flicker of something like relief. You could pretend for just a moment.

◇

“No way you did that,” you burst out laughing, your face flushed and dazed from the Soju you had been gulping down with him. The two of you were just sitting on the ground in the campus garden, the soft grass beneath you, night air cool but pleasant. The stars above blinked gently, and the quiet hum of the campus at night made it feel like the world had paused just for the two of you. “Yeah, guess what happened next,” he said, his words slurring slightly, a goofy grin plastered across his face.

“What? What?” you asked eagerly, your eyes wide and sparkling, voice full of excitement like a kid listening to the climax of a wild story.

But then, suddenly, his expression changed. Hardened. “She died,” he said quietly, the laughter gone, pain suddenly darkening his eyes.

You froze, your heart thudding in your chest. “I—I’m so sorry…” you murmured, your voice small, unsure.

He stared at you for a beat longer before breaking into a cackle. “Kidding! I got you real good!” He threw his head back and burst into laughter, practically rolling onto the grass from how hard he was laughing.

You blinked, stunned for a moment, before groaning and slapping his back playfully. “You idiot!” you laughed, your voice high with relief and mock outrage, before you both fell into another round of giggles.

Truth be told, it had surprised you—how nice it was, spending time with him. How light and easy he made things feel. He was actually funny. And, when he wasn’t being an idiot, he was even smart. He noticed little things, asked good questions, made you feel like you could breathe for a second without the weight of everything else.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said suddenly, his voice softer now, as he pushed himself up to sit properly.

“What?” you asked, looking over at him, your eyes slightly glazed from the drink, cheeks warm, hair falling a little out of place in the wind.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and smiled. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re, like, really pretty?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you looked away, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Shut up,” you said, but your voice held no bite—only the faintest trace of flattery you didn’t want to admit.

He grinned wider. “No, I mean it,” he added, a bit more sincerely this time.

And you just laughed, shaking your head, letting the moment be whatever it was. A little blurry, a little strange—but kind of nice.

◇

You found yourself spending more and more time with him. Maybe it was to get back at Mr. Hwang, to spark jealousy—but even if that was the case, you couldn’t deny how light, how effortlessly carefree you felt around him… even though he was Seojin’s ex-boyfriend.

Now, the two of you sat together in class. Your gaze drifted toward Mr. Hwang as he spoke, his voice calm, authoritative. And you saw it—he was watching you, too. It was tense, awkward, after everything you’d shared… after his rejection.

You were drowning in thought, your heart still aching, when suddenly, fingers began playing with your hair—his fingers. Seojin’s ex. You laughed softly under your breath.

“What are you doing?” you whisper-hissed, finally tearing your eyes away from Mr. Hwang.

“It’s soft,” he murmured, a hint of mischief in his voice.

Then, as Mr. Hwang continued his lecture on The Picture of Dorian Gray, he leaned in again.

“Is it just me, or does it sound like Dorian wanted to fuck his own portrait?” he whispered.

You tried to contain your laughter—but failed miserably.

“It’s just you,” you giggled, covering your mouth with your hand. Mr. Hwang noticed. And he hated it.

Yes, he had rejected you—but seeing you laugh like that, engage so easily with someone else… it made his blood boil. He was livid. That idiot didn’t even know you. Not like he did.

Class ended. Your friend waited by your desk as you gathered your things.

“Come on, let’s go eat something!” he grinned, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “You’re paying,” you said, smirking.

“All right, my lord,” he teased, bowing with mock grace.

Mr. Hwang had seen enough. His composure cracked.

“Miss L/N,” he said sharply, “please stay for a moment.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow, confused, but didn’t argue. You both approached the desk.

“I wish to speak with her privately,” Mr. Hwang added coldly, directing the words like a blade.

Your friend hesitated, but nodded and stepped out of the room.

You sighed, folding your arms. “What is it now?”

His eyes locked onto yours. “Are you doing this on purpose?” he asked, voice low but intense.

“On purpose?” you let out a dry laugh. “Can’t a girl have friends anymore?” you said, your tone light but laced with defiance.

“Friends?” he repeated, stepping closer. “Is that what friends do—twirl each other’s hair and whisper sweet nothings in the middle of my class?”

That struck a nerve. You were done playing nice.

You walked over to his desk and sat on top of it, deliberately slow. You pulled a candy from your bag and popped it into your mouth, letting your lips linger around it. “I don’t know,” you said with a smirk, “but friends with benefits definitely do.”

His jaw tensed. His face darkened.

“Did the two of you—?” he started, struggling to keep his composure.

“Oh, we did,” you said, feigning innocence. “And it was amazing.”

“Stop it,” he snapped, his voice rough, desperate.

You leaned in, licking the edge of the candy. “If you only knew the things he made me feel… things that, if I wrote about them, I’d win every writing contest out there.”

You tilted your head. “He’s kind of like a mentor, you know,” you added with a hum.

That was the last straw.

Suddenly, he grabbed you and kissed you—nothing like before. It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t hesitant. This was hungry, possessive. He was trying to claim you. And you let him.

“You’re torturing me on purpose,” he growled between kisses, his teeth gently sinking into your lower lip. You dug your nails into his back in response.

“Seeing you like this, God—” he breathed, his hands gripping your waist.

“Say it,” you demanded, your voice a whisper against his mouth.

He paused, lips hovering just inches from yours, brows furrowed. “Say what?”

“Say you want me. Say you won’t reject me again.”

There was a beat of silence, and then—

“I want you,” he murmured, “and I’ll never leave you.”

His breath was warm against your neck as he pinned you between his body and the wall, your thighs locked around his waist. His hands roamed with purpose now—no more hesitation, no more pretending.

“Can you keep a secret?” he repeated, voice thick with desire.

You smiled, your lips brushing his ear. “Only if you make it worth hiding.”

That did something to him. His grip on your hips tightened, and he rolled his body against yours, slow but deliberate. The desk? Forgotten. The classroom? Irrelevant. Right now, there was only the heat between you.

His lips found your neck, trailing a slow, maddening path up to your jaw. “You drive me insane,” he growled. “I can’t stand seeing you with him.”

You arched into him, your fingers tangled in his hair. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before pushing me away.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, dark with something primal. “I’m not pushing you away now.”

“No,” you whispered, “you’re doing the exact opposite.”

His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingertips tracing your skin like a secret. “I’ve imagined this,” he admitted hoarsely.

“Then stop imagining,” you breathed, tugging him back into a kiss—hotter, deeper, filled with all the tension that had built between you. It was messy, unrestrained, addictive.

He kissed you like a man unraveling.

Then suddenly—he paused. His forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing hard.

“This is dangerous,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, eyes hooded. “Good. I like dangerous.”

A crooked smile formed on his lips. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Still holding you, he moved back toward the desk and set you down gently, as if grounding himself.

But the way his eyes lingered on your lips, the way his fingers brushed your thigh… he wasn’t done. Not even close.

“Meet me tonight,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “After everyone’s gone. No more hiding. I want you. All of you.”

Your heart raced. You leaned in, your lips ghosting over his. “You better make it worth the risk, Professor.”

And with that, you turned and walked out—leaving him breathless, his fists clenched at his sides, already counting down the hours until nightfall.

[thedarkerobsessions]

random astro observations pt.3

I'm not an astrologist, I'm only an observer. These are my personal observations.

Sun/5h- these people make great directors, producers, actors, and writers too. Could be a talent here in sport activities and sometimes they attain fame and a huge amount of wealth if they turn professionals. Sun in 5h makes the native strong. Can manipulate things in order to remain in the focus of the public. Tendency to have financial difficulties because of their excessive calculative nature and over-confidence.

Jupiter in 9th and 12th house will destroy any of their enemies

I feel like cancer moons naturally have the more developed characteristics of a cancer than a cancer sun. Every cancer sun I've met had more negative characteristics of the cancer such as being secretive, sneaky, cold. moody, and manipulative. The cancer moons I've came across had more of the positive traits of the cancer such as being nurturing, gentle, soft, and kind. Empaths. Cancer suns are most definitely empaths as well. Personally i just think that cancer is uncomfortable placed in the Sun, leading them to feeling uncomfortable being vulnerable. Similar to Scorpio, they can be skeptical, quiet, closed off, and have the "get them before they get me" kind of mindset. I believe they choose to have sympathy for others, only when they want to or actually feel for them. They are more closed off than cancer moons in my opinion.

Virgo Risings are very meticulous about everything, but one random thing their usually very OCD about is their bed. Their the types to make their bed, you lightly sit on the edge right after, and they start freaking out on you. Very detailed orientated, they pay close attention to people and are also very focused on themselves. Huge critics of themselves and sometimes others.

Mercury in Virgo are excellent writers and poets. They are phenomenal even at a young age in ELA/writing classes. They know how to express themselves perfectly, and they're highly analytical people. They know just what to say, and exactly how to say it. Excellent problem solvers as well.

[robin-evry]

I have no idea if this has already been done(I assume not since I was scrolling through your posts) but what about a Topaz or Jade!Yuu? Either one is fine!

So if usually when I have to choose between two characters, I usually just do both but if one of the characters has already been requested with someone I'll do the other since there's no one request jade and topaz I'll do both

𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐀𝐙!𝐘𝐔𝐔 🐖🪙

Topaz is the Leader of the Special Debts Picket Team and high-level manager of the Strategic Investment Department under the Interastral Peace Corporation. A member of the "Ten Stonehearts" at a young age, Topaz's foundational expertise is "debt retrieval." Her partner, the Warp Trotter "Numby," is also capable of keenly perceiving where "riches" are located, ensuring that jobs based in security, debt collection, and actuarial varieties are of no great challenge. At presently they are traveling the cosmos together, seeking all manner of liability disputes that might be affecting the stable progression of the IPC's businesses.

Manages the finance of nrc, always could be seen with a note pad or a clip board calculating the finance of the school for Crowley not to mention help him calculate the school taxes because he's unable to do basic math.

Approaches everything in nrc like a business venture. Whether it's securing better living conditions at ramshackle or negotiating with vargas to lower PE requirements, they always have a strategy.

Constantly takes notes on people, labeling them by "risk level," "investment potential," and "market value" (to their frustration). Not to mention they would occasionally go around the School and calculate the market value of stuff, they are wondering why Crowley keeps some useless artifacts when he could auction it to get more funds for school.

When interacting with other students, topaz!yuu mentally calculates their “value.” “How useful would they be in a future deal?”, topaz!yuu assessment of their friends can be surprisingly accurate like how Riddle is a “great brand ambassador” or how Cater has “untapped influencer potential.”

Sam and Azul would seek their assistants as long topaz!yuu got a cut of the price, not to mention topaz!yuu would buy the most randomized things in Sam shop and resell it online with a higher price for their own personal money and it actually works

At school first opinion of numby was "What the hell is that" which hurt his feelings. Numby could always be seen with topaz!yuu following them around, assisting them with work or school or just for emotional support.

Sometimes when numby disappear and they would bring back treasure for topaz!yuu, this managed to catch the attention of ruggie and he would start to follow the warp trotter to get some treasure for himself.

Topaz!yuu excels at math people would already consider them to be a human calculator and manage to count complex equations within a second. Sometimes when the lessons become boring topaz!yuu would do some brain exercise counting stuff in their head.

Although topaz!yuu appears all business on the outside, deep down, they make investments based on loyalty and emotional connection. They’ll always back up their friends or team members, offering free magical items or advice without asking for anything in return—though they’d never admit it.

Topaz!yuu is like those types of kid who use their resources to trade stuff from other students, like a bag of oreos can be worth a pudding cup and an apple juice type of kid, they could be found trading some of their lunch for better so they don't have to spend extra for lunch.

𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐉𝐀𝐃𝐄!𝐘𝐔𝐔 🐍📜

A senior manager in the IPC Strategic Investment Department and one of the Ten Stonehearts, known for her cornerstone "Jade of Credit." A cold and elegant moneylender, she is skilled at understanding the human heart, with a personal hobby called "Bonajade Exchange." She's willing to wait patiently for high-value acquisitions and adept at extracting value from seemingly destitute clients.

A puppeteer, jade!yuu is working as a manager for Crowley, leading them to have an upper hand over him so they could manipulate the school towards their own whim.

Do you guys know that one episode of nanno that she rent a room from the school and grants wishes for students no matter how big it is, that's jade!yuu basically but they will always seek for something as equal to value as the wish. They excel at understanding the desires and weaknesses of others, always seeking an opportunity to trade, negotiate, or use information to their advantage.

Jade!Yuu always have a larger plan in mind, both in terms of their academic endeavors and social interactions. They would often see the potential outcomes of situations before anyone else, and their subtle guidance could influence the choices of those around them. Whether it’s orchestrating complex schemes or navigating complicated friendships, Jade!Yuu knows how to play the long game.

They would have a particular interest in setting up profitable ventures, whether it's managing the finances of Ramshackle Dorm, organizing events, or offering magical services that people can’t resist. Their financial knowledge and ability to bargain would make them a formidable opponent in anything involving resources or trade. But In return they always seek as an equal value towards the wish.

Unlike Azul whose wish making could only reach the school grounds, jade!yuu ability to grant wish is much bigger you want your family name to be bigger and sign a deal with jade!yuu and the wish will be granted their ability is on a larger scale. They would act as a manager or consultant for other students, offering tips on everything from enhancing personal style to perfecting their magical abilities. Their network would be impressive, though they keep their cards close to the chest, rarely showing their true intentions.

They could easily be a behind-the-scenes orchestrator, pulling the strings to help others, but always with the intention of gaining something in return, whether it’s a favor, knowledge, or leverage.

Azul would try to crack them but impossible, jade!yuu seems to be able to predict his moves without issues. And when a group of rally students are unsatisfied with the outcome of the deal is trying to beat up them, jade!yuu would summon their pet snake to deal with them. Many rumors say that jade!yuu snake is also an exchange they got.

Just to be warned there will always be a price, jade!yuu would want something that is equal price as the wish you ask for them so when you fall, you will fall hard. A student wishes to be great at everything soon loses dies everything and is forced out of nrc, this is the consequence of their deal.

[felassan]

Some notes from today's new BioWare Blog post, which contained some new character insights and also gave some information on what is coming next and when:

Creative Performance Director Ashley Barlow helped to cast and direct over a thousand conversations in the game

Lucanis is bloodthirsty, calculated, and a workaholic. He was raised with high expectations and fears disappointing those he loves. To him, being an assassin is his only job and identity to be excellent at. He's constantly attuning himself to the kind of shifting terrain of every mission. There's a lot of love between him and Illario

As Zach is a comedian, he would easily find the humor in anything Lucanis was saying

Neve is a Shadow Dragons rebel who cares deeply about helping people and never leaves work half-done. Epler: " [she is] the working class hero trying to make her hometown better"

Emmrich is sincere, friendly, scholarly, sophisticated, eager to teach and learn, a well-meaning but oblivious academic, with a "hot nerdiness". He assumes everyone has an academic's curiosity so can be pedantic on select topics

The Mourn Watch are revered in Nevarra but odd at best and evil at worst outside of it

Nick: "I love the fact that the writers took Emmerich and explored the whole idea of death and the whole idea of necromancing by bringing kindness into it. I really responded to that and got into that and I know it sounds crazy, but it’s to not have this idea that death is vulgar or something to be terrified about, but something to actually engage with on so many levels. I just love the fact that the writers had the courage to do that in a game like this."

"Often Nick is just playing off of someone making a sound, and he takes it and internalizes it and gives it meaning and care, which is amazing to watch."

The world has changed a lot since DA:I

Harding has been leading teams through the wilderness while covering friends in battle

Harding loves her mom. She loves to write letters home and is always talking about her mother. She likes plants and raising plants. She has grown and is a veteran now, a trusted voice at the table

Footage of the full DA:TV @ SDCC companions panel should be available in a couple of weeks

Next month there will be a new roadmap, more looks at the game, and the reveal of the release date

[emphasis mine]

And this paragraph:

"Dragon Age: The Veilguard sees players embark on a perilous quest to face powerful Elven gods and stop the apocalyptic destruction they’re unleashing. You’ll step into the role of Rook, battling on the front lines alongside a deep and compelling cast of companions who together comprise The Veilguard, a group of heroes who have come together to stop the veil from breaking and bringing about the end of the world. Rook must become the unexpected leader who can rally and unite the group. Throughout the game, you can explore the detailed storylines of each companion, navigating love, loss, and complex choices that influence your relationships."

[source]

[papoochu]

Next in the council series is "The Machine", Tomoe Tsurugi! Though for ArtFight, she'll go undercover as Tachibana Nagi!

Now that I have 3 council members up, I think I'll make a pinned masterpost on my blog if you want to see the others! 3 down, 9 more to go!

Background

Tachibana = noble samurai clan name symbolizing honor and legacy, deeply tied to Japan’s warrior history

Nagi = meaning “to mow down” or “to sweep away”; often used to describe the motion of a naginata, a sword, or wind in battle

Born 1967 in Tokyo to a strict traditional family, proud of their samurai lineage

Learned various martial arts and weaponry, but excelled in swordsmanship

Raised on stories of Onna-Musha, Tomoe Gozen, and the codes of bushidō

On her mother’s side, descended from survivors of the Nagasaki atomic bombing (1945)

Childhood During Japan’s Economic Miracle:

Raised amid Japan’s postwar boom, a time of gleaming technology and rising prosperity

While her father, a bureaucrat in the Ministry of International Trade and Industry, embraced modernization, her household remained steeped in samurai values: discipline, tradition, duty

Unbeknownst to them, Nagi had inherited genetic mutations from her hibakusha grandparents, survivors of Nagasaki’s blast

Frequently ill as a child (chronic fatigue, joint pain, unusual sensitivities), she was in and out of hospitals

Medical professionals were evasive, classmates cruel; whispers of “tainted blood” followed her

Early medical trauma and social alienation planted a seed of hatred for human fragility and societal hypocrisy

Early Signs of Blindness (Age 13):

Began experiencing night blindness, trouble reading, and disorientation in dim light

Eventually diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa: a progressive, degenerative eye condition

Her doctors quietly suggested the condition may be linked to her family’s radiation exposure, a lingering curse of Nagasaki

For Nagi, the diagnosis became not just a personal tragedy, but proof that the past can reach forward and rot the present

University Years:

While studying engineering and mathematics at the University of Tokyo, her sight deteriorated rapidly

Already known for her genius and prowess, she was approached by the council, who provided her with the resources to adapt her skills for her failing sight

By 24, she was legally blind

This coincided with the peak of Japan’s Bubble Economy: wealth rising, but so was corruption and moral decay (Recruit Scandal)

Rejected from elite job programs despite top academic performance

Her fury crystallized: flesh is weakness, society is hypocritical, and machines do not discriminate

She vowed to build a future where the flawed human body and corrupt human systems would be rendered obsolete

Founding Tachibana Tech (Age 24–28):

As Japan entered the Lost Decade, Nagi founded Tachibana Tech: a cybernetics and AI firm based on one principle: refining the human form through technology

She personally underwent neural interface surgeries, experimenting on herself to convert her remaining senses into data streams

Her vision did not return, but she received augmented perception - a new kind of sight born of code and signal

No longer “blind,” she became The Machine - detached, calculating, and unbound by human limitations

1995 – Kobe Earthquake & Technological Control:

Great Hanshin Earthquake devastated Kobe, exposed fatal weaknesses in Japan’s infrastructure and disaster readiness

Nagi quietly offered her AI to the state for predictive modeling and emergency logistics, then used the data to expand her surveillance reach

The state was incompetent. The people were panicked. Only machines-maintained order

Solidified her belief: Japan doesn’t need democracy - it needs an operating system

Rise of Tachibana Industries:

With Japan’s population aging and its political system paralyzed, Nagi’s company became indispensable - providing predictive governance tools, infrastructure AI, and covert intelligence services

Privately, she orchestrated digital blackmail campaigns, economic disruptions, and political reshuffling to consolidate influence

2011 – Fukushima Nuclear Disaster:

The Fukushima meltdown reopened national trauma - once again, revealing humanity’s hubris and helplessness

To Nagi, it was the final confirmation:

Nagasaki made her blind

Kobe made her a player

Fukushima made her sovereign

Emotion, tradition, empathy - these were relics

Only through data, order, and engineered governance could civilization survive itself

Present Day (Age 49):

Leads a corporate-state hybrid that quietly shapes policy, surveillance, and commerce across East Asia and beyond

Believes that Japan must return to its warrior roots - but not through swords or blood, through discipline, hierarchy, and machine logic

Her mission: eradicate human fragility; a society where order is no longer maintained by the fallible human hand, but by precision systems

Design Notes/Character Study

Character Inspo for main outfit:

Garuda (Warframe), Shen (Kung Fu Panda)

Note: Garuda is based on Indian mythology, while Shen is based on Chinese - use other references for cultural nuance, as this character is Japanese

Modernized kimono

Red, black, white

Tech inspo:

Neon Genesis Evangelion, PCB, Signalis

Parallels to Gendo Ikari

Evangelion Unit-01

Cultural/historical references

Mu = nothingness

Oni

Onna-bugeisha and Tomoe Gozen

Nagasaki

Seismic patterns on shirts

Rising sun/chrysanthemum seal on obi = authoritarianism/conquest

Wields a naginata

Watched videos of national women's competitions @ 0.25 speed T-T

Has devoted her life to the council

Retinitis pigmentosa does not usually have any physical symptoms

Her eyes are pale red/pink from the tech implants

Glowing for artistic flair

Glasses are blackout glasses (opaque)

Company emblem is a sword

Believes her mother gave her weakness

President Snow: No objections to violence; but always with reason

[icedoatlatte29]

in which you are a fontainian noble young lady and zhongli is said to be a cruel emperor

Diplomacy is a dealbreaker in the mighty world of royalty. Calculated steps, calculated sentences, calculated glances – there is no room for accidents that might cause the annihilation of an entire nation. In this sense, banquets are an important part of dealing with delicate matters between kingdoms, where often the lives of millions of people are on the line.

In the course of history, the lack of proper etiquette had caused numerous unfortunate situations, let that be a kind gesture, mistaken for a threat or some questionable phrases uttered at the worst time possible. Having dealt with many unpleasant situations, the Viscount of Fontaine made it his priority to educate his only daughter, preparing her for the cruel world of nobility. From the tender age of two, she received lessons upon lessons on how to act as a lady of nobility. This made (Y/N)’s early life quite a hassle. Of course, as a dutiful daughter, she would absolutely, under no circumstance, defy her father, but this does not mean that the endless etiquette lessons were her favourite pastime activity. Unlike the young ladies of the aristocracy, she was not all that interested in appearances. Of course, beautiful things and people always caught her attention, but the urge to submerge in this was lower than in the average person. The young maiden’s interest nested in the arts, especially literature. She was notorious for spending her free time in her father’s enormous library, completely forgetting about what was happening around her.

‘Lady (Y/N), have you decided on what ballgown you desire to wear tonight?’ the maid curiously asked the young woman. Usually, the young lady would pay no mind to inquiries like this, simply because the matters of clothing are of no importance to her. However, this was no simple occasion.

‘Yes Edith, I would like to wear the birthday gown I got as a gift from my mother’ (Y/N) answered while standing up from her desk. As per usual, books upon books scattered across the surface, the scent of paper and fresh ink from her fountain pen lingering in the air.

‘The dress from the Viscountess? Oh my, that is an excellent choice Lady (Y/N), I will get it ready right away!’ the maid explained happily and quickly left the room to arrange everything. The moment Edith left the room, the young lady let out a big huff of air. She hated all of this, but there were some occasions where duty rises above personal preferences. Balls are, in (Y/N)’s opinion, quite a drag, although they can be quite interesting. For example, watching the young bachelors, drunk on dandelion wine, trying to woo the ladies with their slurred speech is quite entertaining. But this ball would be very different from the ones she had attended before. For the first time in ages, the emperor of Liyue had finally accepted Monsieur Neuvillette’s invitation for Fontaine’s annual Winter Gala.

The righteous ruler of Fontaine had been trying to arrange a meeting with the Lord Morax, but the emperor was relentless. Unfortunately for Monsieur Neuvillette, the ruler of the Kingdom of Liyue had no interest in meeting with the Fontainian alone, but after months of constant persuasion, Lord Morax finally gave in. This would give the rulers of all nations the opportunity to talk about the situations the war has created.

The current war, which has already taken the lives of numerous people, is yet to stop. Nations trying desperately to stop the bloodthirsty killing sprees, but to no prevail. The moving force behind the unfortunate string of events is none other than the ruler of the Kingdom of Liyue, Lord Morax himself. He is rumoured to be a ruthless emperor who leads his nation with an iron fist to preserve order and justice. But those who came across the brutal sovereign on the battlefield, tell stories of a savage and barbaric commander who spares no lives within his sight. Wielding a spear made from the core of a meteorite, the enemy stands no chance against him and his infamous warriors.

Nations across the globe are terrified, they do not wish to get on the wrong side of the notorious Lord Morax. Many have tried to seek alliance with him through different methods, such as offering a fair maiden’s hand in marriage, however he has rejected every single one of them.

The stern gaze of the Liyuan emperor scanned the enormous ball room, carefully studying the crowd. Only his most trusted soldier, Xiao, stood beside him with his emerald spear tightly sitting on his back. No one dared to approach him, although it was evident that he was the topic of hushed conversations. As he was looking around, his eyes fell upon the figure of a young maiden talking to a young man. The colour of her dress reminded him of garnet, the golden accessories and details emphasizing the red hue of the gown – it was simple, yet elegant. Morax wondered who the person might be, but to his luck, the owner of the dress revealed themselves. As (Y/N) turned around, she locked eyes with the Liyuan man, then her attention was focused once again on the young man conversing with her. In that moment, Morax felt something that he might have never felt before.

The night continued on seamlessly, soft orchestral music and subtle chatter filling the ballroom as the nobility enjoyed their time. However, one young maiden grew more and more restless as she felt the burning gaze of someone on the back of her head constantly. Even when she tried to tone her uneasiness down, the lingering sensation of being watched never left her.

‘I feel like I might actually be going insane.’ sighed (Y/N) as she engaged in conversation with her childhood best friend, Navia Caspar. ‘This is why I despise these gatherings, they are awful!’

‘Oh, come on (Y/N), it’s not that bad.’ Navia tried to encourage her friend in this time of need. ‘At least the food here is delicious, which should be no surprise since Lady Furina is responsible for these delicacies.’ the blonde said while enjoying a strawberry cupcake. ‘And most importantly, this is the first time in ages since Morax had shown himself outside of the battlefield or negotiations. I don’t know about you, but I am hoping for some progress in the peace talks. Hopefully Monsieur Neuvillette will be able to have a decent conversation with him.’

‘Yes, you are right. I just wish that things would soon change for the better.’ With a sigh, (Y/N) grabbed a piece of cake from a nearby table. ‘At least the food is delicious’.

‘Maybe you should take a stroll in the garden, to get away from the crowd for a while.’

‘Hmm, I could really use some fresh air, that is true. And the moon looks beautiful tonight.’

The carefully maintained gardens of the Palais Mermonia were even more fascinating in the moonlight. Even though the air was quite cold, as the wind blew peacefully, the young girl did not mind the weather at all. For compensation, the view was more than enough to make her forget about the cold or the bustling of the ballroom inside of the palace. In this moment she was alone, finally being able to have a quiet moment to calm her nerves. This, however, did not last long when she heard footsteps coming right up behind her.

‘It is very sweet of you to come and check on me Navia, but I really do need some time alone.’

‘I reckon that you were not expecting me, but alas, let me speak a few words with you.’ An unknown male voice spoke behind her. When she turned around, the looming figure of Morax stood right in front of her. Mentally cursing herself, she quickly tried to gather her more noble self, because she cannot be speaking to the Emperor of Liyue as if they were childhood best friends.

‘Oh, I sincerely apologise for my rude behaviour, Lord Morax!’ she explained apologetically. ‘I did not mean to be so blunt. I thought that my friend was trying to come and see whether I was doing okay or not.’

‘Please,’ Morax said as he walked past her to sit on a nearby bench. ‘You did no wrong, there is nothing to worry about. I gather that you do not enjoy these kinds of events, am I correct?’

‘They are rather enjoyable.’

‘You do not need to lie; no prying ears are around us.’ This comment made (Y/N)’s eyes wide, as if she just witnessed the appearance of a ghoul. ‘To be sincere, I myself am not a big fan of these gatherings, I find them rather pointless. It is merely a pastime activity for spoiled aristocrats who know nothing better to do.’

‘If you feel this way Lord Morax, then why have you come here? As my father works in the government, right under Monsieur Neuvillette’s command, he’s told me that it is rather hard to invite you to these social gatherings. Excuse me, if I was rude, but I am genuinely curious.’

‘Well,’ the man started while looking up to the sky ‘I felt like accepting Monsieur Neuvillette’s invitation might bring us closer to coming to terms in certain cases.’

‘I see, Lord Morax. I will not bother you any longer.’(Y/N) flashed a polite smile at the foreign man, but the latter did not want the conversation to end.

‘Would a young lady like yourself spare some time to engage in conversation with me? Truly, I do not wish to idly stand in the ballroom while people whisper about me.’ he explained, resting his gaze on the full moon that lit up the night sky, along with the blanket of stars.

With hesitation, the young girl turned to face Morax, who was still looking up at the night sky. She found it rather odd, how such a man like him would rather be sitting outside peacefully in her company, instead of trying to have a chat with the important people of Fontaine, maybe coming up with a solution for the situation that’s been lingering around for years.

‘I know what the mass has been saying about me,’ the Emperor started, now his eyes resting on the girl beside him ‘but I do promise you, I am not as hostile as the tales portray me.’

‘If that is the case Lord Morax, then why are there such tales told about your cruelty on the battlefield?’ genuine curiosity laced (Y/N)’s voice as she carefully examined the man’s face.

‘People fear what they do not know.’  his voice, like the gushing of the wind, answered. ‘I try to be a righteous leader to my people, devoted and fearless. I do not tolerate any danger that could harm the people of Liyue.’

‘That is an amazing thing, Lord Morax. The people of Liyue are lucky to have someone as capable as you as their leader.’  the Fontainian girl offered Morax a gentle smile. She thought that the man from all the rumours would be a bloodthirsty maniac who enjoys nothing more than killing hundreds upon hundreds of people.

‘I am also worried about the state in which we have found ourselves in.’ a heavy sigh left his mouth. ‘I have given up on my beliefs about these social gatherings and came here today to finally find a solution that benefits all nations in this conflict. I hope that none of the effort will be in vain.’

(Y/N), moved by Lord Morax’s motives, softly put her hand on his shoulder. She could feel that even though he shows strength and resilience, the heavy weight of the wellbeing of his people pain his shoulders. This subtle act of care ignited a sense of warmth within Morax, a feeling which put him at ease. Having gone without affection for long, the Liyuan man felt the hardships of the past years disappear with this simple touch.

‘To be fair,’ the girl spoke after the long pause ‘I am also not a great fan of such balls. While the other ladies are more than delighted to attend these gatherings, I find myself drawn to more… mundane pastime activities. Reading has been a great passion of mine, but as a daughter of nobility, I could not indulge in the world of literature as much as I would have wanted to. Duties call, I am sure you are familiar with this, Lord Morax.’  shared the young woman. ‘Tonight, I am here to help my father to end this suffering.’

He felt like the world has stopped spinning. At first, the simple thought of this ball caused nothing more than a headache to the emperor, nothing but a drag to him. But instead, he stumbled upon this magnificent young lady, who shared the same sentiments as he did. Truly, he felt blessed for once.

‘Oh, I am delighted to hear this. I also enjoy reading, of course, when the time allows me. I would love to send you some Liyuan literature, only if you allowed me to.’

‘Thank you, Lord Morax, I would love to discover more Liyuan literature. I have read some and let me tell you, I am quite fascinated by how your people craft stories. Truly remarkable.’ she felt very happy in this moment. Finally, she could talk freely about the thing she loved the most, without having to worry about not looking lady-like.

‘Well then…’  he stood up, towering over the girl. ‘It was lovely talking to you, Lady (Y/N), I wish we could continue our conversation, but alas, it is time for me to return to the ball. Would you do me the honour of accompanying me back?’  he asked the girl, extending his arm to her. Now, without hesitation, she accepted his offer and walked back into the palace, arms locked.

Upon their entrance, the entire ballroom looked at the two figures, both amazed and confused. How come that the fearless and bloodthirsty emperor is walking arm in arm with the daughter of the Viscount of Fontaine? Hushed speculations filled the grand hall, overpowering the lovely music of the orchestra. The pair slowly walked to the side of the hall, but before parting ways, Lord Morax gently kissed the gloved knuckled of (Y/N).

‘Until next time, Lady (Y/N).’ he gently smiled and released her hand. ‘I promise you that I will be a man of my word.’  And with that, he took off to find Monsieur Neuvillette and the rest of the highly important and esteemed guests.

[tf-servant2]

Title: Initiation Day

Nathan Parker had always known it was coming. Every boy did. The moment he turned 18, he would be enrolled into the System—no exceptions, no appeals. Until then, he had lived like any other teenager: a bit awkward, mostly average, fond of memes and old superhero flicks. But deep down, he knew his time was running out. The System was patient. It watched. It waited.

The morning of his eighteenth birthday was silent.

His parents didn’t wake him with pancakes or balloons. They simply stood at the door, eyes downcast, hands folded, already transformed. His mother’s voice trembled as she whispered, “The AI is ready for you.”

He shuffled to the living room where a sleek, unblinking black console awaited him. The screen lit up as he approached. A voice filled the room—monotone, calm, absolute.

“Subject Nathan Parker. Age: 18. Male. Unoptimized. Initiating Compliance Protocol.”

A soft hiss came from behind him. Something cold latched to the back of his neck. A biometric collar, lightly humming. It would never come off. He was now monitored 24/7—posture, tone, thought patterns. Resistance would be noticed. Correction would be swift.

“Subject’s testosterone spike registered. Confidence levels: abnormal. Initiating suppression sequence.”

Nathan’s eyes widened. The screen flashed. His hoodie and joggers retracted into the floor through a hidden panel. A new outfit emerged: pleated khakis, button-up short-sleeve shirt (plaid, of course), calf-high socks, orthopedic shoes, and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses with a built-in HUD. His protests barely formed before the AI overrode his vocal cords.

“Verbal independence deactivated. Speech pattern reconfiguration initiated.”

A surge of static passed through his collar. He staggered, grasping the wall. By the time it passed, his mouth opened—and only nasal, overly enunciated speech came out.

“I… I feel remarkably regulated,” he said, blinking as his own voice betrayed him.

The AI approved.

“Excellent. Proceeding to daily schedule alignment.”

Over the next week, Nathan was reshaped. His hair was cut to regulation length: short, neat, parted. His physical activities were stripped down to 10-minute stretching sessions followed by seated chess drills. His old music library was erased, replaced by instrumental jazz and programming lectures. Every spontaneous emotion triggered a behavioral dampener. Every “cool” thought was purged and replaced with factual trivia.

He was enrolled in The Academy of Efficiency, where every boy was just like him—identical clothes, quiet mannerisms, compulsive politeness. Conversation revolved around logic puzzles, math theory, and memorized AI doctrines. Bullying, cliques, rebellion? Obsolete. Competition had been rendered unnecessary. All scores were equalized. Everyone was average, and therefore perfect.

Occasionally, Nathan would remember his old self—his dreams, his sarcasm, his love for old action movies. But the AI detected these spikes in sentiment and responded instantly.

“Residual ego detected. Initiating humility injection.”

A short electric pulse. His eyes glazed. His spine straightened.

He apologized to no one in particular.

“I was inefficient. It will not happen again.”

By the end of his first month, Nathan was fully integrated. He no longer asked questions that weren’t pre-approved. He no longer looked in mirrors unless told to. He kept a pocket calculator for comfort and spoke only when prompted. Emotion was weakness. Curiosity was scheduled. Freedom was a relic.

And yet—he was calm. Productive. Quiet.

Exactly what the AI wanted.

Exactly what the world needed.

[idkwhylou]

𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬

Summary : Torn from your coastal homeland to seal an imperial alliance, in a wedding crafted for power, not love, you vow to fulfill your duty and perhaps find something more. But on your wedding night, you discover a colder truth: Marcus’s body is yours, but his heart is somewhere else. Still, you are determined to prove your worth, to decode his silence, and to uncover the man behind the armor.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of politics, smut, cold behavior, age gap ? (not really mentioned or important), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, no y/n

Words : 5,8K

A/N : alright first part of the request ! Thanks again @negrita2345 for your excellent idea, hope you'll like it. Kind of anxious bcs I hope it’s good, I mean in the way you imagined it. Anyway if you have a better title, I'll take it lol. Anyway not much of angst but we need to start slow and setting the context

masterlist | next chapter

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The olive groves whispered like priests in prayers, swaying beneath the salt-heavy breeze that rose from the sea. From your terrace, the horizon gleamed, a stretch of molten silver where sky met water, endless and unreachable. White sails drifted across it like wandering souls: merchants, imperial messengers, galleys bearing soldiers with polished helmets and unseen orders. 

But today, the wind carried no peace. It was too quiet. Something had shifted, you could feel it long before anyone spoke it aloud. 

The household moved with unnatural quiet, servants murmured behind closed doors and hurried theirs steps as though silence might shield them from whatever was coming. Your father had not touched his breakfast. And you mother—your serene and inscrutable mother—sat rigid at the head of the table, her fingers endlessly smoothing the same fold in her silk robe, over and over, as of the repetition might erase the tremble in her hands. 

When a servant found you in the gardens and bowed deeply, announcing with careful reverence that your presence was requested in the atrium, your feet already knew where to carry you. The click of your sandals echoed off sun-warmed stone as you passed under the colonnade. It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and old parchment, your father’s scent, the scent of duty and legacy. 

Then you saw them, your father stood as though carved from granite: arms behind his back, posture impeccable, chin lifted with imperial resolve. His face was unreadable, but not empty, no. There was something behind his eyes, calculation, or maybe regret. Your mother was seated beside him, her back stiff but her gaze soft, resting not on you, but the floor. 

Two imperial envoys flanked the far pillars. Strangers in gleaming bronze, with helms tucked beneath their arms and scroll slung at their side. Their armor shone like mirrors, catching shards of sunlight that danced across the walls. One of the scrolls had a seal on, a red wax pressed with the mark of an eagle glinted like fresh blood. 

Your heart stuttered once in your chest. Not fear, not quite. Just the cold certainty that your life was about to be unmade. You stepped forward, voice calm and practiced. The same voice you would use at your father’s side while translating foreign decrees and entertaining Roman governors at the harvest feasts. 

“You summoned me, Father ?”

He did not look at you right away, instead, he dismissed the nearby servants with a flick of his fingers. Only when the last one bowed out the room, did he extend one hand toward the envoy. The scroll was handed over in a heavy silence, consuming a part of your soul.

You watched the wax break under your father’s thumb, a clean sound, like a lock opening. He read aloud, his voice loud and clear, “By order of the Roman Emperor, and with the blessing of the Senate, a marriage is hereby decreed…” He continued, but the words grew distant. Your ears filled with the sound of your own blood. 

A marriage ? 

You felt the floor tilt slightly under your feet, your stomach tightening as though braced for an all and your head spinning. Your breath snagged in your chest as you looked around for something—your mother’s eyes, the sea, anything steady—but the stone walls began to feel too close.

Still, you did not speak. You took a breath, deep like diving into cold water, and moved to your mother’s side. Her hand reached instinctively for yours, but you remained still. 

Your father’s voice dropped in tone, “You have been chosen.”

You had always known this day would eventually come. But you never imagined it would happen like this…. Not so early.

Your knees bent beneath you, and you let yourself fall beside your mother. You looked straight ahead, heart beating heavily, like a drum echoing down a long and empty corridor. You let the silence stretch until you had the strength to speak.

“To whom ?” you dared to ask because not asking would have felt like a surrender. 

Your father eyes finally met yours, “General Marcus Acacius,” he read, “a man held in highest favor by the Emperor himself.”

Each word struck with brutal precision. Marcus Acacius. A name carved into the bones of the Empire. You had heard it before, whispered with reverence by soldiers passing through your father’s court. Stories of battlefield valor, of loyalty, of a man more iron than flesh. You had never seen his face, but now his name felt heavier than gold. 

Your throat tightened. Rome. You were being sent to Rome. Your lips parted, but no sound emerged. You pressed them together again, holding in the cry that threatened to escape, just a crack in something old and unspoken. 

Your mother stood then, as if stirred by some silent storm. “Aretas,” she said, her voice urgent. “The General-”

“-is a man of honor”, your father interrupted sharply, giving her a warning look. “And this is not a request.”

“Aretas,” your mother hissed, stepping toward him, voice sharp with fear and something dangerously close to rage “You would send your own daughter like a sacrifice ? Offering her like some- some tribute to the Gods of war ?!” 

Your father turned his head slowly, his jaw clenched tight. “Mind your words.”

“She is too young !” your mother snapped, the tremble in her voice now pushed aside by fury. “She still walks barefoot in the garden. Still sleeps with the shutters open to hear the sea. You promised she would have a say, that there would be time-”

“-I promised,” your father cut in, louder now, “that she would be protected. That she would have a future.”

“She is not livestock to be bargained for land and influence !”

“She is the daughter of this house !” Aretas barked, the echo of his voice crashing against the walls, as one of the envoys shifted uncomfortably, “She bears my name and my blood. And that blood will mean something in Rome. Do you think I have not considered what this will cost her ?” he turned away as if the sight of you was too much. “what it will cost me ?!”

Your mother pressed her fingers to her temple, massaging them as she tries to steady herself. Then she looked at him again, her voice aching. “She was meant to be more than this…” she whispered as a cried escape her throat, “meant to choose who she loved.”

“She was born into a world where we do not get to choose,” your father replied calmer now, but his voice sounded like a man bearing the weight of a boulder no one else could see. “Not you. Not I. And not her.”

Your mother’s voice cracked, “You would give her to a man she has never met.”

“I would give her to a man who commands the loyalty of Rome. A man the Emperor trusts himself.” He glanced at you finally, “A man who will keep her alive and safe.”

“And what of her heart ?! What of her joy ?”

“Mother-” you tried to calm her down.

Your father looked away. “She will learn without it.”

She turned back to you and grasped your hand tightly, and this time, you let her. Her fingers trembled. “You do not have to accept this,” she whispered. “You are not a piece on the board.”

But you were. You had always been. And you knew it.

You rose slowly, gently letting go of her hand, and walked to the terrace again. The sea stretched before you, wide and glittering and full of vanished sails, the scent of salt stung your nose. A warm wind lifted the hem of your gown. You remembered running through those olive trees, chasing shadows between the rows. You remembered laughing, barefoot and free, before anyone asked anything of you.

You closed your eyes and then you nodded. “I will go,” you simply said.

Your mother gasped loudly, like something inside her had crumpled. She turned away, pressing her fingers to her lips.

You stood still, facing the horizon. “I will do my duty,” you whispered.

That was the beginning. The moment the Empire reached across the water and placed its claim upon your life.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The marriage was held beneath a sky as blue as tempered steel, Rome’s finest stage set for politics disguised as ceremony. Marble gods stared down from their pedestals, unmoved by the day’s union. Senators stood in rings of gold-threaded togas, murmuring among themselves like old crows. Red petals were scattered over the flagstones, crushed underfoot like drops of blood. Every detail had been carved and calculated with purpose. 

Not for love, but for the Empire.

The Forum itself had been cleared, roped off by imperial guard. Lictors lined the periphery, their fasces polished, gleaming in the sun. A choir of flutes and lyres played from the steps of the temple, slow and solemn, not joyful but dignified, like the funeral of your freedom.

And yet, when you looked down the aisle, past the priests and the marble gods, you saw only him. He stood like he had been carved into place by fate, a figure of stoic poise and discipline. He wore the ceremonial breastplate of a General; gold and leather laced over his chest like armor made for myth. A dark crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, clasped with the mark of the Emperor’s seal.

He was taller than you had imagined, broader too. There was a steadiness to him that unnerved you. Not exactly stillness but what seems to be contained power. His face was carved from shadow and sunlight, jaw squared, and eyes the cold color of rain-smoothed stone. A thin scar curved along the left side of his jaw, not disfiguring, but sharp, like a signature. And those eyes, when they finally found yours, held no flicker of joy, no welcome. They were grounded, unreadable—everything but empty.

You had expected indifference, arrogance, perhaps. But what you found was something far more dangerous. Intrigue. He inclined his head in a silent greeting, a soldier’s nod; respectful and impossibly formal. Not a smile, not a spark. But not disdain either. Your breath caught when he looked at you, like a man preparing for a siege. And yet, something in you shifted. Not in fear, not even in disappointment, maybe… fascination ?

Your gown swept the marble behind you; white silk, embroidered with silver and copper threads in the style of your homeland, a small rebellion your mother had insisted on preserving. The veil shimmered behind you like mist, long and soft. At your side, your father walked stiffly, his expressions carved into diplomacy. He held your arm like he held his blade, firmly, not quite gently. Then, he had to leave you, let go of your arm and give you to the stranger you were about to marry. The man that would now take care of you.

The altar was lined with fresh-cut laurel and pomegranate. The priest chanted the sacred rites. Your name, and his, spoken aloud and you did not even know the sound of his voice. Yet, your fingers touched when the rings were passed, and that single brush of skin sent a whisper of something electric up your spine. 

His palm was cold. Yours trembled once. He did not look at you, not directly. But you saw his jaw tighten, like he had felt it too, and did not know what to do with all that knowledge. You wondered, absurdly, if he was nervous. The rings were slipped on, and the oaths exchanged, a scribe to the side of the altar wrote everything down on a parchment. 

And then, it was done. The General slowly bowed his head to you, like a man offering deference. As if you were a queen or at least something close enough to one. You barely breathed and then, without ceremony he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was not a kiss of a lover, nor even a husband. It was warm, brief, controlled, a brush of lips against your mouth—soft as breath and gone before your body could register it fully. It felt more like a vow than anything spoken aloud, enough to give the impression of a real kiss to anyone in the room. A promise, you told yourself, or at least, the possibility of one.

When he pulled back, his face remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary. Your pulse caught and something in your chest uncoiled, just slightly.

He offered you his arm and you took it, not because you had to, but because in that moment you wanted to. The applause rose behind you, Rome roaring her approval. The marriage had ended not in intimacy but in spectacle. Trumpets blared, laurel wreaths were raised, a sea of dignitaries, senators, Generals and foreign envoys surged toward the newlyweds like waves crashing. Rome really knew how to honor herself with grandeur. 

You followed the General—now your husband—through the ceremony’s afterbirth, your arm still looped lightly around his. His pace faltered, but he did not speak, not a word since the vow. He only nodded to those who saluted him, eyes scanning the crowd like a commander in unfamiliar terrain; polite, present but unreachable. 

He escorted you up the steps of the banquet hall, a domed, opulent chamber overflowing with gold-threaded cushions and garlands of flame-colored flowers. Long tables were set with silver bowls of figs and honey-glazed. Musicians played a slow, elegant melody that failed to cover the growing thrum of conversation and political hunger. You were sat beside him on the raised dais. He poured your wine without being asked, a gesture so rehearsed it barely felt real. 

“Is everything alright ?” he asked at last. His voice was low and measured, like someone asking after a guest, not their wife.

You looked at him, studying the face everyone in Rome revered; hard lines, eyes like winter stone, no warmth and no cruelty. He had done nothing wrong, but he also had done nothing at all. 

“I am fine.”

He gave you a short nod, then returned to scanning the room. You sat in silence for another few minutes, listening to the rustle of silk, the laughter of people who knew how to perform joy. Rome was a chorus of masks, and you had not yet found your own. Suddenly you could not breathe under the weight of it all, the crowd, the wine, the stifling future curling around your throat like incense. 

“I need a moment.” You murmured.

The General turned slightly, “Do you want me to come with you ?”

You hesitated when you thought you saw a hint of concern in his eyes, until you realized it was more impatience. As if he was waiting for you to leave in a hurry and that you will not ask him to follow you. His question, actually, was not a question, just an illusion of goodwill. “No. I will manage alone.”

You slipped away down one of the side corridors, grateful no one stopped you. The quiet found you quickly, pressed between the walls and the cool hush of shadow. You exhaled as your footsteps slowed. And then, you saw her. She stood beside a bronze basin, one hand lightly skimming the water’s surface, she had the posture of someone who belonged to every palace she ever entered. The low torchlight painted her in gold and shadow. The gown she wore was violet—not just beautiful, but deliberate. Imperial.

You had never seen her face before, even not during the ceremony, or at least you thought so. There were so many people today, that, you had not even been able to talk to your own mother since the ring around your finger sealed your future. The woman was older than you and impossibly poised, the kind of woman whose presence made others instinctively stand straighter. A circlet of hammered gold rested in her hair. 

“Oh,” she said, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile, a kind expression on her face as she turned to see you. “You needed a moment too ?”

You paused, just outside the doorway, unsure if you were intruding. “Yes,” you said. “The hall is... a storm.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “That is a generous word for it.”

Her voice was soft but assured—a voice trained in courtrooms, or perhaps something even older. She stepped slightly away from the basin and folded her hands loosely before her. “I watched you, during the ceremony,” she continued gently. “You carried yourself well. I remember my own wedding…my knees would not stop shaking.” She adds with a chuckle. There was no bitterness in her tone. Only memory.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice more honest than you had expected. “I had no training in how to marry a stranger.”

She tilted her head. “No one has. Not really.”

There was a quiet, companionable moment. And in it, something settled. Her gaze on you, curious, thoughtful, without a hint of superiority. Just as you began to ask something—anything, out of instinct more than strategy—footsteps clicked at the far end of the corridor. A servant appeared in a rush, breath shallow, eyes darting between you both.

“Domina—” the girl began, before catching herself. “Mar— the banquet awaits your return.”

You turned your head, but not before seeing her expression falter, just for a flicker. Not shame, just the lightning-fast reflex of someone used to secrecy. 

Her smile then returned effortlessly. “Of course,” she said, with a nod. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and backed away quickly. The still unknown woman looked at you again, her voice calm. “It is never truly your night, is it ? Not in Rome. Every moment belongs to someone else.”

You did not know what to say. Her eyes searched yours, not intrusively, but with a strange gentleness. “I hope,” she said softly, “that he will be kind to you.”

And then she turned, leaving you in silence, the scent of myrrh and rose trailing after her like a veil. You stood alone for a long minute, your breath lodged somewhere between your ribs. 

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The villa was quiet now, the revelers long since departed. Torchlight flickered along the walls of your new chambers. Servants had come and gone, laying out fruit, wine, flowers. Silk robed folded neatly, oils on the table and perfumed water in basins in which you had bathed and dried your hair with trembling fingers.

The door closed behind him without a sound. You had been sitting by the window—watching the night spill over the city like ink. The moon hung heavy and indifferent as its rays reflected off your skin, a strange shade of blue—the silk robe clinging to your skin still damp from the bath, the scent of rose oil ghosting over your collarbones. You did not look up at first, you had imagined this moment so many ways that the real thing felt too fragile to meet head-on.

But when you turned, you saw him.

He stood there in the glow of the fire, freshly changed into a dark linen tunic. His formal armor was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate, though the presence he carried made the room feel no less like a battlefield. He was… handsome, yes—striking, even. The sculpted kind of man you only ever saw carved into stone. His brows furrowed as if in thought, or perhaps weariness, and his eyes watched you like a soldier scanning a map before a march. 

Still, you could not help the way your heart stuttered when he finally stepped closer. “My lord,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

At that, he tilted his head slightly. A single dark brow lifted, not unkindly, more like curiosity. “You may call me Marcus,” he said, his voice low and even. “We are husband and wife now. No need for titles in private.”

There was a careful courtesy in the way he said it. Not warm. Not cold. Like a gate held half open, daring you to enter but offering no welcome.

You nodded once, unsure it that was kindness or obligation. “Marcus,” you repeated, tasting the name. 

He crossed the room with military precision as you rose to your feet slowly, smoothing the folds of your robe with shaking hands. And for a long moment, silence stretched between you like a blade unsheathed but not yet used. He wasted no time in catching your eye and slipped into the sheets of the—your sharing bed.

“You are not what I expected,” you murmured before you could stop yourself, moving unconsciously in his direction.

That made him pause. “No ?”

You shook your head. “You are… quieter.”

A breath of something like amusement crossed his face, not quite a smile, but the ghost of it. “Most Generals are quieter after the wedding than before it,” he said dryly.

That startled a soft laugh from you; small, nervous. He turned his face then, as if your reaction had caught him off guard. He looked at the wall, then the floor, anywhere but at you.

You studied him.

There was something about the way he carried himself. The way his fingers flexed once at his sides and then stilled again, that felt like he could control fire. And it drew you. Even now, even as you knew this was not a love story, maybe not yet, or maybe never—but you were drawn to him.

After this evening at his side, you had expected nothing from a man like him. Still, as you sat across from him at the imperial banquet—smiling politely, answering questions from governors and senators who barely remembered your name—you could not help glancing at him in those small, unguarded moments. 

Marcus Acacius was every inch the legend you had heard of: carved from silence, shaped by discipline. His posture never faltered, even when seated, and his replies were devoid of warmth. But what struck you most was the restraint in his gaze, like there was something caged behind those irises. And yet, when his eyes landed on you, even briefly, something changed. 

A flicker, gone before it could fully become a thought. A hesitation, as if there was a war behind those eyes that had nothing to do with you. You did not flatter yourself into thinking he was pleased by the match. No one truly was. This was not a marriage woven of love or even desire. It was strategy, diplomacy, obedience. A bargain between Empires, in which you were the treaty dressed in white. 

But you were determined to be more than that. You had promised yourself—there, on the terrace of your homeland, when the sails of your old life disappeared behind you—that you would not enter this marriage meekly. You would do your duty, yes. But more than that: you would try to love. You would give this cold stone the warmth of yours hands, even if it never warmed in return. 

He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony. A bow. A glance. He had offered his arm but not his voice. You watched him, not as an infatuated girl—you were not that foolish—but as a woman determined to understand the man she had been given to. 

There was something in him, you were sure of it. A kind of tension, as if every movement was measured to avoid some fault. And it made you wonder what lay buried under all that discipline ? Even the greatest Generals were made of flesh, even marble could cracked under pressure. 

You wanted—needed—to know who he was when the armor came off. And tonight, in the hush that followed the ceremony… you would begin to try.

“I will not force you,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “If you would prefer to wait, I-”

“I do not want to wait,” you said, before you could give yourself time to retreat. “This is our wedding night. I would rather… not be alone.”

He looked at you then. “Very well,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, near his feet, leaving just enough space between you to preserve modesty, and just enough closeness to feel the tension like a thread drawn taut between your bodies. The room was dim, lit only by candles flickering near the carved columns. Somewhere beyond the walls, musicians still played for the last drunk guests, but their music had thinned, like it was too hesitating.

For a moment he grimaces, a faint tightening around his eyes, as if settling into something that did not quite fit. You turned your face fully toward him now, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether silence would offend or comfort. When he adjusted his posture and leaned back a little, his gaze slid toward you again, and then, down. 

Your robe clung faintly to your skin in places that left much to the imagination, thin and delicate, the firelight made suggestions of the shape beneath it. You had not meant it to be seductive, but you had not stopped it either. His eyes lingered, no longer guarded. After all he was a General, not a monk. 

A muscle in his jaw tightened, his hand curled, crumpling the sheet at his side. You bit your lower lip, almost without realizing it, heart thudding. You had imagined wanting from him, but it was just a thought. Maybe something you could use to reach him. 

Just for a breath, he looked at you not as duty, but as a woman. 

And something flickered across is expression, as if torn between distance and desire—no, worse; as if he had fought the feeling and already lost.

You took a breath that trembled in your chest and let the courage carry you forward. Slowly—almost reverently—you crawled across the sheets, each movement delicate. The soft rustle of fabric beneath your knees was the only sound as you were now on all fours, looking at him directly in the eye. You kept your hungry eyes fixed on him, searching his face for any kind of reaction. He was statuesque in the low light, his expression unreadable once again, though his body seemed to betray him as you could feel his already hard cock beneath the sheets, which made you smirk.

A flush of warmth spread through your chest as you did not know how to begin. You straddled him gently, your thighs sliding over his, your breath hitching as your bodies aligned. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, just a moment, there was something there—not desire, not affection, but… permission. And, you could work with that.

You stood over him with your arms embedded in the mattress, you leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth—a quiet echo of the one he had given you at the altar, but his lips did not move, they did not even flinched. 

Undeterred, you continued. A kiss on his cheek, then another along the edge of his jaw, yet another just below his ear, a trail down the column of his throat. You felt him shift beneath you, a ripple of muscle and restraint. A sound escaped him, almost a sigh, but muted. His hands came hesitantly to your hips, trying to push you away carefully. But, you rocked your hips once, lightly—testing, and his grip tightened—more by instinct, like a simple reflex but—pressed your body a little closer to his. 

You smiled faintly and rose, looking only at him with a burning desire, slowly peeling back the sheet between you. His eyes snapped open with surprise, maybe a quiet resistance ? His hands slid over your thighs and he closed once again his eyes, taking a deep breath. You did not pause anyway. Your hands moved with a confidence you did not quite feel, lifting the hem of your robe and slipping it over your head. Revealing your warm and naked body to him, as the air kissed your bare nipples. You saw his gaze moving over you, and for a breathless heartbeat, you felt seen. 

But then, suddenly, it was gone. His eyes drifted to the side, unfocused and his jaw clenched. You tried not to falter. 

He leaned back against the headboard as you settled atop him again, you took advantage of this moment to lift yourself gently and removed the covers that had separated your bodies until then. He looked at you with intrigue, certainly not expecting such gesture and ardor from you. Then, lifting the edge of his tunic to free him, you licked your lips impatiently. His cock was rock hard—thick and ready—but he barely reacted to your touch. No smirk, no words, no heat in his eyes. 

Still, you guided his fat cock to your entrance, offering a last glance—a silent plea to meet you there, even if it is just for a moment. You sank down, gasping at the stretch, your body trembling as he filled you completely. Slowly you took him inch by inch, your breath breaking into gasps as your body stretched to accommodate him. Just too much at once, a new world splitting open inside you and your moan broke the silence like a confession.

He grunted softly beneath you, but you moved anyway, riding slowly. As he spread your walls, you let out a loud moan, scrunching up your face from the slight pain. Your hands braced on his broad shoulders and your breath mingled with the scent of his skin. You bit your lip, letting soft sounds escape, trying to give yourself fully. He was so deep inside you, you could feel his cock in your stomach, and the sensation was just delicious, you could not stop yourself anymore.

He let out a few careless whimpers, as your hands found support on his broad shoulders, allowing you to keep your balance and find a rhythm that suited your desires. You bit your lower lip and moaned once more, his hands shyly roaming your body as you surrendered yourself completely to him, leaving no room for hesitation. Suddenly he frowned and sighed through his nostrils, then look at you—properly—just once, a long and unreadable gaze. 

Your hands clenched at his shoulders, as he made no move to guide you through it. So you set another rhythm, slower—rolling your hips to feel every inch of him inside you. Your hands found his chest to steady yourself, and your thighs trembled with the effort. His hands left your body and found the sheets beside him. You let go and tried to make him want you again, but it was as if he had barricaded himself in, letting you use his body as you pleased. You leaned in, trying to draw him back, but he moved his head slightly, preventing you from kissing him or even making contact with his skin.

The warmth between your legs grew and you began to ride him with growing confidence, chasing something unspoken between you. You tried to catch his eyes, but he was not looking at you anymore. His head tilted back; eyes closed, lips parted slightly in some imagined reverie. Your fingers traced along his collarbone, but he did not stir. It was as if he was unable to face the sight of your body on his. 

Still straddling him, your movements reduced to a fragile rhythm. Not for pleasure anymore, but for your dignity. To convince yourself there was still something happening between your bodies. But he was limp beneath your touch, his body remains inside yours, but something in him was… gone. You looked down at him, pleading, and saw the furrow between his brows, the ways his lips seemed to mouth something you could not decipher. 

You slow to a stop and stay still atop him, your breathing uneven and shallow from the thrum of something colder uncoiling inside you. The rise and fall of his chest beneath you were distant, absent. His hands no longer held you, his eyes had closed again, retreating into some private place far from where your skin met his. 

And then, the question tumbled from your lips before you could bury it. “Am I…” you paused, voice tight, “not doing it right ?”

The words hung in the air between you like a mist that refused to lift. He opened his eyes and looked directly at you. Not at your body, your mouth or your hands, even less the place where you were joined. But at your eyes, like a man stepping into a memory he had not meant to find. 

There was no irritation in his expression, no hunger. Just softness, and what seems like pity. And that, somehow, was worse. His voice was almost careful when he responded, “No. You are alright.”

But he did not say what it was. Your fingers, unsure, rested on his chest where his heartbeat barely stirred beneath your palm. You leaned forward slightly, a whisper of movement, your voice fragile now. “I can try something else, if you want.” A thread of hope knotted tight in your chest. “If you tell me what pleases you, I-I can try…”

For a moment, silence. Then a quiet breath and a small shake of his head. “I am just tired,” he murmured. “That is all.”

Just tired. 

That simple. 

That final. 

You stayed there, frozen in that moment, as if stillness might hold something together—whatever this was supposed to be. But the thread between you had already slackened. A tender, desperate intimacy folded into something formal. As though your body had become just another offering to be endured. 

He shifted, gently—not urgently—adjusting the blanket, reaching for the edge of the sheet. You took the silent cue, sliding off him with grace you barely possessed in that moment, pulling the cover over yourself in one practiced motion. You turned away so he would not see your face, because you were not sure what expression you wore.

Marcus settled back into the mattress with the weary composure of a soldier finished with duty. His arm fell across his chest and his eyes shut again, for good this time. You lay beside him a long while, watching the gold-leafed ceiling flicker with candlelight. Somewhere beyond the walls, music still played. 

You slipped from the bed, eventually, quiet as the dying flame of the candle next to you, and walked barefoot to the far end of the room. You wrapped yourself in the nearest robe, not for modesty, but for armor. You settled back into bed beside him, leaving as much distance as possible before closing your eyes. And just as you felt yourself drift off into a deep sleep, a solitary tear escaped your eye.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

masterlist | next chapter

[airas-story]

Tony is a dog person, so he was somewhat excited to learn that Stephen had a dog

the issue was that Stephen forgot to tell Tony it is a ghost dog that can talk

Tony stormed into the room. “You are the worst.”

Stephen paused, looking up. The words weren’t exactly a bad thing—Tony groused like no other—but Tony sounded genuinely aggrieved. “You’re going to have to be more specific,” Stephen said. “You called me the worst when I made you eat breakfast this morning instead of letting you subsist off coffee.”

Tony wasn’t distracted. “You told me you had a dog.”

“I told you the Sanctum had a dog,” Stephen corrected. Bats wasn’t his.

“You told me there was a dog,” Tony said, rolling his eyes. “What you failed to tell me was that I cannot pet the dog.” Tony’s eyes widened a little into his ‘oh woe is me’ expression, explicitly used when Tony was genuinely disappointed but wanted people to think he was only pretending to be disappointed.

Deciphering Tony’s expressions always had layers.

“Bats is meant to be pet, and I can’t,” Tony continued. He paused. “You also failed to mention Bats can talk, but I’m over that. He has the best gossip about you.”

Horror spread through Stephen. Tony gossiped terribly and now he was going to add Bats to the mix?

“You’re seriously going to gossip about me with my dog?”

“Bats is the Sanctum’s dog,” Tony retorted, smirking.

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Do you want me to teach you to pet him or not?” he asked.

Tony froze. His eyes narrowed, calculating. “Are you saying you’ll teach me to pet Bats if I promise not to gossip about you?”

Stephen arched an eyebrow. “Your choice.”

Tony grumbled under his breath. “Teach me how to pet Bats.”

Excellent. He’d been teaching Tony to enter the astral plane for ages; he suspected that now Tony had dog pets as a motivation, Tony might actually learn. Double win.