#Protocol ADE Live

[ceaselessims]

if we're looking at the magnus archives through the lens of addiction parallels, jon's descent is wonderfully done.

and it's almost even more interesting to look at the magnus protocol through the lens of addiction as well.

it's almost as if alice is a recovering addict, she hasn't had a tobacco/cigarettes (read: the horrors) in a while but she still works at the smoke shop (the oiar).

She gets her friend, Sam, a job at the smoke shop too because she's lonely and he needed a job. Except, Sam has started showing interest in the products. He wants to try them. Alice is very adamant that they should not try the products and should just do their jobs.

This works for a while, until Sam gets a new girlfriend. Then, Alice starts to feel the urge to relapse. Suddenly, the cigarettes are calling to her again. And unbeknownst to her, Luke is probably also dabbling in smoking and probably exposing her to it.

It's made even more ironic because as they stock their product and take inventory, almost every single product has a big red warning label saying: THIS SUBSTANCE IS ADDICTIVE AND COULD CAUSE HARM.

[societyfolklore]

Oka soo I dare to send in a Bucky imagine <3 Maybe one where you're dating but you're not an avenger, so you sometimes feel not good enough for him even though he always makes you feel special and he loves you more than anything. One time while he's at a mission, you're back at the compound waiting for him, but then also Sharon comes up to you being a bitch again and makes you feel even more unwanted and leave before Bucky returns. Later then he's happily waiting to see you, but frowns when he finds out you're not there. So he calls you, asking you to come over and you reluctantly agree. As you finally confront him with your doubts he immediately tries getting this thought out of you and gives you also his dog tags to prove he's yours forever and it's all cute then and also some soft smut where he tells you how much he loves you ? ♥️

Here we go! Here's our boy making everything better when the doubts creep in and we can shut it down on your own. Title: Yours to Keep

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x SHIELD Analyst!Female Reader

Summary: You feel like your not enough, and when Sharon gets in your head it makes it so much worse. But to Bucky you’re the reason to make it home.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Insecurity, emotional manipulation (from Sharon because she's a mean girl), soft possessiveness, smut, unprotected sex, established relationship, oral (f- receviving), praise, dog tag kink, Angst with Fluff, Romance.

A/N: Something softer for everyone this weekend. Thank you for the ask @wintersoldierchronicles

The compound was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that seeped into your skin and clung to you like static. You sat curled into one of the deep leather chairs in the lounge, knees tucked beneath you, a tablet in your lap. The screen glowed softly, lines of mission data scrolling as you half-heartedly skimmed them, reading intel you’d collected yourself over the past few days. Every enemy movement tracked. Every building layout mapped. Every communication protocol updated and tested.

All to help keep the Avengers safe. To keep him safe.

You should’ve felt accomplished. Proud. Instead, you felt like a ghost in your own home.

No one had said anything, not directly. But they didn’t have to. The looks, the nods you didn’t get in the hallway, the way everyone seemed to talk around you instead of to you. It all added up. They were Avengers. Legends. Gods. And you were… what? Just the analyst who happened to be dating one of them. An ordinary woman in love with an extraordinary man.

And somehow, no matter how often Bucky looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky, the thought kept crawling back up your throat like bile: You’re not good enough for him.

You bit the inside of your cheek and tried to focus, tried to chase away the fog settling over your mind. But it was no use. The feeling had been a quiet whisper in the dark for months now, and lately… it was starting to scream.

You had seen the way people looked at Bucky- like he was a living monument to strength and survival. A relic of history wrapped in modern muscle and trauma, wearing his past like armour. People admired him. Revered him. And yet, he came home to you. You, who shuffled files and ran analyses. Who flinched when the training team sparred too close to your desk. Who once got winded jogging down the corridor when your badge lanyard snagged on a doorknob.

What could he possibly see in you that someone like Sharon, like Natasha, couldn’t offer in a more fitting package?

Footsteps echoed lightly down the corridor, the sharp click of designer boots hitting the polished floor like a countdown. You didn’t even need to lift your eyes. That cadence was familiar, the kind that always made your stomach twist with a mixture of dread and forced politeness.

Then came the voice. Smooth. Sweet. Laced with superiority.

“Still here?” Sharon Carter stepped into view, her tone dipped in passive-aggressive honey. She was perfectly made-up, of course, with not a single hair out of place, her sleek suit hugging her figure in all the ways that made people notice when she walked into a room.

She looked you up and down like you were something out of place, something small, insignificant. “Thought they kept the admin staff in the basement.”

It was a joke, probably. One of those faux-friendly jabs that everyone was supposed to laugh at. Except she wasn’t smiling. Not really.

You fought to keep your expression neutral, fingers tightening slightly around the tablet in your lap. You weren’t going to let her see how deep that cut went, not when she was already poised to twist the knife.

You gave her a polite nod, trying not to let your discomfort show. “Just going over the post-mission data. They’re due back in an hour.”

"Must be hard. Being with someone like Bucky." Sharon's smile was the kind that never quite reached her eyes.

“What do you mean?” You stiffened, your fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the tablet.

She stepped closer, arms folded casually like this was just idle chatter.

"I mean- he’s one of us. Field-ready. Weapon-trained. A living legend. And you… well, you make great coffee."

You swallowed hard. "I do more than-"

"I know," she said quickly, with that same dismissive tilt of her head. "You’re smart. Very behind-the-scenes. Essential in your own way, I suppose. But let’s be honest…Bucky’s built for war. He needs someone who understands that. Who can keep up. Who can be more than just a comfort waiting at home."

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest, each word driving in like a nail. It was everything you'd feared, laid out in someone else’s voice. Someone who was supposed to be on your side.

"He probably misses someone who can actually stand beside him out there," Sharon added with a shrug. "You know… someone who belongs."

The tablet in your hands blurred as tears threatened. You blinked hard and forced yourself to breathe through your nose.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure whether you’d scream or sob.

So you just stood, quickly and quietly, and walked away- shoulders stiff, throat tight, eyes stinging. You had to get out of there before someone saw you fall apart.

You left the compound entirely, slipping out the back entrance and taking the long way home. Your mind ran in circles the whole walk. What if Sharon was right? What if everyone had just been too polite to say it out loud? What if the only reason Bucky was with you was because you were safe? Easy? A soft landing after years of running and pain?

~#~#~#~#~#~

Bucky came back two hours later, bruised and sweaty but grinning. The mission had been long, much longer than expected. But successful at least. He was covered in dirt and grime, dried blood flecked across one temple, the strap of his weapons bag cutting into his shoulder. His muscles ached, and the adrenaline had long since worn off, but one thing kept him upright, kept him moving: you. The thought of you waiting at the compound, probably curled up with your tablet and a warm drink, maybe looking up every time the door slid open- yeah, that thought had gotten him through worse days than this.

He slung his weapons bag over one shoulder, still covered in dirt and dust from the mission, and scanned the lounge immediately.

“Hey, Sam,” he called. “She around?”

Sam looked up from his protein bar, brow furrowing slightly. “She left a while ago. Didn’t say much. Looked kinda off, though.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “Off how?”

Sam stood, tossing the wrapper aside. “I dunno, man. Quiet. Real quiet. Didn’t even look me in the eye. Thought maybe she was just tired, but now…” He trailed off, reading the worry blooming on Bucky’s face.

“You think something happened?” Bucky asked.

Sam gave a slow nod. “Could be nothing. But you know her better than anyone. If it’s not nothing- you’ll fix it.”

Bucky’s heart dropped. Something was wrong. You always met him after missions. Always.

Without another word, he turned and pulled his phone out of his pocket, hand still a little bloodied. ~#~#~#~#~#~

You pulled your car over to the side of the road, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound breaking through your spiralling thoughts. You hadn’t made it home. It felt too far. Too final. The space inside your car was tight, suffocating, but it was still safer than walking through the front door like nothing was wrong.

The phone vibrated in your hand again, lighting up with his name.

You stared down at the caller ID like it was a bomb about to go off. You didn’t answer right away. How could you? How could you speak to him when all you wanted to do was disappear?

You were a coward. That much was clear. Running off like that, not even saying goodbye. You should’ve stayed. Faced it. Faced her. But the words Sharon had said... they hadn’t been new. They were just the same cruel thoughts you’d had about yourself, dressed up in someone else’s voice.

You weren’t right for someone like Bucky.

You were just an analyst. A desk jockey. A tagalong to the world of gods and heroes.

And he was... everything.

He was strength and legend and pain and hope, all wrapped up in that scarred, steady way he looked at you like you were worth the whole damn universe. And you? You couldn’t even look yourself in the mirror right now.

The phone buzzed again.

Guilt stabbed through your chest.

He’d just come off a mission. He was probably still aching, tired, maybe even hurt—and here you were, making it all about you. Selfish. So unlike him. He always made you feel like the only girl in the room. One look from him and the world melted away.

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in your eyes, and finally picked up.

“Hey,” you said, voice too quiet.

“Doll, where are you?” he asked, voice already softening. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just… needed some air.”

There was a pause.

“You lying to me, sweetheart?” he said gently.

You closed your eyes. He knew you.

“No.”

Another pause. “Come back to the compound. Please. I need to see you. You're scaring me.”

Your chest cracked open. He sounded so… real. So Bucky. You found yourself nodding, even though he couldn’t see it.

“Okay,” you whispered.

~#~#~#~#~#~

He was already waiting by the elevator when you arrived, walking slow, tense loops with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, the lines around his eyes carved deeper than usual. Every few seconds, his gaze darted toward the entrance, like he couldn’t help but check again, hoping- needing- you to appear.

The moment his eyes landed on you, he stopped dead. Everything in him just stilled. Relief hit him like a wave, shoulders dropping, hands unclenching—but his expression didn’t ease completely. No, his eyes stayed cautious, flickering across your face like he was afraid one wrong move might send you running. Like you were something breakable he didn’t dare press too hard.

He didn’t speak. Just opened his arms.

You tried to fake a smile, to smooth the cracks in your mask. But it was shaky, barely there, and he saw right through it. You saw the flicker of sadness in his eyes at the attempt.

You stepped into his embrace slowly, almost shyly, as if uncertain you still deserved it. The moment your body met his, the dam inside you cracked.

You buried your face in his chest, exhaling like you’d been holding your breath since you left the compound.

“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough with emotion. “There’s my girl.”

You clung to him, fingers twisting in his shirt like you were afraid he’d vanish, afraid this was all a dream that would dissolve when you let go.

“Do you wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asked eventually, drawing back just enough to look into your face. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, like he wanted to catch the remnants of that broken smile.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy and aching. “You’re Bucky Barnes. You’re an Avenger. A war hero. And I… I sit at a desk.”

“Stop,” he said instantly, thumb now tracing your cheekbone like he could wipe the pain away.

“I don’t fight aliens. I don’t have powers. I’m just… support staff.” Your voice wavered, trembling like your heart might break in two right there in front of him. “Sharon said you’d get bored of me. That you’ll want someone who can stand beside you in the field.”

His jaw tensed like he’d been struck. A flicker of something dark and cold passed through his expression, steel sharp and silent. His entire body went still.

“She said what?” he asked, voice low and dangerous, but even as the fury gathered behind his eyes, he didn’t let it take hold. He inhaled slowly, grounding himself. Because right now, you were what mattered.

You looked down, ashamed. “Doesn’t matter. She’s not wrong.”

There was a pause. Not long. Just the space of a heartbeat and then the weight of metal settled into your palm with a soft metallic clink.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low but unwavering.

You looked up, surprised by the intensity in his gaze.

“You see these?”

You nodded.

“These?” he said again, his voice thick with meaning as the tags clinked quietly between you. “These don’t just mean soldier. They mean survivor. They mean second chances. They mean you, okay? I don’t give these to anyone. I want you to have them.”

You stared at them, too stunned to speak, too overwhelmed to breathe. They were warm from his skin. Heavy with meaning.

He cupped your face gently, both hands trembling slightly now.

“You’re not support staff. You’re the person I come home to. My person. You keep me grounded. You’re the one thing that’s real.”

Your lips trembled, voice caught in your throat. “Bucky…”

He leaned down, voice husky and sure. “Put them on. Right now.”

You slipped the dog tags around your neck, hands shaking, heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears.

“There,” he said, eyes gleaming- not with pride, but with something softer. Fierce, unyielding love. “Now everyone knows. You’re mine. Forever.”

~#~#~#~#~#~

In the hallway, without a word, he scooped you up into his arms. Not rushed. Just worshipful, like you were something sacred he’d been aching to hold all day. You wrapped your arms around his neck, face tucked into the crook of his shoulder as he carried you, his footsteps steady and full of purpose, all the way to his room. Every step was careful, intentional, his hold firm but gentle, like he wanted to shield you from everything that had hurt you today.

He kissed your forehead as he laid you back on the bed, then your cheeks, your jaw, each press of his lips like a vow.

“So beautiful… so smart…” he murmured with each kiss. “Couldn’t do any of this without you.”

His soft kisses pressing into your cheeks, the corners of your mouth. 

“You’re everything to me,” he said, pulling your shirt over your head. “Every breath, every second.”

His mouth moved to your collarbone, your chest, trailing down your stomach , while his hand eased you out of your pants. 

“You think I don’t need you?” he said between kisses, each one a soft promise against your skin. “Baby, I fall apart without you.”

His mouth moved lower, worshipful and unhurried, kissing every inch of you like he was reacquainting himself with something sacred. By the time his tongue slid between your thighs, you were already trembling.

He groaned when you gasped, the sound low and reverent. Not just desire but devotion. His tongue moved with slow, deliberate precision, savouring every soft, slick response he pulled from you. He licked a long, teasing stripe up your centre, then circled your clit with a maddening tenderness, his hands gripping your thighs just firm enough to keep you open and trembling beneath him.

He moaned into you, like the taste of you was salvation, like he’d starved for this and finally had permission to feast. One hand slid up your stomach, grounding you as your hips bucked gently, chasing every press of his mouth.

“So sweet,” he murmured against you, voice thick with love, his lips brushing your most sensitive skin. “Taste like heaven. My heaven.”

He didn’t stop. Not yet. Not when you were trembling so perfectly for him. His tongue moved in slow circles, each pass deliberate and precise, coaxing you higher with gentle persistence. His grip on your thighs tightened slightly as your breath caught, his mouth parting you with reverence.

He flicked his tongue softly, then flattened it, letting the heat of him soak into every nerve ending, every gasp. He alternated pressure and pace, reading every twitch of your body like scripture. When he sucked your clit into his mouth and moaned, the vibration made your entire body arch into him.

“You’re not allowed to think you’re not wanted,” he rasped between strokes, his voice wrecked with affection and need. “Not when I love you.”

You cupped his face as he kissed up your body again, pausing to nuzzle the dog tags now lying warm between your breasts. “You feel like home,” you whispered, eyes glassy, voice raw with truth.

When he finally pressed inside you, it wasn’t fast or greedy. It was achingly slow, like he was trying to carve a place for himself inside you, not just in body but deeper. He let out a low, unsteady breath as he sank in, his forehead dropping to yours, his hand tightening around yours like he couldn’t bear to let go.

He didn’t thrust. Not right away. He stayed there for a beat, deep and still, forehead resting against yours as his breath caught in his throat. His hand stayed tangled in yours, his vibranium one anchored at your hip, grounding you both. “I need this,” he whispered. “Need you. Like this. Just us. You make everything quiet.” Bucky needed you to feel every inch, every part of him that belonged to you.

And then he moved like a tide rolling in to soothe what had been broken, to wash away everything that hurt. His hips rolled back with unhurried grace, then pressed forward again in a smooth, reverent stroke, making sure to drag himself along your velvet walls with each motion, slow and devastatingly deep. The way he filled you, the way he moved inside you. Like he was writing his name into your soul with every breathless thrust, imprinting himself where no one else had ever reached. Every motion was a promise: that he was here, that he was yours, that you were loved in the most complete, carnal, and emotional sense of the word.

Every slow push and pull was deliberate, reverent, the kind of lovemaking that felt like a conversation without words. He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple, murmuring softly between each breath.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice cracking as you trembled beneath him. “So damn much it hurts. You make me feel like a man. You see me.”

You cupped his cheek, tears sliding down your temples. “You see me.”

He let out a soft, shaky breath and kissed you again, Bucky pouring everything he had into it.

His rhythm stayed slow but insistent, hips pressing into yours with aching tenderness, like he wanted to be memorized, like he never wanted to be forgotten. The friction, the closeness, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made him feel whole—it all built into something consuming, something soft and sacred.

When you came, your soft cries muffled into the curve of his neck, he held you tighter, like anchoring himself to you, like if he let go, the whole world would tilt. He whispered your name over and over again like a prayer, like a lifeline, like a vow, following close behind you with a quiet, broken groan into your skin.

And you knew, in that moment, that this wasn’t just sex.

It was coming home.

~#~#~#~#~#~

Afterward, he wrapped the blanket around you both, tucking you into his chest like he was trying to shield you from the rest of the world. His metal fingers traced soft, soothing circles against your spine, grounding you in the silence that settled warmly between you.

“You ever doubt your place again,” he murmured, lips pressed to your hair, voice rough with sleep and sincerity, “I want you to remember tonight. Remember how I touched you. How I looked at you. Remember this.”

You nodded against his chest, overwhelmed, your cheek pressed to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Your fingers curled around the dog tags still resting over your heart, the weight of them a quiet promise.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, the words small but certain.

He smiled, eyes closed as his arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

“You always were,” he said, so softly it was nearly a breath, but you felt it more than heard it, like a vow etched beneath your skin.

[aleksatia]

💗 Rafayel – Five Years Later 

The second in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Caleb | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: Trauma & PTSD themes, Implied past abduction, Betrayal / emotional manipulation, Poisoning & near-death experience, Violence (including one execution-style kill), Self-sacrifice, Intense emotional conflict, References to grief, guilt, and long-term separation, Complex relationship dynamics, Themes of forgiveness and healing While inspired by the original characters and lore of the game, this is a personal interpretation. Some aspects of character behavior, relationships, or world-building may differ from canon — especially given the five-year time gap and the impact of traumatic events. Consider it an alternate emotional timeline, shaped by growth, grief, and what-ifs.

(He taught himself silence. Learned to paint with absence, to breathe through longing. But when your shadow crossed his path again — living, breaking, real — the stillness inside him remembered how to shatter.)

The thing about disappearing is — if you do it right — no one comes looking.

Not because they don’t care. But because you made it easier to pretend you were never real in the first place.

You left the sea behind. The salt. The songs. The man with sunlight in his laugh and grief in his hands. You traded it all for concrete, steel, smoke. Somewhere between New Madrid and the Eleventh Sector, you stopped being a person and became a profile: Level 3, Tactical Division, Close Range Neutralization. Specializing in high-value body retention.

A shadow with a badge.  A ghost on retainer.

It suited you.

You didn’t drink anymore. You didn’t play games. You didn’t say his name.

“Client arrival is in twenty minutes,” crackles the comm in your ear. "Full week assignment. High confidentiality. Zero contact protocol unless engaged."

You glance at your reflection in the elevator’s gold trim.

Eyes colder. Shoulders straighter. Gun holstered under a matte jacket that still smells faintly of last week’s adrenaline. You're not the girl who once cried into coral bedsheets. You're her replacement.

The hotel smells like money. That antiseptic richness meant to distract from the emptiness.

You position yourself in the lobby near the marble fountain — half concealed, half obvious. Just enough to look like part of the architecture. Just enough to see everything.

The concierge nods. The manager paces. The staff adjust flowers no one will notice.

Then: the cars. Black, sleek, ghost-silent.

Doors open.

Two assistants spill out first. Press, probably. One on a tablet, one on comms. Then a manager — with a face oddly familiar, like a half-forgotten memory trying to surface. Then—

Your heart forgets how to be a muscle.

He steps out like the city belongs to him. Like time bent itself around his absence.

Still tall. Still too elegant for the world he’s forced to live in. Purple waves of hair tied back. Sunglasses sliding down a nose built for poetry. He’s wearing that long beige coat he used to throw over your shoulders when nights got too cold, and his cologne hits you like déjà vu dipped in seawater and regret.

Your mouth is dry. Your hands are ice.

He doesn’t look at you.

Not yet.

You do what you were trained to do: you check for threats. Scan exits. Ignore your pulse.

He walks through the lobby as if unaware. As if untouched. But when he passes, just before the elevator closes — he turns his head.

And smiles.

Like sin. Like summer. Like he knew it would be you.

Then—

“Hello again, Ms. Bodyguard.”

***

The suite was silent. Too silent for something this expensive.

No music. No hum of ventilation. Just the hush of carpet under your boots, and the faint, distant rhythm of city breath outside the window.

You stood near the corner, hands behind your back, spine too straight. Default position. Default you.

He was across the room, jacket already off, sleeves rolled. Moving like someone who was used to being observed. Not by the public — by ghosts.

The wine had already been poured. He handed you a glass like it was part of the ritual. You didn’t take it.

He arched an eyebrow.

“I’m working,” you said.

He didn’t insist. Just smiled, faintly.

Of course.

He used to fill every room — all noise and color and heat. But now, somehow, he'd grown quiet. Not in absence — in weight. Like a masterpiece in a gallery. Like the only rose in a field of thorns. You could look away, but you’d still feel him. Like a crosshair you couldn’t shake.

The window beside you looked out over the city — not that you were looking. Your eyes were trained on his reflection in the glass. Even blurred by distance and light, you could tell: he hadn’t broken. But he’d bent.

Harder than most things could survive.

His voice came low, like something remembered instead of spoken.

“You weren’t always stone.”

You didn’t answer.

He crossed the room without hurry. You didn’t move.

His eyes found yours — not searching, just… waiting. Like the question wasn’t whether you’d speak. It was whether you still could.

“And yet here you are,” he murmured, “standing in my suite like you were carved to fit the corner.”

You felt the words land somewhere deep in the ribs. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

He took a slow sip from his glass. The color of the wine caught in the light — the same shade he used to mix on his palette when painting you in shadow.

“I saw the new series,” you said, voice even.

He glanced at you over the rim.

“Did you?”

“Less gold. More... grief.”

A pause. Then a smile — dry, almost kind.

“I ran out of yellow.”

That made your throat tighten. You looked away before it showed.

He studied you. Not your face — your posture. Your silences. You weren’t hiding emotion. You were holding it.

Like a soldier holding a wound closed with one hand.

“And you,” he said, softly. “Still chasing bullets?”

“I don’t chase. I shield.”

“Of course you do.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. But enough that you could feel him again. That impossible warmth, wrapped in restraint.

He looked at you like an old painting. The kind you see once, remember forever, and never find again.

“You followed me,” he said, almost offhand. “Even after you left.”

You didn’t deny it.

“I had to know you were… functioning.”

He laughed — quiet, empty.

“Functioning,” he repeated. “Right.”

You searched his face for anger. You didn’t find it. Only something slower. Older.

Like ash.

“How have you been?” you asked.

It was a mistake. The question hung in the air like smoke from a match — small, stupid, but dangerous.

He stared at you for a long moment.

Then the glass in his hand cracked. A clean, bright sound. Like winter splitting.

The wine didn’t spill. He didn’t move.

“You left,” he said.

Not bitter. Not accusing.

Just: you left.

“And now you want to ask if I’ve been well?”

You shifted. Just enough to register discomfort. Nothing more.

He looked at the flame creeping along his knuckles — Evol, awake and restless. He closed his fist, and the fire vanished like breath from a mirror.

“What did I do?” he asked, quieter now. “What sin did I commit to earn a silent goodbye?”

You drew breath through your nose. Measured.

 “I was tired.”

“Of what?”

You looked at him.

“Of being a story you told instead of a person you knew.”

That did it.

Not an explosion. Not a slam. Just a shift. Like something in his chest cracked, and he had no hands free to hold it in place.

He turned. Slowly. Set the broken glass down. No sound. No shatter.

Then he walked to the adjoining door, pressed it open.

“You’ll stay here,” he said.

A simple guest room. Clean, unpersonalized. Quiet.

He didn’t look at you when he added:

“You’re my shadow for the week. No leaving. No exceptions.”

“And if I object?”

He paused at the threshold. Then turned. Finally met your eyes again.

“You won’t,” he said.

Not a command. Just a prophecy.

***

The days blurred.

They stretched long — drawn out by tension and silence — and yet they flew past with the quiet cruelty of something you couldn’t stop. You caught yourself counting minutes. Not until the assignment ended — but until he left again.

You told yourself it was duty. But no. You knew. The closer it got, the more it scared you.

You’d thought you’d buried the past. That five years had been enough to cauterize what you felt. Enough to flatten grief into dull, predictable weight. You’d taught yourself not to cry. Not to ache. Not to wake up reaching for a voice that wasn’t there.

But now—

Now the thought of losing him again bled through you like poison Slow. Sharp. Relentless.

For the first time, you truly wondered — had you made the worst mistake of your life?

You’d always known leaving was cowardice. A reaction. A wound reacting to pressure. You’d told yourself it was necessary — that you couldn’t survive another secret, another lie, another impossible moment in his orbit.

But now, as you stood in his shadow again, you returned to the one truth you kept avoiding. It wasn’t just the secrets. It wasn’t just his careful, curated nonchalance. It wasn’t even the things he didn’t say.

It was that moment — the one you could never forget.

The Nest. The kidnapping. The deal he’d made behind your back.

The betrayal.

The man who once made you feel like a myth had handed you over like a pawn. And you’d left. Because you couldn’t find a version of yourself that could love him and survive it.

But now…

Now you knew. The price you both paid for your fear had been too high.

***

He treated you like a shadow. Professional. Polite. Silent.

He didn’t try to speak. Didn’t joke. Didn’t prod. Whatever playful gleam had once lived in him now belonged to the stage.

You watched him wear charm like a costume — perfectly tailored, easily removed.

The real man?

He wore quieter things now. No more garish brands. No flash. Just silk-lined precision. Weight without noise. Like he’d stopped needing to be seen in order to feel powerful.

And yet — you felt it. The way his gaze burned across rooms. The way silence wrapped around you both like a loaded pause.

Something was coming. You didn’t know what.

Only that it would not be small.

***

Then came the reception.

A charity event. Wealth, power, and politics pretending to like each other in the same room. He handed you your role the night before — not as a request.

You weren’t the bodyguard tonight. You were his date.

No one must suspect otherwise. His reputation demanded it.

And so here you were:

Draped in sea-glass velvet, cut to glide and cling. Your hair swept into soft, impossible waves. Sapphires at your ears, your throat. Everything felt too heavy. Too expensive. Even your heels were a weapon you didn’t know how to use. You hated how they made you move — slow, deliberate. Exposed.

The car slid to a stop. He stepped out first — a vision in black and steel. Then he turned, offered you a hand.

You took it. His skin was cold.

But the touch — the touch burned. Like nothing had ever healed.

Cameras. Screams. Flashing lights.

Your instincts screamed — scan the crowd. Find the threat. Always the threat. But his fingers tightened around yours. Hard.

He leaned in, breath against your ear — warm, familiar, furious.

“Smile, for fuck’s sake.”

You did.

Not for the cameras. Not for the cause.

But because you knew — the storm wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

***

You played the part well.

Neutral. Polished. Cold enough to earn whispers you never heard, but felt just behind your back. 

No one dared speak them aloud, of course. They looked at you and said the compliments to him.

“She’s stunning.”

“Such a refined presence.”

“As if she was made to be on your arm.”

As if your face belonged to him. As if your silence was his design.

In some twisted way, maybe it was.

You didn’t remember how you got here. One minute you were cataloguing exits with your eyes, tracking the crowd with practiced ease —

 The next —

You were dancing.

His hand on your waist, the other guiding yours. Everything too close, too warm, too practiced.

The chandelier above cast a slow rain of light. The room turned gently, spinning around its own silence.

His touch wasn’t tender. It was intentional.

“Your expression,” he murmured, “is slowly assassinating my reputation.”

You didn’t look at him. “Your reputation as what, exactly?”

He paused. Just a second.Then:

“A man of appetites.”

You tilted your head slightly. “How poetic.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Though the press prefers playboy.”

A beat.

“So you’ve read it,” you said.

“I have someone who clips the good parts.”

“Must be a short list.”

He smiled — not kindly. “Normally, I’m seen with far more… expressive company.”

“Then why break tradition?”

His fingers flexed slightly at your waist.

“I suppose I wanted something quieter.” A beat. “Something that might bite back.”

Your gaze flicked to him. Just once. A sharpened glance.

“And how does this help your image?”

“It doesn’t.” He leaned in, voice a thread. “But it’s not always about image, is it?”

You could feel it — the heat building between syllables.  Not passion. Not yet.

Just tension. Waiting.

You moved together like two creatures pretending not to hunt each other. Each step precise. Each breath withheld.

“You used to enjoy this sort of thing,” he said, voice soft now, too close. “Crowds. Light. Being seen.”

“I used to believe in things,” you replied.

He said nothing. But his hand curled tighter against your spine.

For a second, you let the silence say everything.

Then—

You noticed it.

The way his eyes had started slipping away from you. Again and again — to a single shape on the edge of the room. A man. Grey suit. Clean line. Controlled posture.

You knew that look.

The dance ended, but you weren’t let go. He took your arm, like a gentleman.

But you knew better.

***

The garden was colder than it had any right to be. The kind of cold that wasn’t about temperature — it was about distance. About the way stone walls and sculpted hedges swallowed sound and left only the weight of footsteps behind.

You followed him without a word. Because you already knew.

You’d seen his eyes stray to the man in the grey suit half a dozen times during the reception. Not nervous glances — calculated ones. Not curiosity — confirmation.

And now here you were, walking straight into the web.

The man waited by the marble fountain, one hand resting casually in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something expensive and unnecessary. His smile was pleasant. His suit was quiet money. His name was carved into memory from the briefings you used to skim with more detachment.

Elias Varrick. Publicly: philanthropist, investor, art collector, father of four. Privately: suspected ties to high-level biotech experimentation, classified marine acquisitions, and several quiet disappearances.

 All rumors, of course. Nothing on paper. Nothing proven.

Still — you knew. Your gut always knew.

But you didn’t know what Rafayel knew. Not yet.

They greeted each other like old acquaintances. A handshake that looked effortless. Painless.

“I thought it best to deliver the piece myself,” Rafayel said. His voice had its old rhythm — slow, warm, dipped in charm.

You watched him as he spoke. Not the words — the tone.

Polite. Polished. Performing.

“That kind of personal art,” he added, “deserves a personal hand.”

Varrick smiled wider. “Very kind of you. My family will love it. We’re planning to hang it in the main lounge — the one where we gather in the evenings. My wife, the children, my mother. It’s where we live.”

And that’s when it happened.

You didn’t freeze. Not outwardly. But something inside you did.

That phrase. The way he said it — we live here.

You didn’t hear a lie. That was the problem. You heard sincerity.

You saw the portrait — Rafayel’s portrait — hanging above a mantel. You saw children playing on a rug beneath it. An old woman sipping tea in a chair nearby. You saw innocence. Unaware. Wrapped around a weapon.

And suddenly, all the scattered images connected. The rumors. The names. The “environmental” fund. The experimental projects tied to Lemurians. The disappearances.

He wasn’t here for charity.

Rafayel was hunting. And you were holding his arm like a lover while he did it.

It wasn’t the lie that made you pull away. It was the memory of all the ones that came before.

You stepped back. A breath lodged in your throat.

“I need a moment,” you murmured.

He turned. “Wait—”

You didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t.”

You turned away.

You needed air. Space. Time. You needed to stop hearing the echo of his voice in your chest, the one that said it’s different now, even when you knew it wasn’t.

But he followed. Of course he followed.

“Let me explain—”

“No,” you snapped, more sharply than intended. “No more explaining. That’s always the beginning of the lie.”

He reached for your arm. You stopped him with a look.

“I want to know one thing,” you said. Your voice was low, barely steady. “That painting… it’s a weapon, isn’t it?”

He hesitated. Just a breath. But it was enough.

“Not here,” he said softly. “Please.”

“There are children in that house, Rafayel. Children. How can you guarantee there won’t be innocent blood?”

His jaw tensed. The silence between you vibrated with unsaid things. Then:

“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll explain everything. But not in public.”

“Answer me.”

“I said not here,” he whispered. Not angry. Not cold. Just—desperate. Controlled. And that — more than anything — told you what you needed to know.

And that’s when it happened. The movement was too fast.

You heard it before you saw it — a hiss of compressed air.

Then the glint of metal. Then the needle, already buried in the side of Rafayel’s neck.

Everything shattered.

Rafayel stumbled, hand flying to the injection point. His eyes widened — not with pain. With realization.

Varrick stepped back with chilling calm, adjusting his cuff.

“I knew it was you,” he said simply. “The moment I saw your face, lemurian. I knew you were the one behind Raymond’s death.”

You didn’t wait for orders. Didn’t need permission.

You drew and fired — one shot. Silent. Precise. Varrick collapsed with a grunt of pain, clutching his leg.

You were on him in three strides. Knee in his chest. Barrel to his throat.

“What was in it?” you growled.

His breath rattled, half from the pain, half from the thrill of it all. He was enjoying this — the game, the brink.

“I’m not—”

You slammed the muzzle harder against his neck.

“Tell me. Or I swear, I’ll have your lungs painting that lovely family room of yours by morning.”

He laughed, blood in his teeth.

“Requiem Coral,” he gasped. “Gen-modified. Synthetic compound. It bonds to Lemurian blood — slow neural degeneration. Burns out the body one nerve at a time. Quite poetic, really.”

You stared at him. Then you fired again.

Between the eyes.

No poetry. Just silence.

***

You found Rafayel still upright. Barely. His pupils were uneven. Sweat glistened on his temple. His balance was shot.

You got under his arm, bore half his weight.

“No hospital,” he muttered.

“I’m not a moron,” you snapped. “We’re going home.”

You drove with one hand clenched around the wheel, the other wrapped tightly around his — clammy now, fingers twitching less and less.

The city blurred past like water through glass, useless. Silent.

He was slumped in the seat beside you, head tilted back, jaw clenched.

“Is this your version of a confession?” he muttered, voice paper-thin. “Waiting ‘til I’m half-dead to finally hold my hand?”

“Shut up,” you hissed.

He smiled — barely. “So harsh. Romance really is dead.”

You tightened your grip on his hand. His skin was cold.

“Don’t do that,” you said. “Don’t talk like you’re not about to die.”

“I mean, statistically—”

“I said shut up.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. 

The rest of the ride was agony. You didn’t feel the road. You didn’t feel the turns. You felt him — fading beside you. His breath going shallow. His body heavy.

And all you could do was drive faster.

***

Your home wasn’t built for tenderness. It wasn’t a place to recover. It was a place to survive.

The door slammed behind you, and you half-dragged, half-carried him to the medical bench. He tried to help. He couldn’t.

He collapsed like a broken marionette, breathing hard, sweat cold on his brow.

You moved by instinct.

Antitoxin. Anti-inflammatories. Burn stabilizer. Anything. Everything.

Tubes. IV. Scanners.

Your hands didn’t shake — until you realized that nothing was working. His vitals dipped. Once. Again.

No improvement. And you weren’t a doctor. You weren’t a biotech. You were a weapon.

You could take a man apart in thirty seconds, but this — this—

You couldn’t fix this.

You hovered over him, swallowing panic, shoving down the scream forming in your throat.

He opened his eyes — only halfway. Saw the mess you were making. He lifted one trembling hand, and caught your wrist.

“Stop,” he whispered. “You’ll do more harm than good.”

You shook your head violently. “No. No, I can— I just need time—”

“There is no time.”

His voice was barely there.

“I don’t— I don’t know how to stop it,” you said, broken. “I don’t know how to fight it—how to save you—”

“Then listen.”

His eyes found yours.

“If this is it…” His breath caught. “If I’m not waking up from this—”

“Raf, no—”

“Then I want the truth.”

He looked at you like a man watching his own shadow disappear. Like someone who knew there was no second chance this time.

“No secrets. No lies. Nothing between us.”

You froze. And something inside you cracked.

The words came out on a sob.

“I know.”

He blinked slowly. “Know what?”

“I know you sold me out. N109 Zone. Five years ago.”

The air stopped moving. His lips parted, but no sound came.

You looked down, ashamed and shaking.

“I found the records. I connected the drops, the timing. You handed me over.”

There was a long pause. Then, suddenly — he laughed. A ragged, broken sound that became a cough.

“Oh, you—God.”

His smile was pained. Too pained.

“You wanted to reach Onichynus, remember?”

 You looked up.

“There’s no easy road there. No clean path.”

 He coughed again, winced, and gripped your hand tighter.

“I was watching. If things had gone wrong, I would’ve stepped in. I wouldn’t have let them break you.”

Your lips trembled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t trust myself not to stop you. I didn’t want you to look at me like you are right now.”

He coughed again — something wet in the sound now.

“I never betrayed you.”

His hand drifted to your chest, barely touching.

“You were always my heart.” He smiled faintly. “And when you left… you took it with you.”

You crumpled. Your hands went to his face, cold and pale, and your voice shattered into pieces.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I thought— I thought you used me. Manipulated me. Like everyone else.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

“I would’ve died for you.”

“I know. I know now.”

Tears streamed down your face.

“I took your heart, Raf, but mine—” You pressed a hand to his chest. “Mine never left you. I… still love you.”

Your voice broke like a body under fire.

 “God, I never stopped loving you.”

You leaned down, kissed his lips — dry, cold, still his. Your tears landed on his skin.

“Please,” you whispered. “Fight. Just… fight. Tell me what to do. Anything. Because if you die— if you leave me now— I swear—”

“I’m already leaving,” he said.

A beat. A breath.

“I don’t think anything can stop it.”

You shook your head. “No—”

“But there’s something you can do.”

You stilled.

“Take me to the sea,” he whispered.

His eyes were almost closed.

“If I die… I want the ocean to take my last breath.”

***

You helped him into the water, one arm steady around his waist, the other gripping his wrist as if holding on could somehow hold him here.

The sea was cold, even for nightfall. Each wave climbed higher, tasting skin and memory as it came. Rafayel leaned into you, too light, too quiet. His steps were uncertain, but not from fear. He wasn’t afraid. He was done.

By the time the water reached his chest, he stopped.

His breath caught. Not sharply — softly, like a curtain falling.

For a moment, under the pale gleam of moonlight, he closed his eyes. His features relaxed. And it struck you — how little color remained in his face. How glass-like his skin looked. Almost translucent. Almost not there.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words never found shape.

Because he let go.

He stepped back. And before you could stop him, before you could tighten your grip — he slipped beneath the surface and vanished.

No sound. No splash. Just absence.

“Rafayel.”

Your voice wavered, swallowed instantly by the dark. Then louder—

“RAFAYEL!”

But there was only the sea.

You surged forward, boots stumbling, breath catching in your throat as you threw yourself into the waves.

Cold bit into your spine. Your jacket dragged you down. Salt stung your eyes. None of it mattered.

You dove.

Once, five years ago, it had been the same. Different ocean. Same cold. Same fear.

You remembered that too well — sinking below the surface on a job gone wrong, your lungs seizing, your vision narrowing. And just before the dark closed in, it had been him who pulled you out. His arms, his breath, his voice.

Breathe, cutie. Come on. Breathe.

And now—

Now it was your turn to find him.

You kicked downward, deeper, into the black.

You couldn’t see. The moonlight didn’t reach this far. But you didn’t need to see. You needed to find.

The water grew colder the further you went. Each stroke slower, weaker. The pressure in your chest building, blooming like fire. Your hands swept forward, wide, desperate — fingers searching for fabric, for skin, for anything.

You found nothing.

The panic came slowly. Not like a scream, but like a slow tightening, a noose drawn carefully across your ribs. Your lungs began to burn. Your mind whispered it was too far. Too late. But your body refused to listen.

You kept going.

Until your arms stopped obeying. Until your legs stopped kicking.

Until your last exhale slipped from between your lips, and with it, the only word that still meant anything.

“Rafayel,” you mouthed.

And sank.

Everything stilled.

Time, sensation, thought.

And just as the darkness began to take you—

Something changed.

A pulse. Not from the sea. From inside.

Evol. Dormant until now — roared awake. But not with power. With purpose.

It didn’t surge to protect you. It didn’t scream in defense. It answered something quieter. Deeper.

A wish.

You weren’t trying to save yourself. You weren’t trying to rise.

You were trying to give him your heart back. To pour your strength into his veins. To reignite the spark inside him — even if it meant extinguishing your own.

Let me give it back. Let him live. Let me take the weight.

That was the prayer beneath your ribs, and Evol obeyed.

It moved through you like liquid fire, searing down to your bones, pulling from every corner of your being. It hurt. God, it hurt — not like dying, but like unraveling. You were emptying yourself willingly. Not out of fear. Out of love.

And then — resonance.

Not just from you. From him.  Like something in the darkness roared back.

No. Not her. Not this way.

You felt it — a pull in the opposite direction. Not rejection. Not resistance. Reciprocity.

His Evol flared back — instinctive, involuntary, desperate. Refusing the gift. Refusing the cost.

He wouldn’t let you die for him.  And you — you couldn’t let him die for you.

And so you were pulled. Not rising. Not flying.

Drawn back. Both of you. Together.

Because even now, even here — at the edge of everything — neither of you could bear to leave the other behind.

***

You came back coughing.

The world hit in pieces — salt on your lips, sand beneath your palms, the weight of your own chest struggling to rise.

And then—

Arms.

Not the ocean’s. His.

He was holding you. Soaked. Shaking. Alive.

His heartbeat thudded beneath your ear, ragged but real. His breath skimmed your temple. His fingers gripped your shoulders like he wasn’t sure whether to anchor you — or himself.

You opened your eyes. The sky swam above you, vast and starless.

And Rafayel’s face was there. Pale with exhaustion, hair clinging wet to his skin, eyes too bright in the dark.

You reached up, touched his cheek with trembling fingers. He leaned into it.

No words passed between you. There was nothing to explain.

“This,” you whispered, voice torn to ribbons, “is exactly where I want to be when I die.”

His mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile breaking through.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, “next time we die.”

Your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Raf…”

He hushed you with his thumb against your cheek, his gaze steady and quiet.

“It’s over.”

You shook your head. “But how—”

He didn’t answer right away.

Only looked at you, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you saw it— light. Faint, buried, but alive in him.

“Cutie,” he said softly, “how could I keep dying when you needed me this much?”

The sound you made was broken, wild — grief and love tangled into one. You folded into him, arms tight around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck.

“Then you’ll have to live,” you whispered, choked, “for a long, long time. Because I need you. Every day. Every second. Every stupid heartbeat.”

He laughed — quiet and hoarse, and it felt like sunlight after rain.

“Another eternity, then. Sounds like a curse. Or a blessing. Maybe both.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. Moonlight caught the water on his skin, and you felt like crying again.

“I was such a fool,” you said. “You shouldn’t have brought me back. I ruined everything. I wasted so much—”

“I’m not arguing,” he cut in gently. “But I figured… maybe you’d want to fix your behavior.”

A huff escaped you. Wet, shaky. Almost a smile.

“Will you let me try?” you asked. “Will you—can you forgive me?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Sweetheart,” he said, cupping your face in both hands, “this was never about forgiveness. Not really. Not about second chances or fresh starts.”

His thumbs brushed away the tears you didn’t realize were falling.

“We’re us. Flawed. Messy. Brilliant and brutal in equal measure. We hurt each other. And we heal each other.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I forgave you a long time ago. I was only angry because I didn’t understand. I thought maybe—if I’d been softer. Or warmer. Or better—maybe you would’ve stayed.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping free.

“I never left you,” you said. “Not really.”

“I know.”

He leaned forward. And kissed you.

Once — soft and slow, like breathing. Then again — deeper, like memory.

And when you kissed him back, there was no anger left. No questions. Just the weight of five years falling away between your mouths.

You broke away just long enough to murmur, “We almost died.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth.

“We’re always almost dying.”

You laughed, breathless.

“This is a terrible time—”

“There’s no better one,” he said. “You never know which kiss is the last. Which night is the edge.”

He pulled you to him again.

And beneath the moon, on wet sand and shaking limbs, you gave yourselves back — completely. No hesitation. No conditions.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t clean. But it was real.

You loved him like you remembered how. And he held you like he never forgot.

And this time, it didn’t feel like the end.

It felt like the beginning.

***

You woke to the sound of brush against canvas.

Soft, rhythmic. A whisper of motion. It tugged at something in your memory, something half-forgotten.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t even open your eyes.

There was warmth on your skin — sun, blankets, and something else. You inhaled. Salt. Linens. Paint.

And him.

When you finally blinked into the light, it took a moment to understand where you were.

The room was high-ceilinged, the windows cracked open to the hush of waves. The bed was too big, sheets still tangled, your body aching pleasantly in ways that reminded you — yes, it was real.

Last night was real.

And then—

“Don’t move.”

His voice. Low. Focused. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Rafayel. Sitting on a low stool near the foot of the bed, bare feet braced against the floor, shirt half-unbuttoned, canvas before him. A brush in one hand, a palette balanced on his thigh.

You blinked at him. “What… are you doing?”

“I said don’t move.” He didn’t look up. “You’ll ruin the pose.”

“I wasn’t posing,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. “I was sleeping. Possibly drooling.”

He finally glanced at you. A glint in his eyes — amusement.

 “You were beautiful. Are. I wanted to keep this one.”

“Raf,” you said, stretching with a grimace, “I probably look like a tangled sea urchin. There’s still sand in places sand should never be. I need a shower.”

“If you let me finish, we’ll shower together.”

Your brows lifted. “Tempting bribe.”

“I know.” He smirked. “Also—note to self: never again sex on sand.”

“The ocean was too cold,” you teased.

“Not in my arms.”

That stopped you for a breath.

You smiled. A small, stunned thing.

And somewhere in the middle of smiling and remembering and wanting to kiss him again, you noticed something on the canvas. You squinted.

“Wait... is that yellow?”

He flinched. The brush stuttered.

And then—he groaned, deep and dramatic. “Dammit. Now I have to start over.”

You sat up on your elbows, eyes wide. “Was that my fault?”

He stood slowly, brush still in hand. “You moved. You talked. You ruined my masterwork.”

You grinned. “Your nude beach goddess masterwork?”

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “It was going to hang in the Met.”

“Well, in that case—” you started.

But before you could escape, he lunged — grabbed your ankle, yanked you toward the edge of the bed with a playfully feral grin.

You shrieked.

“Raf!”

“You destroyed art!”

“I was the art!”

You kicked. He caught your other foot.

Laughter spilled from your throat — loud, full, aching in your ribs. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed like this.

He climbed over you, breathless with mock outrage, and you tangled together in the blankets, in limbs, in joy.

You were still gasping when you murmured, “I’m sorry I can’t erase the past. Those five years... they’re etched into us. But I swear, I’ll spend every day trying to heal what I broke.”

His expression softened — all teasing gone.

“Cutie,” he said quietly, brushing a thumb over your cheekbone, “you still don’t see it, do you?”

You stilled.

“Last night,” he said, “you were ready to give everything. Your Evol, your life, your soul — for me. Even when you thought I wouldn’t survive.”

He leaned his forehead against yours.

“In that moment, I think even the gods cried.”

You closed your eyes.

“My wounds healed the second you chose to stay,” he whispered. “There’s barely even a scar left.”

Then his voice dropped lower.

“Just promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Never disappear again. Not without giving me the chance to fight for you. Not in this lifetime. Not in any other.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You looked him in the eyes — and felt the weight of every mistake, every mile, every ache that had brought you back here.

And then you said, quietly:

“Even if all the oceans rise, even if this world burns and time eats itself whole — I’ll find you. In every life. I’ll find you, and I’ll stay.”

His lips parted. He didn’t speak.

He just kissed you.

And this time, it wasn’t for survival.

It was for everything else.

[saywhat-politics]

BREAKING: Donald Trump's top advisor Stephen Miller has a fascist meltdown after ICE officers are denied entry into a literal elementary school amidst MAGA mass deportations.

This is a cartoonishly evil rant from a heartless monster...

"ICE agents denied entry to a Southside elementary school in the Chicago public school system and they're saying that they followed protocols, principal says, and did not allow the agents inside. Are you aware of that situation?" a Fox News host asked Miller. "And is that something that is acceptable? We've heard talk about schools and churches as sanctuary spots."

"There's not sanctuary for criminal aliens in this country nor is there a sanctuary for child trafficking, for child smuggling, or for child endangerment," said Miller, defending the idea of raiding schools.

"ICE officers will take the actions necessary to protect the lives and safety of our children and to identify individuals who are involved in the smuggling and trafficking of our children," he went on.

"In order to conduct these investigations, in order to protect the safety and security of children all across America, federal law enforcement needs unrestricted access to conduct basic investigations," he added.

Of course, these raids have absolutely nothing to do with protecting children. They're designed to terrorize migrants and satiate the racist MAGA base.

Forcing armed, jackbooted agents into elementary schools accomplishes nothing beyond traumatizing innocent children. But since they're predominantly children of color, Stephen Miller couldn't care less — in fact he loves it.

[whisperedmeg]

STRANGE GRACE ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part ii

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: when spencer, fresh out of prison, calls, she comes — and in the quiet of his apartment, something shifts. a kiss, a night, a beginning.

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff, smut if you squint

w/c: 3.1k

tags/warnings: post-prison spencer, kinda emotional bc Spencer like JUST got out of prison, pretending the whole plot point of diana reid living with spencer isn’t a thing for the sake of this, making out, things get a lil heated but no true smut, still NSFW MDNI, sexual tension, horny spencer, horny reader, uh oh boner alert, vaguely implied intimacy issues/prison trauma, alexa play fresh out the slammer by taylor swift

a/n: eeeep soft animal part 2! don’t worry prison arc is already over, our boy is freeeee and I couldn’t torture reader any longer by keeping him in there. again, i am very very brand new to posting fics on tumblr (+ writing for criminal minds in general) so I appreciate any and all interactions with this fic and any advice/feedback in my asks is always welcome! please reblog if you enjoy <3

series masterlist

A week passed since Spencer’s last visit without so much as a sighting of him. I thought about calling in a favor with one of the COs, asking about him under the guise of needing a follow-up exam. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to risk any suspicion.

When my phone buzzed that night, I almost didn’t answer.

Unknown number.

Probably spam, or a wrong number. Normally I ignored those sorts of calls without second thought, but something inside my brain told me to answer anyway.

“Hello?”

There was a pause on the other end — but it wasn’t dead air. Then, a voice:

“It’s me. It’s…it’s Spencer. Spencer Reid.”

I froze. My heart kicked so hard I had to press a hand to my chest. I was silent for so long that Spencer thought I’d hung up. “You there?”

“Y-yeah, I— Are you okay?” I finally replied after the shock wore off. It came out like a reflex. Not “where are you” or “how did you get out,” but rather a desperate need to know he was alright.

“I think so,” he said, and there was a quiet steadiness to it that hadn’t been there the last time I saw him. “I’m out.”

My fingers curled tighter around the phone. “Out,” I echoed, trying to make the word feel real. “You mean…?”

“I got released,” he said. “A few days ago. My team caught the actual killer.”

“And now?” I asked softly.

“Now… I’m home. In my apartment. It doesn’t feel like mine again yet, but it’s quiet. It’s… better.”

There was something about the way he said home that made my throat tighten. “Why are you calling me?” I asked, voice small.

He let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Because when it got quiet, and I finally had a choice… I wanted to hear your voice.”

I didn’t reply yet. I couldn’t.

“I thought about you,” he added, softer now. “More than I probably should’ve. But I think that’s what got me through the worst of it.”

I closed my eyes, and the line was quiet for a beat. “I kept thinking about your hands,” he said. “The way you touched me like you didn’t want to stop, even though you had to. You were scared someone would notice.”

I swallowed hard.

“But I noticed. Every time,” he added.

I swallowed again, fingers curling into the blanket. “That wasn’t exactly medical protocol.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why it mattered.”

Something about the way he said it made it impossible to breathe for a second. Silence passed between us again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“I don’t know what this is,” he said. “Or if it’s anything at all. But I know I want to see you again, if you’re open to it.”

I pressed the phone tighter to my ear, as if I could get closer. I let out a breath, words lodged in my throat.

“Will you come here?” he asked softly after a long stretch of silence.

I blinked, then sat up straighter. My answer came out quiet, but certain.

“Yes.”

—

After we hung up, Spencer swiftly texted me his address. My eyes bulged out of my head when I read it — 5 blocks from my apartment. He lives five blocks away from me. All this time, before he got locked up, he was in my neighborhood and we never once crossed paths. Or maybe we did, and we just didn’t know it. Something about our proximity made my heart flutter. Maybe, in a better, more fair universe where he never saw the inside of Millburn’s walls, we still would have found each other.

I changed quickly — nothing dramatic, just a clean t-shirt, jeans that didn’t look like I’d slept in them, and a light jacket. I brushed my hair, threw on chapstick, and stood frozen in front of the mirror for a full minute before grabbing my keys.

The streets were mostly empty this late, and I barely noticed the walk. My heart kept beating faster the closer I got — half panic, half adrenaline. When I reached his building, I hesitated with my finger over the buzzer.

The elevator ride took too long. Every second felt like a held breath. I knocked softly on the door of Apartment 23 before I lost my nerve, and while I waited, I realized I hadn’t at all prepared for what would happen next. I hadn’t thought about what I’d do when the door opened — would I wave? Say hello? Shake his hand like we were meeting for the first time, like we weren’t already tangled up in something we’d never named? Should we hug?

The lock clicked, and the door creaked open. And there he was.

Not wearing Millburn’s scratchy polyester uniform. Not under flickering fluorescent lights. Not watched, not guarded, not contained.

Just Spencer, right in front of me.

His curls were tamer. His clothes were soft and civilian. His eyes were the same.

For a second, we just looked at each other. I felt myself blinking too fast, my chest too tight. He was here. He was okay. And for the first time, I got to see him where he belonged.

“Hey,” I said, but it came out more like a breath than a word.

He smiled — not the small, shy one he’d given me in the infirmary. This smile was big and bright and laced with relief and genuine joy. “Hi.”

Hi. One word, and that was enough to pull me in. I stepped towards him and inside his apartment without giving it another thought. His hand found my waist like it had been there before, and the distance between us disappeared. I buried my face against his chest, the top of my head tucked under his chin, and I fought back tears I hadn’t been expecting.

He smelled clean. Like laundry and something sharp, like soap or aftershave. He felt warm. Solid. Human.

Eventually, he pulled back just far enough to look at me. “You didn’t know I was out.”

I shook my head. “Not until you called.”

He nodded. “Good. I wanted to tell you myself.”

The words sat heavy in my chest — because he’d thought about that. Because I mattered to him enough for it to be a conscious decision.

His apartment was quiet — just soft lamplight, books lining the shelves, half a tea kettle on the stove. Clean, but lived in. Walls painted green and much nicer furniture than I’d ever owned. Somehow both exactly what I expected and not at all. I tried not to stare.

“Tea?” he offered.

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure I’d be able to taste it. My nerves had hit a high, buzzing pitch — everything inside me tuned to this strange frequency of disbelief.

He moved around his kitchen like he’d only been gone a day, not months. I watched him from the edge of the couch, unsure if I should sit. I wanted to ask so many things — about his release, about how he was doing, about how it felt to be here — but none of them made it to my mouth.

“You’re really here,” I said instead.

He set the mugs down on the coffee table and sat beside me — not too close, but not too far. Close enough that if I shifted just a little, my thigh would probably brush his.

“I kept thinking about this,” he said softly. “Not just getting out — this. You. Sitting here. In my apartment.”

I swallowed, hard. “I’ve thought about it too.”

He didn’t touch me, not right away. But the space between us thinned, almost vibrated with possibility. Everything that had to stay hidden before — all the lingering glances, the touches passed off as clinical, the things neither of us could say aloud — it was still here. And now, there was nothing stopping it, except ourselves.

He looked at me like he wasn’t sure if this was real — like I might vanish. I wanted to tell him I felt the same, but the words lodged in my throat again.

The quiet between us wasn’t awkward, but it was charged. Heavy. The kind of quiet where you hear your own pulse. Where the air feels like it could crack open if you moved too quickly.

He was sitting so still — hands clasped in his lap, shoulders hunched like he was still trying to make himself a little smaller. But his eyes kept flicking to mine, then away, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get there. Like he was waiting for permission to want something again.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I came here tonight. Who I’d find.” I looked down at my hands, fingers twisted together in my lap. “But it’s still you.”

He exhaled through his nose, barely a sound, but I felt it. The shift in the room. The relief, the ache, all tangled up in that one breath. I turned toward him, slowly, my knee brushing his. “You’re different out here than in there, obviously,” I added. “But you’re still you.”

He looked at me then, and whatever guard he’d been holding up cracked, just a little. I could see the want there, deep and quiet and scared out of its mind.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t have a plan. But I leaned in, not all the way — just enough that the space between us could disappear if he wanted it to. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, the rise and fall of his breath.

His hand lifted — hesitant, like he was reaching out in the dark. His fingers found my cheek and hovered for a moment before they touched my skin. Light, barely-there pressure.

“I don’t know how we’re going to navigate this,” I said softly. “But I know I want it, Spencer. I want to try.”

His brow furrowed, and for a second he looked like he might cry. He let out the breath he seemed to have been holding since I walked in, and nodded. “Me too.”

And then, there was that smile — the one I hadn’t really let myself hope for. The real one I’d only ever seen in flashes before now. It bloomed slowly, like it surprised even him.

“Come here,” he whispered.

My breath caught, and I climbed into his lap like I’d done it a hundred times before. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His hand was still on my cheek, steady, anchoring me there. He leaned in slowly, as if he was giving me time to change my mind — like he didn’t quite believe I wouldn’t. His eyes flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

“I’ve wanted to do this ever since our first game of chess in the infirmary,” he murmured, his voice low and raw and gravelly. His lips brushed mine — just barely — and it felt like a question and a promise in the same breath.

And when he finally kissed me, it wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t cautious or unsure. It was full of months of tension and weight and wondering. It was his hands cupping the back of my neck, his mouth finding mine with a hunger he hadn’t let himself feel until right now. It was soft and deep and breathtaking, like he was relearning what it felt like to touch and be touched with care.

His hand slid from my cheek into my hair, fingers threading slowly, anchoring me there. Mine curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him just a little closer. And when I tilted my head, opened my mouth, let him take more — he did. He tasted like peppermint and tea and something warm I couldn’t quite name.

There was nothing clinical about this touch. No need for excuses now.

The kiss broke a few minutes later, only because we needed air. He pulled back half an inch, eyes darting between mine like he was afraid to wake up.

I leaned back into him, slower this time. His arms circled my waist as I shifted to straddle him, and the new position knocked a soft exhale out of him. My hands ran through his hair — I’d wanted to do that for too long — and when I tugged gently at the ends, he groaned low in his throat.

Something about that sound unraveled me.

“I wanted this so much,” I whispered, mouth brushing his jaw.

“I know.” His hands ran up my back, warm under my shirt. “Me too.”

We stayed like that for a while — kissing, touching, moving in slow, molten inches like we had all the time in the world. His hands weren’t greedy, but they were purposeful. Mapping. Memorizing. Every time he touched a new patch of skin, I felt the zap of it deep in my spine.

And god — when he looked at me like that? Like I was something he couldn’t believe he actually got to have? That made everything else disappear.

I could’ve gone further. Would’ve. Wanted to. But I felt the subtle way his breath caught, the firm tension in his shoulders. Something in him still hadn’t exhaled. He still hadn’t let go of everything he’d been carrying since his arrest, so I slowed us down. Kissed him softer. Ground my hips against his just once, slow and full — and when he gasped into my mouth, I let that be enough.

When we pulled apart, I curled into his chest, and he held me like he didn’t want to let go.

“Sleep here,” he murmured into my hair. “If you want.”

I lifted my head, giving him a soft smile. “I do.” I pressed my lips to the side of his neck, just once.

He shifted, and I felt it — the way his body responded to mine, hard and undeniable against my thigh. He froze for a second.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, eyes wide and a little mortified. “Sorry.”

I laughed before I could help it, fingers brushing through the curls at the back of his neck. “I felt it earlier, Spencer. It’s okay.”

He let out a soft, relieved, still-embarrassed laugh, forehead pressed to mine. “You make it hard to think straight.”

I kissed him again, slower this time. “Good.”

Eventually, reluctantly, he pulled back enough to let me get up. He walked me to his bedroom and grabbed me something to sleep in, handing me a worn, soft t-shirt from his drawer with the words FBI Academy sprawled across the front in faded screen print.

I ducked into the bathroom and peeled off my clothes slowly, my skin still sizzling everywhere he had touched. My mind replayed every breath, memorizing the way he looked at me like he couldn’t believe I even existed. When I caught sight of myself in the mirror, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen, I didn’t fully recognize the woman staring back.

I slipped the shirt over my head — no bra underneath, just panties — and pulled it down til it hit mid-thigh. I padded back into the room, finding Spencer in bed, arms propped behind his head, waiting for me. He had changed into a t-shirt and blue plaid pajama pants.

When I slid under the covers beside him, it didn’t feel awkward. It didn’t even feel new. He reached for me like it was instinct — like he’d been dreaming of pulling someone into him for so long that his body already knew the way. Like he’d been dreaming of me. I settled against him, bending my leg so my thigh stretched across his hips, my head tucked under his chin. His arm wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me tight, and his other hand rested low on my back, under the hem of the shirt, his long fingers warm against my bare skin.

I could feel him again — hard between us, barely restrained. But he didn’t move. Neither did I. The air between us was thick with all the things we hadn’t said yet. Everything I’d thought about on those nights between his visits. Everything I felt when I filled out that report, trying to get him somewhere safer. Every phantom brush of our hands, every minute stolen under the fluorescent lights of the infirmary.

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. Swallowed.

“You okay?” I whispered.

A nod, then, “Yeah. I just…” He let out a slow breath. “This doesn’t really feel real.” He released a dry, disbelieving chuckle.

I felt that too — the surreal ache of being so close after spending so long holding back. I imagined it must be a thousand times more intense for him, feeling all of this and readjusting to freedom all at once.

I reached for his hand and laced my fingers through his. “It is,” I whispered.

My leg stayed bent over his front. His hand didn’t leave my waist. His cock throbbed gently between us, pressing into the soft flesh of my thigh, and neither of us pretended we didn’t feel it.

We lay there for a long time like that — pressed together, aching, breathing each other in.

Eventually, he shifted enough to pull me in tighter. His leg hooked around mine, his lips brushing my temple again.

“I feel like this is a dream,” he whispered. “I know it isn’t, obviously. And even if it was, I don’t subscribe to the pseudoscience of dream analysis. But still.”

I smiled against his throat. “You’re not dreaming, Spencer.”

“I might be,” he laughed.

I tilted my head and kissed him again, soft and slow and full of promise. “Then wake up with me,” I murmured.

He exhaled, long and warm. “I will.”

And when I finally closed my eyes, my whole body buzzed with the ache of holding back.

ᝰ.ᐟ

part iii.

[cottonlemonade]

Thinking about MSBY finding out you and Sakusa got together. When you began flirting with the wing spiker you didn’t expect that his teammates followed some warped Spice Girls-inspired code of “if you get a lover, you gotta spill every detail to his friends”.

You ran a little café close to their gym and so had the team as regulars. A few months ago, one of them, the handsome dark-haired guy who usually wore a mask whenever he entered and didn't use more pleasantries than necessary, started talking to you outside of his coffee order. He’d ask about the day's special even though it was clearly advertised on a board above your head or complimented you on the taste of his very plain and easy coffee order. You thought his clumsy approaches to flirting were adorable and decided to make life harder for him by pretending to be clueless about his advances, eventually leading to him blurting out a confession and freezing when you answered with a kiss.

Now you were in excellent spirits all day, the lingering feeling of his lips still on your mind. It had been odd coming into the café that morning. The place looked just as clean and inconspicuous as you left it last night. And yet, the memory of Sakusa pulling you closer, his large hands securely holding your chubby waist as you balanced on your tiptoes to reach him, actually made you giggle. Dreamily, you began sorting through some order papers when two of his teammates entered and sauntered towards you, suspiciously knowing grins on their faces.

“So, do tell.”, Atsumu was leaning on the counter, smirking while he waited for his usual.

“Tell you what?”, you asked, innocently.

“Well, Omi-Omi was hummin’ this morning during warmups so he must’ve gotten somewhere with ya.”

You failed to suppress a smile when both he and the spiky-haired friend moved in closer like two school girls ready to gossip.

Atsumu cocked his eyebrows expectantly.

“There may or may not have been a … small incident yesterday involving the aforementioned party.”

“Y’all did it on a table, didn’t ya?”

You preferred to stay silent, more so to annoy them than anything else.

“So, diddya?”, Atsumu urged, stealing a slice of mango from the lunch you were plating up for him.

“First of all, no. And second of all, even if we did, I wouldn’t tell you of all people.”

“Why not me of all people?”, he asked, mocking your tone and looking genuinely offended.

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t think you wanted in-depth protocols of your friends’ love and sex lives.”

“Well, there are obviously a lotta things ya don’t know about me then.”

Bokuto, snatching half of Atsumu’s sandwich and biting into it with a raised brow, added, “Feeling pretty stupid now, don’t we?”

You rubbed your temple, something you had found yourself doing more and more ever since these dorks had stepped into your life.

[familyvideostevie]

to close up all the rest

joel miller x reader | 3.2k

a patrol rattles you. joel keeps you grounded.

cw: typical tlou violence, intense emotions about being alive/death, love, something to live for. post-part i jackson au

a/n: just a little jackson au one-shot. this is a christmas present for darling @macfrog. thank you for existing, i love you. hope this is alright.

--

It's been a long time since someone died in front of you.

You don't even know her. Honestly, you should be glad the runner grabbed her, considering she just finished shooting at you. Your patrol partner, a kid called Joey who usually works the stables, shouts your name as you watch it sink its teeth into her neck over and over again.

She doesn't even scream.

"More are coming," he cries. "We have to go."

He's right. The woman's gunshot echoed in the valley and it's not yet cold enough for the herds to be slow, so you have a few minutes at most to get out of here. Probably less.

Groans on the wind. Definitely less.

You shake yourself out of the twisted thrall you've fallen into and look away. Heart in your throat, blood pounding in your ears, you quickly tie your bags to your horse and scan the street.

"Do you have your pack?" you ask Joey.

If she was screaming you'd shoot her. Put an end to it. But it might be a waste of a shot and then the runner would be on you in ten big steps. Fuck.

"Got it!"

You both mount skittish rides and take off down the cracked pavement. The patrol had an added ask of raiding some neighborhoods for linens that can be turned into bandages. You each have a big bag of old clothes, curtains, blankets, and the like strapped to the back of your saddles. The woman had appeared out of the tree line just as you finished the last house, demanding your stuff. There was protocol for this -- Joey would distract her while you went for the gun strapped to the back of your jeans.

But she was skittish, this woman. She fired at the pavement in front of you as soon as your hand twitched.

And then, well.

After a few miles of steady galloping you signal for Joey to slow. The forest is quiet as you turn onto the path down the hill that will lead you back to Jackson.

"I can't believe she shot at us," the kid says. "Stupid."

You sigh. "She was desperate," you say, remembering how wild her eyes looked. "And alone. If she had people with her she wouldn't have."

"You think?"

It's been some time but you did your days alone in this world. It's bloody, it's terrifying, it's punishing. You stop trusting anyone and eventually you stop trusting yourself. Wondering why you keep trying. Without community you lose sight of what matters. You lose sight of how you can not just survive this hell on earth, but live in it.

If she had wanted to do that, instead, maybe you could have told her it was possible.

"Yeah," you say. The walls of Jackson come into view and you think about what awaits you. A warm house, an even warmer embrace. Safety, security, home. "Having people makes all the difference."

Joey waves the green flag and the gates open for you. After returning your horse and checking to make sure the kid isn't too traumatized -- frankly, he seems totally unbothered -- you walk back to the house. The sun is starting to set, painting everything golden, but you can see the clouds rolling in. Might be that snow that everyone keeps anticipating. Most mornings you hear chatter about it. Small talk about the weather persists after the end of the world.

A few folks wave hello, ask after Ellie's new dog, say they hope you've got your firewood ready. Jackson is a thing out of dreams. Solid walls, even steadier people. Good rules, smart leaders. You feel lucky every day that they let you stay here. That you've made a home here.

That home is in sight when you turn on Rancher and what you spy on the porch makes you pick up your pace.

Joel.

He's rocking in the one chair out front, guitar slung across his lap like an afterthought as he strums with his eyes closed. It'll be too cold to sit out, soon, so he spends most evenings playing while he can still stand it.

A heaviness you didn't realize you were carrying lessens a little at the sight of him.

"Hey, stranger," you call as you walk up the steps.

His gaze falls on you, the hazel in his irises more evident in the fading light of the late afternoon. God, he looks beautiful. Like everything you've ever wanted.

"Howdy," he says. The guitar goes up against the house and he stands, meeting you at the top step. "How was patrol?"

You falter, smile frozen on your face. You should tell him, but you don't know what you'd say. A stranger died in front of you and it's put your stomach in knots? It's not that he'll laugh at you, or anything like that. You just need to chew on it a little longer. And right now you're steps away from the warm inside of your home and inches away from the man you love, so you decide to push it aside.

"The usual," you muse. Joel furrows his brow just a little and searches your gaze, but whatever he finds in your eyes causes him to let it go.

"Okay," he says, softly. He taps your chin with his knuckle and turns toward the front door, snagging his guitar on the way. "You hungry? Ellie brought by some soup."

"Did she make it?"

Your layers go on the hooks by the door, your boots next to his in the hall. He heads for the kitchen.

"Hell no," Joel says, deep voice echoing through your house. "Dina did."

"So it's edible?"

You pad on socked feet over creaking hardwood and find him over a pot on the stove, bowl in hand.

"Tried a bit and it didn't kill me," he says. "Waited for you to get home to eat, though."

"And Tommy says you were raised in a barn," you tease, kissing his cheek before he ladles the soup for you.

Joel grunts and you laugh. "Hot bowl," he says. "Careful."

For some reason, his gentle caution makes your chest hurt. You think about the woman from today, how she had no one telling her to be careful. How she made a mistake, or maybe a reckless choice. How she didn't even scream.

There are many very difficult days in this life and you dealt with them on your own for a long time. It's taken practice and mounds of patience from Joel and the other people in this town who love you, but you've learned that you can let other people help you through those days. But that doesn't mean it isn't hard.

You sit at the table across from Joel and try not to let your mood take over.

"You alright?" Joel asks, frown firmly in place. "Maybe Ellie did make the soup--"

"It's good, Joel," you say, smiling a little. If he asks you how you are one more time, you'll crack. And you're not ready yet. "Will you tell me about your day?"

He sighs, no doubt seeing through your second deflection, but allows it.

"Let's see," he starts, leaning back in his chair. "Tommy had me handlin' that bullshit with the kids who went huntin'."

Last week, three teenagers snuck out with the grand idea that they'd bag an elk or something just as big and bring it back for fame and glory or whatever kids think is worth life and death these days. It hadn't gone as badly as it could have, but it was pretty bad. They'd stolen a rifle from the patrol cache and only made it a few miles before one of them slipped down a bank and broke his ankle. Joel had been the one to lead the search party when someone realized they were missing.

He's got a soft spot for teenagers.

"It's good for them to learn," you remind him. He sucks on his teeth and rubs at his jaw. You slurp on some more soup and a thought at odds with your sour mood dances through your memory -- how good his beard felt on your skin last night. Jesus. He does something to you, this man.

"Should know better," he says, oblivious to the echo of your desire. "Havin' them clean all the guns is one thing but once that kid heals up I'm tellin' Tommy we oughta start a trainin' class or somethin'. Let them get outside the walls and hunt if they want. With supervision."

"Keep talking like that and Maria will make you join the council," you muse.

He snorts. "Yeah, I'm sure as shit not doin' that."

"You'd be good at it, Joel. People listen to you."

"I have a hard enough time gettin' my own kid to listen to me," he reminds you. "Hell, you, too."

It's less of a jab and more of an attempt to get you to cheer up, and it works. You laugh at him, delighted to vex him so. As if he does anything but melt for Ellie. And for you -- both of you know just how wrapped around you he is. He'll do anything for his family. You've seen proof of it.

"If only the council had a uniform," you sigh, exaggerating your disappointment. "You'd look so handsome in one."

"Watch it," he says, eyes sparkling.

You tap his foot under the table with yours. "Just being truthful," you tease, though it rings a little hollow given the fact that you're swerving talking about your own day.

Joel hums and leans back in his chair. "You gonna tell me what happened today?"

"What do you mean?"

Even as you chew on how to swerve him once again, you find yourself going back to the patrol. The way your senses sharpened when she stepped out of the trees, how you saw all the ways it could go wrong. Her twitchy hand, her wide eyes. The crack in her voice when she demanded your packs. The echo of the gunshot and your own heartbeat loud in your ears wondering if today was the day you wouldn't make it home. When the runner leapt out of nowhere and latched onto her. How easily your life could have ended that way, too.

"Hey, I'm talkin' to you," Joel says, not unkindly. "Where are you?"

You chew on your lower lip. This would be a lot easier if the words would just come to you, if you knew how to explain yourself.

"Joel--"

"Alright, that's it," he says. Joel gets up with a groan, stretching his arms high in the air, and heads for the front door.

"What?" you ask, confused, but you follow him into the hall. "Joel, where are you going?"

"We're goin' for a walk." He shrugs on his jacket and waves you over. "C'mon."

"But the dishes--"

"Will be here when we get back," he finishes. "Now, get your coat on. Hat, too. Reckon the snow is gonna start tonight."

You could fight him about it, say you're cold and tired and just want to sit on the couch. Tell him to stop badgering you, to let sleeping dogs lie.

But that's the thing about Joel -- you trust him. Outside the walls, inside your home. With your life and with your heart. You're safe in his hands. And you've been here before plenty of times. After nightmares from both of you, after hard days in town, after his fights with Ellie or Tommy or whatever it is. You walk and you talk it out. Fresh air helps, Joel often says. It's the father in him, the caretaker, the man who knows when to listen and when to push. He's taught you a lot about that.

So you shove your feet back into your boots and Joel tugs a knit hat over your ears. The sun finished setting while you were eating, Jackson now illuminated by the gas lamps and string lights hanging between the posts.

Normally you'd be content to just walk with Joel side by side, as is your usual routine. He's not a particularly public man when it comes to affection, though you never doubt that he's thinking of you. His eyes find yours in every room and he easily finds you in every crowd. By now, you've got your own language.

But, given that he's brought you out here to no doubt get you to be honest about your complicated feelings, he offers you his arm for support. You take it with a dry look that he matches.

Never one to let you off easily, this man. Not when he knows he can help, at least.

"You know what I'm gonna say," he grumbles.

It helps to talk.

It's basically a mantra in your house. Ellie says he didn't used to be like this. The total opposite, in fact. You know that it's her that brought him back to this version of himself -- he did it because she asked. And maybe you coming along helped, too. He might seem gruff and guarded to those who don't know him but it's all so he can protect who and what he loves.

And this is one of his ways -- not letting things go unsaid.

"I don't know where to start," you say. "I don't know how to explain it."

Joel rubs a hand over his jaw. "Try the beginning," he suggests. "It was patrol, right? Somethin' happened?"

You nod.

"We saw a woman," you start. You close your eyes and picture her, letting Joel lead you down the street. "She came out of the woods just as we finished the last house."

"Hostile?"

You look at Joel. His jaw is tense, as if you're not standing in front of him safe and sound. Always trying to fix hurts he had nothing to do with.

"She had a gun, yeah," you continue. "Demanded our stuff. We were ready to do the protocol but then she shot at us."

Joel stops in his tracks, pulling you with him. "She did what?"

"And missed, obviously," you remind him. "But it was a stupid mistake, since we weren't far from that town with the herd. She had to have seen traces of them and known they were there."

"Christ," he mutters. You tug on his arm and he starts walking again.

"And before we could do anything a runner tackled her to the ground."

Joel curses under his breath. "Unlucky."

It starts to snow. You look up at the white flakes falling from the dark sky as you figure out how to say what happened next.

"Go on," Joel says, softly. "This is the part that bothered you, I reckon."

"She didn't even scream, Joel," you whisper just loud enough for him to hear. "She just went down."

"Ah."

All of it comes to a boil and the words pour out of you.

"I mean, why did she shoot in the first place? She was jumpy, sure, but she was alone, too. She looked so tired, so desperate, and the way it lunged for her I know it didn't kill her on the first bite. No screaming, she just took it. She took it and gave up. I don't -- she must have had nothing, to give up like that. It's just so fucked up --"

Your voice breaks. Joel pulls you to a stop and unwinds your arms so he can put his hands on your shoulders.

"Ain't nothin' you can do about someone else's lot," he says. "She made her mistakes."

"I know," you retort, "but that could have been me."

"It ain't you."

"But it could have been, Joel!" You're not angry with him, but you're frustrated. "If things had worked out differently for me, it could have been. If I never found Jackson, if I was still out there. It could have been me."

He exhales sharply, reigning in his own desire to remind you that you're safe. That you're here, that you're with him. That he won't let anything bad happen to you.

"Lots of things could be different," he says, slowly. "Could spend days thinkin' 'bout that stuff. Years."

"I guess I'm just sad for her." The snow has gathered in Joel's hair and you reach for him to brush it away. He allows it, keeping his eyes on yours. "I think she wanted to die."

"It's a hard life on the road."

You sigh. "I know, Joel," you say. "I just -- it's been a long time since things have been that bad for me. And it was hard to be reminded, you know?"

His hands move from your shoulders to cup your face, thumbs your skin. "I know, sweetheart," he replies. "We've all been there. Hard not to think about givin' up at least once in this shit hole."

It gets a dry laugh out of you.

"But you ain't givin' up. You fight tooth and nail every single time 'cause you've got so much to get back to. And it'll get you home."

You lean into one of his palms, your lips brushing along the heel of his hand. "I know, Joel."

He's not done. "For a long time I was like that. Not carin' much how things went, so long as I got to get my hands dirty. But Ellie --" he swallows, the love he has for his girl getting in the way of his words " -- and you tie me to this damn place. Make me get up every day, make me remember how things can be good. And someday it'll be my turn --"

"Joel--"

"No, listen. Someday it'll be my turn, and I'll go knowin' I was the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to get what I got. Time."

You can't take it anymore. You pitch forward into his chest, arms wrapping around his waist. Now that he's said it, you realize why the whole thing bothered you so much. You don't want to die. You don't want to lose the life you have now. The home you have with this man, the way he loves you. The way you love him. It makes you feel human, it makes you feel alive.

And you feel damn bad for anyone who doesn't have something to live for.

Joel's hand presses into your spine. Maybe in a different life you'd be worried that he'd think you're silly for being so bothered about this, but he always takes you seriously. You both know how quickly you can lose something, how much it matters to make the time you have count.

"Thank you," you say into his jacket. He scoffs.

"C'mon, now." He gently pulls away from your embrace to look at you. He brushes snow from your shoulders and hat with careful fingers. "Let's go home."

Home. For so long you never thought you'd have one.

Joel must see the vulnerability in your eyes because he leans in to press his lips to yours gently. An anchoring touch, a reminder of how he feels.

"Getting frisky, Mr. Miller," you mutter when he pulls away. He snickers and you sneak another kiss as he pinches your hip through your coat.

"Home," he says again.

You couldn't agree more.

[witchyverse]

Only Mine

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader Word Count: ~2,500 Warnings: Jealousy, possessiveness, mild language, secret marriage, flirting, fluff Summary: No one knows you’re Tony’s wife. So when you show up at the Tower looking like that—all soft smiles and staggering beauty—the team doesn’t stand a chance. And neither does Tony’s patience. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

No one knew you were married to Tony Stark.

It wasn’t a secret, not exactly—just something quiet. Yours. Not for press releases or public drama or fan theories. Just late night takeout and cold feet under warm blankets and his name on your finger, where no one ever looked close enough to notice.

He told you once, right after your wedding, that keeping it just yours was the only thing that ever felt real in a world full of noise.

So you kept it.

Until today.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ You didn’t mean to cause chaos.

You really didn’t.

You just walked into the Tower—hair soft and loose, your favorite blouse (the one Tony always got stupid quiet about), and that look on your face. The one that said you weren’t trying to impress anyone, which somehow made it worse.

“Uh—can we help you?”

You turned and smiled. The kind that always made Tony stare too long.

Steve Rogers was blinking like he forgot how eyes worked.

“Oh,” you said sweetly, “I’m just here for the debrief. Meeting Room B?”

“I can show you,” he offered instantly, already stepping forward. “If—if you’d like.”

Sam appeared out of nowhere, like a hawk to something shiny. “We all should, actually. You know. To be polite.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. “How thoughtful.”

Steve looked proud. Sam looked smug. Natasha—who had just walked in—looked like she knew exactly what was going on and was already bored.

You followed them, heels echoing softly on the floor, pretending not to notice the way they kept glancing at you. Eyes lingering too long. Not even in a gross way—just stunned. Like they weren’t sure how someone like you had just walked into their world like a living fever dream.

And somewhere above all this?

You knew Tony would lose his shit.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Tony had exactly four minutes of peace before FRIDAY chirped into the air.

“Mr. Stark? Your wife has arrived.”

His pen clattered to the desk.

“She what?”

“She’s currently being escorted to the conference room. With Captain Rogers. And Mr. Wilson.”

Tony swore under his breath, already halfway out the door.

Because of course she couldn’t just walk in like a normal person. No. She had to stroll in like a dream sequence, melt every Avenger’s brain, and forget she was wearing his ring under that blouse that should really, really be illegal.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Steve was mid-sentence—something about protocol, but you’d stopped listening—when the doors slammed open behind you.

You didn’t even have to turn around.

You felt him before you saw him.

The magnetic hum of presence. The slight change in air.

And then: “There you are.”

Tony.

Everyone turned.

You smiled innocently over your shoulder. “Hi, honey.”

Silence.

Complete. Staggering. Silence.

Tony crossed the room in three long strides, didn’t even glance at the rest of them. He took your hand, laced his fingers through yours like it was instinct. Then leaned in and kissed your cheek. No, your jaw. No, right below your jaw, where it would linger.

Steve made a noise that might’ve been a gasp. Sam swore softly under his breath.

“Wait,” Clint said from the corner. “Honey?”

“Wife,” Tony corrected, turning slightly. “As in legally, emotionally, and very very off-limits.”

You squeezed his hand to stop him from adding and so far out of your league it’s laughable, because it was definitely coming.

“You never told us,” Natasha said, her tone unreadable.

Tony shrugged. “Don’t tell you what I eat for breakfast either. Doesn’t mean it’s a secret.”

You leaned into his side with a smile that was all teeth. “He’s a little jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Tony muttered under his breath. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Later, when the others had mostly dispersed—some in confusion, others in utter shock—you found yourself curled on the couch in the penthouse, Tony pressed half on top of you like a grumpy cat who’d finally caught its prey.

“You flirted with them,” he grumbled.

“I was being nice.”

“You winked at Steve.”

“He’s polite.”

“You asked Sam to walk you down the hallway.”

“I didn’t want to get lost.”

Tony buried his face in your neck with a dramatic groan. “You are going to kill me.”

“You like it.”

He looked up at you, eyes suddenly soft.

God, those eyes.

“I love you,” he said, like it wasn’t fair. Like it hurt him to admit it, even now.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“I know.”

[gav-san]

Soul Shanked 3/4

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

Soul Shanked Masterlist

Chapter Title: Ten Feet of Shirtless Chaos and Absolutely No Peace Length: 11 K+

Previous/Next

Taglist: @wontknowbetter, @sleepydang @flav1a0 @pleasantkittenpersona @heartsforseo

You sat at the edge of the palace terrace like a diplomat carved from marble. Back straight, hands folded, shoulders coiled so tight they might snap if anyone so much as exhaled too loudly.

Flanking you were your appointed chaperones: Sisca the Silent and Jai the Judgemental. Boa’s finest. Her favorites. Her blades.

They didn’t blink. They didn’t speak. You weren’t entirely convinced they breathed. Each held a spear that looked less like a weapon and more like divine retribution forged in steel. Both radiated the kind of calm that promised they’d vaporize Shanks without breaking a sweat. Or protocol.

Naturally, that only seemed to encourage him.

He lounged by the nearest pillar, leaning just enough to seem relaxed but not sufficient to trigger instant death. A perfect 9.8 feet away.

Shanks leaned against the balustrade like he owned the view, one boot hooked casually over the other, the picture of arrogant ease. The sea breeze played with his hair and the ends of his coat, catching on the amused tilt of his mouth like even the wind had a crush on him.

“You always this formal, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and teasing. “Or is it just me?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you lacked a retort but because you couldn’t afford to play the game. Not here. Not with him playing with both of your lives. Not with Boa’s honor quietly weighing itself across your shoulders like a ceremonial yoke.

One wrong move, and Sisca would drive a spear through his lung faster than a heartbeat. One wrong word, and Jai would file the paperwork for your funeral,neatly, alphabetically, and in triplicate.

Still, Shanks smiled. Like a man who’d never met a warning he couldn’t charm his way past.

“Don’t worry,” he said, flicking you a wink. “I’ve had worse reception. Once got stabbed before the hello. This is practically a warm welcome.”

Sisca’s grip on her weapon didn’t so much as twitch.

You sighed, spine still iron-rod straight. “You were told this wasn’t a social visit.”

“I thought we’d multitask,” he said. “Politics and flirtation—two of my strongest suits.”

Jai inhaled sharply through her nose. You weren’t sure if it was disapproval or the prelude to divine smiting.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re very confident for a man surrounded by women who could, and would, fold you like laundry.”

“Ah,” Shanks murmured, grin widening, “but I’ve always liked dangerous women. Especially ones who sit like they’re one insult away from murder.”

The mark on his collarbone glowed faintly, catching the dying light. And he was smiling, like a man born for slow-motion disasters and thoroughly delighted to be starring in one.

“You know,” he said, voice dipped in moonlight, “I like your name.”

You didn’t answer.

He glanced sideways at the guards. “Ladies. That wasn’t flirting. Just a compliment. Zero seduction, full respect. No stabbing necessary.”

Neither woman moved.

Not a blink. Not a breath. One of them might have narrowed an eye. Or maybe the light shifted. Or maybe it was divine wrath, quietly calibrating.

You remained still. Unmoving. Impeccable. If posture could kill, yours would be dragging his soul to the underworld.

Shanks, of course, looked like a man lounging in the middle of a dream he had no intention of waking from. Ten feet of glittering threat. Ten feet of controlled power. Ten feet of pirate emperor clearly thriving under scrutiny.

“I mean it,” he added, voice low. “Your name. It suits you.”

Silence.

Then, to the guards, gently, as if addressing a bear mid-nap:

“Still not flirting. Just being polite. Totally platonic appreciation of her identity.” He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. His one hand. Easy, casual, the motion somehow cocky and graceful all at once.

Sisca’s knuckles flexed on her spear.

Jai inhaled. Once.

You didn’t move. But your eye twitched. Barely.

Shanks lit up like he’d been handed a personal victory. “Progress.”

You finally spoke, your voice as flat and cold as the marble beneath you.

“If you die, I still die. That’s the only reason you’re not impaled.”

He grinned, entirely unbothered. Possibly more pleased.

“So you’re saying… I’m protected by fate.”

You turned your head slowly. Deliberately. “I’m saying don’t push it.”

Sisca’s spear shifted forward by a single, terrifying millimeter.

Shanks immediately lifted his one hand in surrender, elbow tucked loose at his side like he was halfway to curtsying.

“Not pushing,” he said cheerfully. “Just standing. Respectfully. Handsomely. Supportively.”

You inhaled through your nose and began calculating the moral logistics of screaming directly into the sea. Would Boa fine you? Would it echo?

Silence.

He glanced back, chin tilted, that damn glimmer in his eye. “Do you always wear your hair like that?”

Your head turned just slightly. “You’re not allowed to compliment me, man-creature.”

“I’m not?”

“It counts as manipulation.”

He laughed, low and amused, like he’d just watched a nobleman trip down palace stairs. “Fair point. But I am allowed to say I’m glad it was you.”

Your jaw clenched so hard your molars filed a formal complaint.

“I wanted a quiet weekend,” you hissed. “Not to be soul-tethered to a sentimental pirate with seaweed for brains. I’ve adopted a glorified fruit peddler with a superiority complex.”

“Hey,” Shanks replied, utterly unbothered, “I’d make a terrible vendor. I’d eat the stock. Plus the hair causes riots. Pretty sure it’s a war crime in at least five ports. Seven if I style it.”

You groaned and dragged both hands down your face, smearing invisible frustration like war paint.

“Divine punishment,” you muttered. “That’s what this is. The gods got bored and picked me for enrichment.”

You fixed your eyes on the sea like it might swallow him whole if you stared hard enough.

It didn’t help.

Mostly because he wouldn’t shut up.

The guards were already tired of him.

“I have to say,” he murmured, casually leaning back against a pillar and crossing his legs at the ankle, “that’s an impressive spear. Subtle. Elegant. Bit terrifying. I like that in a woman.”

Sisca didn’t blink. But her grip tightened by exactly two degrees.

Then he turned to Jai, smiling with the patience of a man trying to charm a crocodile in formalwear. “And you. That stance? Flawless. I feel safer already. I think we’re really building something here.”

Jai blinked once. Slowly. Like an apex predator watching its lunch make too much noise.

You exhaled through your nose. Loudly.

Shanks tilted his weight, one-armed balance casual as a cat, and crossed his legs the other way.

“You know, I think I’m growing on them.”

“They’re deciding who gets to stab you first,” you said flatly.

He shrugged. One shoulder, one arm, all relaxed nonsense.

““Ah,” He said, all charm and chaos wrapped in sunburnt sea king energy “The classic affection-to-homicide pipeline.”

You said nothing.

He glanced again at Sisca. “Let me guess, former special ops?”

Silence.

“Silent type. Love that. Mysterious. Dangerous. Probably writes poetry in secret.”

Still no response.

Shanks beamed. “See? We’re bonding.”

You turned your head just enough to glare. “You’re antagonizing trained killers.”

“I’ve lost my arm and my ability to openly flirt,” he said, solemn as a monk. “Entertaining trained killers is all I have left. Unless you’re willing to bend the rules—”

Jai’s spear shifted. Sharply.

Shanks raised his hand, palm out like he was surrendering to divine judgment. “Flirting is off the table. I’m aware. Just being respectful. Loudly.”

You turned your gaze back to the horizon, jaw locked so tight it could cut rope. “If you get impaled, I’m not helping.”

“Good news,” Shanks said brightly. “We’d die together.”

That earned him something unexpected: Sisca looked at him.

Just a glance. Brief. But not blank. Something flickered behind her eyes, and she was clearly trying very hard not to show it.

You nearly slid off the terrace in pure, unfiltered despair.

Then, movement.

Both guards shifted. Subtly. Like the air had changed.

Sisca cleared her throat. “We’re due for a perimeter loop.”

You blinked. “You just checked the perimeter.”

“Regulation,” she said crisply.

Jai turned her head, fixing Shanks with a stare cold enough to halt blood flow. “Five minutes. Touch her, and I remove a limb.”

Shanks saluted with two fingers. “You’re both doing incredible work. Love the structure. I feel very safe.”

They turned and walked off. Slowly. Too slowly. Like they were trying not to smirk. Or listen.

You stared after them, slack-jawed. “…Did you charm my guards?”

Shanks tilted his head, all innocence and mischief, the wind toying with his hair like it liked him more than it should.

“Define charm.”

“…”

“Not on purpose,” he added quickly, lifting his hand again in mock surrender. “I just asked Jai if she was the deadliest woman on the island, or if that title still belonged to you.”

You blinked. Then slowly, deliberately, raised one hand to point at him. “That was absolutely on purpose.”

He grinned wider. “Maybe a little.”

“Stop. Talking.”

You hissed through your teeth, a sound somewhere between a threat and a prayer.

“Right,” he nodded, all mock gravity. “Silent admiration. Got it.”

You turned away before the guards returned and found you mid-yeet, launching a pirate emperor off the terrace in front of the royal koi pond.

You had once been a functional human being.

You rose with the sun. Drank your tea. Did your stretches. Negotiated trade deals. Smoothed over diplomatic fires. Once disarmed a bounty hunter using nothing but a rolled scroll and three precisely chosen insults.

But now?

Now you had Red-Haired Shanks, Emperor of the Sea, walking disaster, and your newly soul-bound curse, trailing after you like a golden retriever made of rum, grins, and catastrophic impulse control.

And the worst part?

He didn’t look bad doing it.

Never more than ten feet away. Constantly testing your ability to gauge exactly how long ten feet is.

A little later, in a valiant attempt to salvage a shred of peace and dignity over a quiet cup of tea, you finally managed to steal a moment alone.

The breeze was calm. The tea was warm. You were seated, upright, composed.

“Is that tea? Smells incredible. Or is that just your natural scent?”

His voice rang out behind you. Bright, chipper, and unmistakably cursed.

You flinched.

Missed your mouth.

And poured scalding tea directly down your front.

There was a moment of silence. A beat of disbelief. 

A horrified gasp. “Oh no. Was it my voice? Do I always have that effect? Is this normal? Should I warn people?”

You stared down at the wet, steaming mess. Then upward, toward the heavens, as if appealing directly to whatever deity was clearly trying to humble you through long-form emotional comedy.

You briefly considered drinking the rest just to speed up divine judgment.

Behind you, Shanks hesitated. Then padded forward with exaggerated caution. Like you were a wounded animal and he was the world’s most insufferable veterinarian.

“Okay,” he said softly, “not a compliment this time. Just an observation. You’re very composed under extreme tea trauma.”

You didn’t answer. Just plucked a napkin from the tray and began blotting your dress like a corpse preparing itself for burial.

“I have water,” he offered, holding up a flask. “Possibly. It might also be sake. Or really brave juice. Would you like to gamble?”

You turned your head just enough to stare at him with pure, exhausted fury.

Shanks winced. “Okay. Not the time for jokes.”

He scratched the back of his neck with his one hand, then awkwardly mimed offering a second before realizing, again, that he didn’t have one.

“Right. Just the one hand,” he muttered. “Still getting used to the dramatic pause when I go for the other.”

You sighed, shoulders drooping, dignity trailing away like steam from your tea-soaked lap.

“I was alone for three minutes,” you said, voice hollow. “Three.”

“That’s on me,” he said sincerely. “I sensed the peace and got jealous.”

You looked back down at your tea. Lukewarm now. Ruined.

“…I despise you.”

Shanks sat cross-legged beside you, entirely too comfortable for a man who just verbally ambushed your afternoon and indirectly baptized you in boiling oolong.

“Yeah,” he said, nudging his shoulder against yours. “But I’m growing on you.”

You stared down at the dripping mess. Then at the heavens. And seriously considered drinking the rest just to speed up divine judgment. You picked up your cup again, stared into its depths, and quietly whispered, “Please drown me.”

If you so much as dared to stretch in your own yard, he’d be there.

Perched on a bench. Ten feet away. Unblinking. Uninvited. Unstoppable.

“Wow,” he murmured one morning, eyes fixed on you like you were a rare comet or divine omen. “Do all the warriors here bend like that, or are you showing off just for me?”

You promptly collapsed sideways into the grass and didn’t get up for a full minute.

Not because you were injured.

Because your soul needed time to reboot.

From somewhere disturbingly nearby, his voice drifted again, chip-cheerful and ruinous.

“Careful. If you keep moving like that, I might have to throw my only hand  in marriage.”

You screamed into the lawn. Quietly. With dignity.

Sort of.

Reading in the library?

Impossible.

He sat behind you quietly humming, hand tapping books, watching the sunlight catch in your hair like it was the grand finale of a celestial event.

Every time you turned a page, you could feel him watching. Not leering. Not even flirtatious.

Just warm. Focused. Like a man who had discovered his new favorite hobby was you, sitting still and trying not to scream.

You made it halfway through a paragraph.

Then launched the scroll across the room with the emotional control of a goat on a cliff.

From somewhere behind you came his gentle, infuriating voice:

“That one must’ve been a tough read, huh?”

You considered throwing him next. Preferably out the nearest window.

At dinner?

You dropped your chopsticks. Twice. Because of his humming.

The first time, you brushed it off. The second, you stared at your own hands like they had personally betrayed you.

He picked them up both times, smiling like you were starring in some tragic romance where the heroine had been bested by wood and song.

As he handed them back the second time, he leaned in and whispered, “If I’d known chopsticks were the way to your heart, I would’ve started humming years ago.”

You stared at him like he’d just confessed to a war crime.

He stared back, looking unreasonably pleased for a man with one arm and zero shame.

You ate the rest of your meal with a fork.

From the dessert tray.

Alone.

In a separate room.

With the door locked.

And a chair wedged under the handle.

But Shanks' worst trait wasn’t the bad one-arm puns and unmanned one-liners.

He just talked. Constantly. With that maddening, wind-in-your-sails voice. Like he hadn’t trespassed, soul-bonded himself to you, and turned your carefully structured existence into a cursed honeymoon with color commentary.

You were an envoy. A negotiator. You liked things calm. Predictable. Quiet.

Now he sat across from you at meals grinning, polite, one leg swinging like a bored child with no grasp of war crimes. While he complimented the oils, the stars, or how “fascinating” your face looked when you were trying not to throw him out the nearest window.

It was getting to you.

You were chewing too loudly. Breathing weird. Sweating from existing.

Meanwhile, he looked like he’d just stepped off a wanted poster and onto a luxury resort flyer titled “Surprise! It’s Your Problem Now.”

One evening, walking the inner path with your ever-silent guard a few paces behind, he glanced over. 

“You know… if it weren’t for the deadly tether curse, this would kind of feel like a romantic getaway.” He said, casual as sin.

You choked on your own breath. “Don’t say things like that.”

He held up a hand, palm out, innocent as a storm cloud. “Just trying to break the tension.”

“The tension exists because of you!” you snapped. “You scaled a wall, broke into sacred grounds, and committed a forbidden bonding ritual that rewrote my soul!”

He had the gall, the utter, seafaring gall, to smile.

Like he hadn’t metaphysically hijacked your future and turned your destiny into a sitcom with no laugh track.

Your soulmark pulsed.

Warm. Smug. Traitorous.

Shanks tilted his head, the breeze catching his hair like he’d paid it to. Still smiling. “To be fair, I asked the wall for consent before I scaled it.”

You gawked at him. “You are impossible.”

“I’m consistent,” he replied brightly. “That counts for something.”

Your soulmark flared again. You slapped your hand over it like it owed you money.

“Stop agreeing with him!”

Shanks looked delighted. “See? Even fate likes me.”

You considered throwing him off the balcony. And briefly mourned that you’d be yanked right after him like an angry, cursed kite.

You wanted to scream. Or faint. Or punch a shrub. Possibly all three. In that order.

Then, like it was nothing, he plucked a flower from a nearby hedge and offered it to you with the absentminded ease of a man who had never once faced a consequence in his life.

You took it.

Paused.

And hurled it, with deadly precision, straight into the koi pond. The splash was divine.

The look on his face? Transcendent.

“Symbolic,” he murmured, deadpan. “Bold. Rebellious. I respect it.”

You turned and stormed off so hard you hit the tether. It snapped taut with a jolt that nearly yanked you backward. Shanks just called after you cheerfully, “Teamwork makes the soul-work!”

You screamed into your sleeve.

The koi pond rippled in sympathy.

He laughed.

That night, flat on your back on your designated side of the room, because tether, you stared at the ceiling and whispered into your pillow,

“He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die. Not from swords. From exposure. Exposure to a feral, unrepentant pet male creature.”

Across the dark room, entirely too awake, his voice drifted softly:

“You breathe really loud when you’re thinking.”

You shrieked.

The guards groaned in unison from their post just inside the door.

And Shanks?

Shanks just laughed.

Low. Warm.

Utterly delighted to be alive. Utterly delighted to be here. Utterly delighted to be yours.

Your downfall started with a twitch.

Barely anything. A flicker at the corner of your mouth.

You were seated at the edge of the courtyard, clinging to your last scraps of dignity and a lukewarm cup of tea, while Shanks lounged ten feet away under a cherry tree, hurling berries at a squirrel and losing every round.

He was humming again.

Some quiet, sea-worn tune that didn’t belong here, low and unpolished, a melody born of open water and wind, but somehow, it didn’t feel out of place. Like it had slipped through the cracks of this refined world and decided to stay.

Like him.

You did not notice.

You were drinking tea.

Not listening.

Definitely not watching him stretch in the sunlight like some maddeningly relaxed, gilded menace.

His coat had been tossed over a stone bench, long-sleeved and worn. He stood barefoot in the grass, back to you, shirt wrinkled and only half-tucked. He moved like he had all the time in the world. Slow, fluid, and entirely unbothered by the weight of your silence.

You did not look up when he rolled his shoulder, or when he tilted his head just so, like he was listening to something only he could hear.

You were an envoy. A diplomat. A professional. Your fingers wrapped delicately around the porcelain cup, posture perfect. You were not distracted by the way the sunlight caught the edges of his hair like a halo of rust and fire.

Or by the line of muscle just visible beneath the hem of his shirt when he reached behind his neck with his one arm, spine arching in a lazy stretch.

You certainly didn’t notice the way his hum dropped into something deeper, rougher, ust before it faded out entirely.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you.

Just stood there, soaking in the morning warmth like a creature made for summer.

And you?

You sipped your tea. Calmly. Carefully.

And told yourself that your heartbeat hadn’t changed at all.

Then he said, almost to himself,

“You ever notice squirrels don’t like sharing? I offered him half. He judged me. Like, visibly. With his little squirrel eyes.”

You didn’t mean to react.

But your lips twitched.

Just a little.

Too little to matter.

His head turned, slow and triumphant.

“Was that a smile?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It was a spasm.”

“A very pretty spasm.”

“Die.”

He grinned and leaned back on his elbows, sun catching in that ridiculous red hair like it had been personally blessed by the gods for the sole purpose of testing your restraint.

“I’m just saying,” he said, all casual mischief, “if you laugh, I won’t report you to Hancock.”

You hissed like he’d insulted your bloodline. “I am not laughing. I’m surviving. Barely. You’re not a soulmate. You’re a feral pet I am unable to return who follows me like a leased beast.”

He looked radiant. Absolutely thriving on your suffering.

“I’d wear a real leash,” he said brightly. “If it’s you holding it.”

You made a noise so undignified even the birds paused.

One of the guards flinched.

A squirrel launched itself off the balcony like it wanted no part in what was unfolding.

Shanks, meanwhile, looked like he’d just won a chest of gold, a festival, and your eternal suffering all in one.

Utterly victorious.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. You were frozen between outrage, embarrassment, and the overwhelming urge to commit leash-related violence.

The next time your composure broke, it was a full-blown near-snort.

He’d been telling the guards a story. Something about a crewmate, an exploding pie, and a very poorly timed sneeze.

You were meditating. Not listening.

Until he said, “—and then the chef yelled, ‘It’s not seagull! That’s my wig!’”

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

Too late.

Your eyes widened at your own betrayal.

He turned. Slowly. That stupid, knowing twinkle in his eye already dialed up to unbearable.

“…You liked that one.”

“I pity-laughed,” you hissed. “Because your crew sounds educationally unsupervised. It’s the same as patting a dog on the head when it defecates on itself.”

“Still counts.”

You spun away sharply, tea sloshing over the rim of your cup like it, too, was trying to escape this conversation.

Your soulmark pulsed.

Warm. Smug. Traitorous.

You slapped a hand over it like it owed you money. “I swear to every god listening, if this thing glows again, I’m sawing it off with a spoon.”

Behind you, you could practically hear the grin.

You stared at the koi pond. Peaceful. Serene. Full of fish who didn’t speak, flirt, or forcibly bind themselves to your metaphysical existence.

You briefly considered diving in headfirst and letting the koi raise you.

You would be their strange, furious sibling. They would accept you. They would understand.

Then his voice, soft, amused, carried over the garden again.

“Y’know, if you do go in, I’ll probably have to follow. We’re kind of tethered.”

You didn’t turn around. You just raised your teacup in a silent toast to the sky and whispered, “Release me.”

And then came the moment that undid you.

Late evening. Opposite sides of the same room. The air was soft with the scent of rain, earthy and clean, like the whole palace was holding its breath.

He was on the floor with an old scroll spread across his lap, mumbling as he read. You hadn’t realized how often he talked to himself until now. Quiet little nothings, half-thoughts and sea-worn mutterings, like the words kept him company. Like silence wasn’t something he was built to trust.

You were pretending to read something, anything, not watching him tilt his head like a curious crow, not watching the furrow of his brow as he traced some ancient diagram with a single, careful finger.

Then, still completely focused on the scroll, he frowned and said, perfectly serious:

“What’s a ceremonial frog bowl? And why does it have four steps?”

You didn’t giggle.

You burst out laughing.

It hit like lightning. Sudden, bright, straight out of your chest before you could stop it. Loud and real. The kind of laugh that unhooked something in your ribs. You clapped a hand over your mouth instantly, eyes wide with betrayal at your own joy.

Across the room, he looked up.

Slowly.

His eyes met yours, startled, but soft. Gentle.

And then something else flickered behind them.

Not smug. Not amused.

Devastated.

The kind of devastation only hope can bring.

It nearly broke you in half.

You stood so fast your chair wobbled. “I’m going to meditate.”

“In the hallway?”

“I need…” Your voice cracked. You cleared it. “I need air. More air.”

He didn’t follow. Didn’t speak again. Just smiled.

And somehow, that was worse. So much worse.

“I’ll be waiting,” he said softly. “Always.”

You left before the soulmark could flare again.

Before the rest of you did.

You slipped behind the nearest pillar, heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break free. You clutched your glowing hand like it was bleeding, like you could somehow smother the truth pulsing beneath your skin.

“You cannot do this,” you whispered.

The words tasted desperate. Fragile. Like if you said them enough times, they might become real. Like sheer willpower could undo destiny.

“You cannot fall for him.”

But your soulmark disagreed.

It stayed warm. Steady. Bright.

As if it already knew.

As if it had chosen long before you ever had the chance.

You pressed your back to the cold stone and squeezed your eyes shut, trying to breathe, to think, to remember who you were before all of this. Before him.

And Not in a rush. Not in a blaze. But in that slow, inevitable way waves claim the shore. Over and over. Until the sand forgets it was ever anything else.

Something inside you, quiet, traitorous, unbearably tender, had already begun to unravel.

The Den Den Mushi buzzed.

Benn sighed, pulled the receiver off its hook, and turned the volume dial all the way down before answering.

“…What.”

Shanks’s voice came through, distorted but still far too cheerful for whatever ungodly hour it was.

“Benn. Benn. Listen. I did it.”

Benn pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods. What.”

“She smiled.”

“…You woke me up for that?”

“No, no. You don’t get it. It wasn’t just a smile. It twitched first. Right corner. Like she was trying not to. Benn, it was transcendent.”

Benn groaned, adjusted the snail again, and lowered the volume another notch. Just in case it could still offend his ears.

“Was she choking?”

“No! I was mid-battle with a squirrel.”

“…You picked a fight with a squirrel?”

“He was judging me, Benn. I offered him berries, and he looked at me like I’d proposed tax reform.”

“This is why these women call us animals,” Benn muttered.

“Bold language from a man who once declared war on a garden party.”

“They set fire to my coat, Shanks.”

“Semantics.”

Benn sighed harder. “Does she still refer to you as her temporary man-pet?”

“Yes, but she said it with feeling.”

“Feeling like.., contempt?”

“Feeling like possessive contempt. There’s a difference.”

“Yes, but she twitched! Then she glared. Then—then, Benn—she told me to die. Like… fondly.”

Benn set down his pen and slowly turned away from the mountain of reports he’d been trying to finish for the past three days.

“Shanks.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“Time zones are a social construct.”

“You are whispering into a snail about a woman who actively wants to launch you into orbit.”

“She smiled, Benn.”

Benn stared into the middle distance. He could feel his eye twitching. Somewhere in his soul, a vein burst.

“You’ve fought admirals with less emotional investment.”

Shanks’ voice softened. Honest. Wrecked.

“…But none of them had her laugh.”

A pause.

The Den Den Mushi blinked once. Twice. Mimicking Shanks’s dreamy, far-off expression.

“…She laughed?” Benn asked. Immediately regretted it.

“‘Ceremonial frog bowl.’ Classic. She exploded, Benn. Tried to pass it off, but I saw. Then she bolted like I’d proposed marriage. Beautiful.”

Benn reached for the nearest blanket and dragged it over his head like it might protect him from whatever spiritual contagion this was.

“You’re the worst long-distance girlfriend I’ve ever had.”

“You love me.”

“No.”

“You’re going to help me write her a love letter.”

“I’m muting this snail.”

“I already picked a pen name. Very tasteful. Red-Haired Regret.”

Click.

The Den Den Mushi sighed. Loudly, passively, like it, too, was exhausted, and went dormant in the kind of theatrical silence reserved for cursed romances and doomed friendships.

You were getting comfortable. Way too comfortable. That’s why it happened.

On your so-called “fresh air stroll,” you made the fatal mistake of thinking out loud.

You and Shanks sat beneath the garden arbor. Guards nearby. Watching. Pretending not to listen. Absolutely listening.

The sun hung low over the gardens. Your chaperone, Jai, stood just far enough away to ignore anything subtle and hear everything.

You sat prim and dignified on the stone bench. Shanks lounged beside you, shirt slightly open, posture criminally casual. Menacingly comfortable.

You cleared your throat. Twice. “Can I ask you something?”

He turned to you instantly, expression softening like you’d asked him to stay forever. “Of course.”

You looked anywhere but at him. “It’s… about the differences. Between men and women.”

A beat.

“Darling,” he said, voice like velvet sin, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Your soul flatlined.

“I meant minor biological differences!” you snapped. “Anatomical reference! Like—a battle map!”

He chuckled, dark and delighted. “Even better. You want me to describe our physical differences like a tactical field?”

“That would be acceptable,” you said, with the dignity of a woman praying for death.

He leaned in, just slightly. Arm draped over the back of the bench. Voice low. Dangerous.

“Well then… my shoulders are broader. Years of swordwork. Chest is flatter, though I’ve heard it's very comfortable to lean against.”

You twitched violently. Somewhere behind you, a guard coughed judgmentally.

“My voice sits lower,” Shanks continued, undeterred. “Rumbles more when I whisper—”

He growled, just to prove it.

You stared straight ahead, radiating the kind of heat normally reserved for volcanic eruptions.

“That’s not—,” you managed. “That’s flirting.”

“Can’t it be both?”

“No.”

He hummed, pleased. “But you’re still listening.”

You stood so fast that the bench screeched in protest. He rose with you, leisurely. Unbothered. Like temptation on vacation.

“I could draw you a diagram,” he offered innocently. “Or show you in person. Purely educational.”

“You are a menace.”

He leaned in, just enough. Voice low, velvet-soft.

“And you are adorable when you’re curious.”

You nearly launched him off the nearest cliff with sheer indignation.

But your soulmark pulsed. Warm.Content. Betrayer.

And your mouth, traitorous, foolish, weak, was dangerously close to smiling.

“Oi, quiet down, it’s the captain—”

“He survived another day?”

The Den Den Mushi clicked to life mid-laugh.

“Put down your drinks, gentlemen. History was made.” Shanks drawled, smug enough to curdle milk, charm a snake, and bankrupt a monastery. “I’ve got a status report from the front lines of romance.” 

He then, shamelessly, launched into a dramatic play-by-play like a romantic war report.

On the other end, Yasopp wheezed. “She what? She asked you to describe your body like a battle map?”

“She did!” Shanks beamed. “Said it like she was ordering a strategic report. Full dignity. Absolute panic in her eyes.”

“Gods,” Lucky Roux muttered between bites, “and you answered?”

“I leaned in,” Shanks said proudly. “Gave her the full velvet voice. Told her my shoulders were broad from years of swordwork. The works.”

Benn’s voice cut in like static, low and done. “Did you say that out loud?”

“’ Course I did.”

“Why,” Benn groaned. “Why are you like this?”

“She twitched, Benn. I saw it. Full system shutdown. Red ears. Twitchy fingers. It was beautiful.”

“You’re gonna get us all killed,” Yasopp cackled. “Wait. Boss—wait—what’d she say?”

“Told me that’s not anatomy, that’s flirting.”

“And you said?”

Shanks grinned. The Den Den Mushi mimicked the expression with idiotic devotion.

“‘Can’t it be both?’”

The crew howled.

“I offered to draw her a diagram,” Shanks added helpfully. “Purely educational.”

“You’re not a man,” Benn muttered. “You’re a walking incident.”

“I’m an academic resource,” Shanks corrected. “She was curious. I was helping.”

“You were preening.”

“Semantics.”

A pause.

Then Benn again, dry and on the edge of despair. “…She didn’t hit you?”

“No,” Shanks said, absolutely thrilled. “She almost spoke to me willingly.”

Silence.

Then, pandemonium.

“She’s cracking!” Yasopp howled.

“She’s snapping!” 

Limejuice hooted.

“Into love,” Shanks sighed dreamily.

“Into homicide,” Benn snapped. “How long until Hancock throws you off a balcony?”

“Two days,” Shanks said. “One if I use finger gestures.”

Yasopp was crying. “Please. Please tell me you made finger gestures.”

“You didn’t—”

“I did! I labeled the chest ‘elevated terrain.’”

“YOU’RE GONNA DIE,” the whole crew screamed in unison.

The call ended with the unmistakable sound of Benn slamming his face into the table.

Boa Hancock was furious.

Not irritated. Not mildly put out.

Furious.

She stormed in tight, echoing circles across the palace floor, the click of her heels like warning bells before a siege. Her robes billowed behind her like war banners, her glare sharp enough to cut marble.

“He’s charming,” she seethed, like the word itself was a disease. “Like a bard with a sword and no impulse control.”

“Empress—” one guard dared, before being silenced with a single, withering glance.

“Dangerously charming,” she went on, ignoring the rising tension in the room. “Worse than any warlord. Worse than flattery. Worse than men who try! He doesn’t even try! He just smiles like he’s entitled to happiness!”

She spun on her heel like she meant to decapitate fate itself.

“And the worst part? He’s getting results.”

You stood nearby, hands folded, soulmark glowing like a smug torch under your sleeve.

“I haven’t encouraged him,” you muttered, a bit too defensively. “He just… exists like that. It’s his natural state. An ape without violence. It’s not flirting, it’s zoological observation. I can’t help it if the absurdity is… oddly compelling.”

Outside the door, Shanks whistled something chipper. Possibly a sea shanty. Possibly the soundtrack to your downfall.

“Yet!” Hancock whirled on you, hair fanning like a snake ready to strike. “You laughed yesterday.”

“I choked on my tea.”

“I saw teeth.”

“It was a wince.”

“It was a giggle,” She accused. “A feminine lapse of judgment. Next comes the touching.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

She pointed. “You let him sit under the arbor.”

“I didn’t let him. He follows me like a lost parrot with abs.”

“And yet it happened!”

A servant dropped a tray in the distance and sprinted for their life.

“Do you know how many good women I’ve seen fall because of pretty men with red hair and decent shoulders? Too many!”

You clenched your fists. “I am not ‘falling.’ I am holding up the emotional stability of this nation on my back.”

“Then why,” Hancock growled, stalking closer, “is your soulmark glowing like a lovesick firefly whenever he says your name?”

You looked down. Your hand was lit up like a festival lantern.

Outside, Shanks could be heard whistling again. Cheerfully. Possibly shirtless.

Your eye twitched.

Hancock snapped her fan open like a weapon. “He must leave.”

“I tried!” you hissed. “I tried to exile him! He just waved and unpacked! He doesn’t even have a pack!”

“He’s trespassing!”

“He called it a diplomatic nap.”

Hancock paced in agitated circles. “He’s smiling too much. That’s how it starts. First, it’s harmless humor. Then, favors. Then marriage. And by the time you realize he’s rearranged your entire life, you’re helping him pick curtains!”

You blinked. “Curtains?”

“Love is an ambush!” she declared, stabbing her fan into the floor. “And you’re walking directly into the trap.”

You glanced toward the window. Shanks was helping one of the guards rehang a wind chime. He gave you a lazy salute. The chime made a lovely sound.

Your heart fluttered.

You crushed it mercilessly.

“I will not fall for him,” you said, clutching what was left of your composure. “I am a proud, stable, intelligent woman.”

From somewhere just beyond the door, Shanks shouted cheerfully, “You said it, sweetheart!”

Boa Hancock didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

She just turned, ever so slowly, eyes glowing with the kind of rage usually reserved for divine smiting.

You felt your soul leave your body as amusement escaped you.

“…He has excellent hearing,” you whispered.

“You just laughed.”

“I gurgled.”

“You blushed at his joke about squirrels.”

“It was a biological malfunction.”

Hancock narrowed her eyes. “You’re defrosting.”

“…What?”

“Your mental defenses,” she said coldly. “You are rapidly defrosting. I give it four days before you start braiding his hair.”

You looked genuinely horrified. “That’s slander.”

“You’ll ask him to sing,” She continued mercilessly. “Then you’ll start singing back. And by the gods, if he builds you a bench, I will have no choice but to launch both of you into the sea.”

The soulmark on your hand pulsed again.

You slapped it.

Hard.

“Get it together,” You hissed at yourself.

Hancock crossed her arms, glowering. “You’re banned from arbor strolls. And poetry.”

“Fine.”

“And no more questions about anatomy.”

Your face turned bright red. “He exaggerated! I was curious for educational reasons!”

“Oh, he educated you, all right.” She hissed.

You groaned and covered your face. 

“I hate everything.”

Hancock sighed, sweeping toward the door. “Come. We’re training until you can recite every war crime in history without flinching.”

Outside, Shanks was whistling something suspiciously romantic.

You kicked the door shut behind you.

A sanctum of solemn texts, forbidden histories, and dust older than the concept of shame itself.

No laughter echoed here. No innuendo dared linger beneath the petrifying gaze of the ancient librarian. An immortal presence whose eyes had watched empires fall and whose sighs could flay ego from bone.

Somewhere behind you, in a distant alcove, Shanks was valiantly trying not to whistle.

You could feel him. Lurking. Orbiting. A cursed moon tethered to your dwindling patience by fate and mutual legal consequence.

But no flirting, no matter how persistent, could survive the death-glare of the librarian, a woman whose soul had fossilized into passive-aggressive silence sometime before the Void Century.

You were not avoiding the inevitable moment he’d make you smile again.

You were reorganizing. Respectfully. Heroically. As any noble scholar would.

The scrolls were misfiled. The chaos was offensive. The alphabet deserved better.

Which is how, entirely by accident, you found it.

A scroll. Stuffed behind Forbidden Marriage Lore: Volume VII – Emergency Binding and the Unwilling Heart.

Which, in hindsight, really should have come with hazard tape and a licensed chaperone.

You unrolled it, mildly intrigued (and absolutely not emotionally invested), fully expecting some dusty Celestial ramble about dowries or noble inbreeding rituals.

“Coital Harmony & Male Anatomy: A Primer for Warriors and Necessary Evil.”

…Pardon?

You read the first line.

“Though rarely encountered, the male form is functional, if external and often inconvenient.”

There were diagrams.

Hand-drawn diagrams. With arrows.

Labeled pressure zones.

A full-color cross-section titled: “The Battle Stance.”

There were instructions. Warnings. At least two footnotes referencing something called an “emotional dismount.”

You stared.

You recognized one of the positions as something a human might survive. The rest would require divine assistance, three spare joints, and a forgiving chiropractor.

The angles.

Labeled. Measured. Wildly optimistic.

You blinked.

Then blinked again. Still there. Still real. Still color-coded.

“…What is that?” you asked aloud, genuine confusion in your voice, as though the scroll might answer and explain itself.

You had questions. So many. Too many.

Then a voice. Low. Warm. Too pleased.

“Foreshadowing.”

You turned. Slowly. Like a woman facing fate, or maybe just a deeply stupid ghost.

There he was.

Shanks leaning too close, against a shelf like a smug demon cosplaying a scholar, one brow raised, eyes twinkling with absolutely criminal delight.

Your soulmark pulsed. In protest.

“Studying up on me?” he asked, the smirk audible.

You shrieked. The scroll launched skyward in panic.

He caught it, one-handed, like the world was a reflex test and he’d been training for this exact nightmare.

“I’ve heard of this one,” he said cheerfully, already unrolling it. “The infamous Karma Kuja scroll. Thought it was destroyed.”

“Why would you sneak up on me?!”

“To see what made you scream like that,” he grinned. “Worth it, by the way.”

“I am horrified!”

He beamed. “Same thing.”

You lunged for the scroll. He held it aloft, flipping it open like a cursed cocktail menu.

“Which part confused you?” he asked sweetly. “The angles? The Sacred Spear of Lineage?”

“I don’t want to know what that means!”

“But you do.”

You reached again. He lifted it higher.

You groaned, pointing in scandal. “Why is it outside the body?! That seems vulnerable!”

“It is,” he agreed. “That’s why men are emotionally unstable.”

Your finger shot to another section. “And this part…‘rising to meet the occasion’?”

He gave you a look that should require permits in six kingdoms. “That means exactly what you think it means.”

You shrieked. Again. Louder.

He offered the scroll back, far too pleased with himself. You accepted it with tongs.

“If you ever want a live demonstration, purely educational—”

You hurled the tongs at his face. He dodged. Laughing.

You slammed the scroll shut like you were sealing away an ancient evil, shoved it into the shelf, and slapped a fresh label over the entire section:

Man-Creature Delusions – DO NOT ENGAGE.

You tried to forget.

You really did.

You scrubbed your hands. Shoved the scroll back under Diplomatic Rice Offerings: A Study. Stormed into the garden with diagrams burned into your memory like divine punishment.

Unfortunately, ten feet is not enough distance to escape Shanks.

“I’m not thinking about it,” you muttered. “I’m not thinking about his shoulders. Or spears. Or—ugh—rising occasions.”

You walked directly into a pillar.

The guard didn’t blink.

That afternoon, you made another fatal mistake.

You turned to the guard, stoic, veteran, terrifyingly calm.

You cleared your throat. “Hypothetically… if someone asked about male anatomy…”

She blinked. “You mean the bits?”

You flinched. “Please don’t call them that.”

“They’re mostly external,” she said helpfully. “Hang like ceremonial bells. Or sad gourds.”

You stared. Unblinking.

“Occasionally they rise,” she continued. “That’s how you know the male’s ready to engage.”

You squeaked. “Engage… what?”

She gave you a look. Flat. Direct.

“Copulation.”

You shrieked.

Shanks leaned on the balcony, hand over his heart like he’d just witnessed a sunrise.

“Adorable,” he murmured.

That night, you lay in bed, glowing faintly, face buried in your pillow, chanting softly to yourself:

“He is a soul parasite. He is not a spear god. He is not a spear god.”

From across the room came a smug,  “You okay over there?”

You screamed into your pillow.

Breakfast arrived with you exhausted and Shanks glowing like he’d just had eight hours of sleep and a dream about victory.

You stared into your rice like it might offer divine wisdom.

Shanks sat across from you, looking disgustingly well-rested. Smiling like a man with no remorse.

“Morning,” he said, all warmth and no shame.

You didn’t answer.

He reached for a slice of melon. Bit in. Chewed thoughtfully. “Still thinking about the scroll?”

You choked on your rice.

“I’m always available to clarify,” he added helpfully. “Civic duty.”

“Eat your melon.”

He did. Slowly.

Then, far too innocently, “For example, did the scroll mention that during arousal, the sacred spear can actually—”

You slapped a hand over his mouth.

He blinked. Pleased.

The guards didn’t flinch. They’d evolved past caring.

“If I hear ‘sacred spear’ one more time,” you growled, “I will throw you into the koi pond.”

He licked your palm.

You shrieked, tripped over your chair, and hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and vengeance.

Shanks leaned forward, chin in hand, grinning like a devil on vacation.

“You’re adorable when you’re violently flustered.”

“You’re a soulbound menace with dimples!”

The guards sighed. Loudly. In sync.

A squirrel stole his melon.

And your soulmark? It glowed a little warmer.

The traitor.

Shanks convinced the guards, again, to let him walk beside you. Not behind. Not ten paces back. Right beside you.

He’d worn them down with a lethal mix of compliments, pirate charm, and somehow teaching one of them to whistle like a songbird.

You didn’t bother arguing. Not this time. You were too tired.

Too many sleepless nights spent thinking about sacred spears, gourd metaphors, and why that cursed scroll had so many labeled angles.

And now… Now you’d snapped.

Mid-walk, arms folded, face burning, you turned to him.

“You’re lying.”

He blinked. “About?”

You waved vaguely at his general person. “The… layout.”

Another blink. Then a slow, infuriatingly pleased smile.

“I assure you, darling, I’m alarmingly real.”

“You said things move and shift and rise like tidewater. That can’t be right. That’s not science. That’s theater.”

“It’s biology.”

“It’s performance art.”

He tilted his head, voice dipping. “Would you like to verify that?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.” He raised his sassy, sassy hand. Gentle, dangerous, and unmistakably smug. “If you’re that skeptical, I’ll let you check. With your own hands. Medically.”

You stared at him. “You want me to examine you.”

“For educational purposes,” he said solemnly.

He gave you the most outrageously innocent look in recorded history, like a temple acolyte caught with a flask of rum and the high priest’s daughter.

“Like a physician,” he added. “Or a sculptor with very important questions.”

You glanced around. One guard was chasing a feral chicken off the dining table. Another tripped over a bench.

 No one was looking.

You narrowed your eyes like a general preparing to inspect enemy territory.

“No tricks.”

“None,” he said, placing a hand over his heart with mock solemnity.

“No flirting.”

“I will be as stoic as a temple statue.”

You gave him one final look. The kind reserved for disasters about to unfold. Then sighed, long and weary, like a woman willingly stepping into battle for the sake of science.

You grabbed him by his empty sleeve, spun on your heel, and hauled him behind the nearest garden wall. The stone radiated sun-warmth. The shade, at least, was cool. Vines rustled. Birds chirped with suspicious enthusiasm.

It was private. It was quiet. It was cursed.

You turned to face him, jaw tight, dignity dangling by a thread. “Disrobe from the waist.”

He blinked. Actually stunned for once. “You are… aggressively curious.”

“Pants. Off.”

“Say please.”

You took one deliberate, threatening step forward.

“Right, right. No jokes. Educational purposes,” he muttered, already undoing his belt, far too smoothly. Like he’d rehearsed this moment in a mirror. Twice.

“You know,” he added, tone maddeningly light, “most people at least buy me a drink first.”

You didn’t flinch. You were a scholar. A researcher. A vessel of cold, clinical detachment. Mostly.

Until he dropped his trousers. You stared. You froze. Your soulmark gave a single, deeply unhelpful pulse of warmth.

“…It is external,” you whispered, horrified. “That’s real?”

Shanks looked absurdly pleased. “Told you.”

“It just… hangs there. Like a… a like a cursed sea cucumber.”

He laughed, quiet and delighted. “That’s a new one. I’ve heard sword, spear, divine scepter—”

You pointed, scandalized. “It moved.”

“It does that.”

You stepped back, as if it might lunge.

“You said it rises? Like tidewater? How is that structurally sound?”

“Well, there’s blood flow, and you know, internal works.”

You threw your hands up. “Why does it have texture? What biological function does that serve?”

“Grip?” he offered, far too helpfully.

You covered your face. “I’m going to die.”

“Do you want to touch it?”

“I already regret everything.”

“Just for science.”

You hesitated. Then, slowly, reached out with two fingers, like you were poking a jellyfish.

It twitched.

You shrieked.

Shanks doubled over laughing, hand on his knees. “You poked it like it owed you money!”

Mortified, you turned and stormed off, tripping on a vine, face blazing. Behind you, laughter echoed like a curse.

He called after you, smug and singsong, “You touched it! You can’t un-touch it!”

“I DID IT FOR SCIENCE!” you shouted over your shoulder.

“And I thank you for your service!”

You walked faster. Soulmark burning. Dignity in tatters. Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel fell out of a tree. Possibly in shock.

Behind the garden wall, Shanks pulled his trousers back on, still grinning like a lunatic. The soul tether hummed like a pulled string.

 “I think I’m in love,” he murmured.

“…She what?” Benn stared.

“Touched it,” Shanks repeated, grinning like a man who had personally invented chaos and filed the patent.

“Two fingers. Like she thought it might explode. Then she screamed.”

He radiated smugness like the sun. If the sun were deeply unhelpful and endlessly pleased with itself.

“Was this voluntary?”

“She requested anatomical clarity. I provided a... hands-on educational opportunity. A handy, if you will, for those of us lacking.”

“You’re gonna get stabbed by Hancock.”

Shanks raised a finger. “Not if she’s impressed by my commitment to science.”

Benn exhaled smoke like a man preparing to witness war crimes. “One day, you’re going to die stupid. And I won’t even blink.”

From nearby, Hongo muttered, “That was textbook malpractice.”

Lucky Roux yelled from the galley, “Did she faint?!”

“No,” Shanks said, practically glowing. “But she walked away suspiciously fast. Didn’t insult me. Accidentally activated the tether limit.”

He kicked a boot onto the table, soulmark faintly aglow beneath his collar.

“Gentlemen,” he announced, uninvited, “I am winning.”

Yasopp shouted down from the rigging, “Did she slap it?!”

“Nope,” Shanks called back. “She poked it. Like she was testing a hot bun.”

The deck erupted in cheers.

Someone passed grog. Someone else had already started a sea shanty-in-progress titled The Brave and the Blushing.

Hongo groaned. “You’re a menace to medicine.”

Benn stared into the middle distance, dragging a hand down his face. “Stop harassing the poor girl. She’s got enough on her plate without you parading your cursed anatomy like it’s a diplomatic credential.”

“You do realize this means she’s thinking about it,” Yasopp added, swirling his drink. “Constantly.”

Shanks’ grin faltered, shifting. Less pirate. More poet.

Smug melted into something quiet. Soft.

Benn looked up. The Den Den Mushi had gone still.

“I know,” Shanks said.

The crew erupted again.

You lay in bed, face half-buried in your pillow, eyes wide and haunted.

You’d done it.You’d touched it. Disobeyed Boa Hancock and all reason.

For science. For research. For medicinal clarity. Because you were a too-curious person on a woman-only island.

And you were never going to recover emotionally.

“It twitched,” you whispered into the void.

Your soulmark glowed gently under your palm, mocking you. Amused.

Your brain had been spiraling for hours, trapped in an endless, sleepless loop of trauma and unwanted fascination.

It was real. It was external. It moved. It had… texture.

You screamed silently into your pillow again.

Somewhere in the storm-wracked shipwreck of your chest, a thought tried to surface, traitorous, horrifying.

 “…It was kind of interesting.”

You kicked the blanket off like it was responsible. Rolled over like a thundercloud with regrets.

“I touched it like a fish,” you hissed. “A cursed, blushing fish.”

You vowed, then and there, hand over your soulmark and dignity leaking out your ears. That you would never speak of it again.

Until, of course, you remembered it five minutes later.

Which you did. Loudly. In the middle of lunch.

Thank the gods there were only a few days left.

Because if this kept up, Hancock was going to kill you. And honestly? Fair.

The sun sank low, bleeding warmth across the horizon. It bathed the cliffs of Amazon Lily in molten gold, gilding every vine and carved pillar in light. The sea lapped gently at the island’s edge, glittering like it was trying to mimic the sky.

Inside the palace, everything held its breath.

The kind of stillness that came before storms.

Shanks moved quietly through the corridors, his boots soft on stone worn smooth by generations of queens and warriors. He didn’t belong here, and he knew it. He felt it in the way the guards tracked his every step, in how the vines seemed to lean away from him, in the subtle thrum of the soulmark beneath his collarbone, pulsing like a ticking clock.

Two weeks. 

That had been the limit. The early stage of the curse. The distance clause. Ten feet or less, or they’d both collapse. If one of them died, the other followed.

It had been laughable at first.

A game.

He’d treated it like a tethered flirtation. Testing the limits with winks and terrible jokes, watching you flush, fluster, hurl scrolls and fruit like weapons.

But now…

And now, only two days left.

Now the bond felt less like a joke and more like a hinge. A door he hadn’t known he’d been waiting to walk through.

And on the other side, You.

The truth was simple, impossible, and already carved into him.

He couldn’t be happy without it.

Without you.

His steps slowed as he neared the garden wall. The wall with the vines where you’d poked him like cursed seafood and fled like a scandalized saint. He could still hear your shriek ringing off the stone. He could still see the sharp line of your back as you marched away, soulmark glowing like it was preparing to file a formal complaint.

He touched his own mark without thinking, fingers brushing the low warmth beneath his collar. It pulsed, soft, steady, unrelenting.

A quiet tether.

And he wasn’t sure he was selfless enough to let it go.

But the truth curled low and constant in his chest, a weight he carried like treasure smuggled too long. He wanted to steal you.

Not just your laughter or the way your eyes lit up when you were annoyed. Not just the sharp little scowls you threw like daggers or the way your soulmark flared when you were caught off guard.

No. 

He wanted all of you. Wanted to keep you. Wanted to kiss you until you forgot you hated him. Wanted to tangle your fingers in his and never explain it. Wanted to take you far from Amazon Lily, from rules and threats and thrones and scrolls and curses,and wanted to make you his.

And he knew how that sounded. He was a pirate. A war criminal. A flirt. But this? This wasn’t charming. It wasn’t teasing. It was greed. The kind you don’t recover from if you don’t take what you want and hold it close..

He tilted his head to the sea, jaw tight, breathing like it hurt because it did. Because the more he thought of letting you go, the more he thought of keeping you about doing something irreversible.

Of saying your name like a vow. Of slipping his hand beneath your soulmark and pulling you in, closer, tighter, and never letting the world take you back.

He was trying so hard to be good.

And then he heard your voice, and like a man caught in a siren’s pull, he was helpless to resist. He hadn’t meant to linger, hadn’t meant to listen. But he was a pirate. And pirates took.

Your voice drifted to him behind a curtain of vines, low, thoughtful.

“He’s… kind. Strange. Not what I imagined. Less like a beast and more like… a companion. Like Shakky’s man-creature, but less irritating.”

For a woman of Amazon Lily, it was practically a love confession.

He couldn’t wait to hand-deliver that insult to Rayleigh like a gift-wrapped curse.

Across the chamber, Hancock’s voice floated out, cool, measured, just this side of cutting.

“Remarkable progress. But tell me… did you tame him, or did he tame you?”

“I just mean—”

Boa cut in, sharp as a blade and twice as merciless.

“You imagined a monster. He’s worse.” A pause. A breath. “A man who knows how to say the right things. A true viper, waiting with poison and promises.”

Your laugh followed, not the brittle kind you used when he teased, but something gentler. Wary. Almost unwilling.

“Maybe he is taming me.”

“He’s time is almost up.” Boa snapped. “So get it together.”

He closed his eyes.

The soulmark beneath his collar flared, quiet but firm. Not pain. Not fate.

Just there.

Steady. Glowing.

He should have left. Should have turned away, should have honored the privacy you deserved.

But then Hancock’s voice followed,a little softer like she was soothing your feelings.

 “It’s best we remove him as soon as the tether ends. Quickly. Before that sickness settles. If you fall in love, it will be impossible to leave him.”

Love Sickness.

Usually it would only affect an Amazon Lily Empress, but who knew what soul mark would do to you.

His heart clenched.

And then your voice, softer than it had any right to be, like a secret you hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “Yes. I think it would end that way if given enough time.”

His heart jumped.

Boa didn’t argue. She only sighed.

Shanks’ hand found the stone column beside him, gripping hard. Anchoring himself. Trying, failing, not to move. Not to react. Not to feel like the world had just shifted underfoot.

Because now?

Now he knew you were wobbling on the edge of affection. You were as good as afflicted, and he had a moral duty.

And something inside him shifted.

“Don’t tell him,” Boa said sharply. “Or we’ll never be rid of him.”

That did it.

Not in some grand, swashbuckling, wine-smashed-against-a-wall kind of way. But in the quiet way. The irreversible kind. The kind that undoes men like him.

He pressed his palm to the mark beneath his collarbone.

And he walked.

One hand steady over the soulmark, feeling it burn. Not from the curse, but from the truth trying to claw its way free. Every step vibrated with the tether’s pulse. The ten-foot pull. The weight of what bound them.

He stepped onto the moonlit terrace.

His boots touched the sacred stone. And the mark snapped.

Not in pain. Not in punishment.

But like a ribbon loosening a bit

He staggered, caught himself. The glow beneath his collar dimmed to a slow, steady shimmer. Not gone. But waning.

Time was running out.

He stood still for a long moment, staring out at the sea. The wind pulled through his hair, cool against his skin. He breathed it in like a man preparing for battle.

A door opened.

He turned. Not quickly. Not startled.

Just hopeful.

You stood at the far edge of the terrace, breathless, uncertain of what he’d heard. Of what he knew now, and what he might do with it.

 Of course he’d followed. He always would.

Wind threaded through his hair, brushing strands across his brow as he watched the tide slip low on the horizon. The sea mirrored the sky in molten silver; the cliffs burned gold as the sun retreated.

You sat beneath the terrace eaves, half-curled in the roots of the garden’s oldest tree, back tense, hands resting on a scroll you hadn’t read in hours. From his vantage, he could see it clearly. How the breeze tugged at your hem but not your focus.

You weren’t reading. You were waiting.

He approached, footsteps soft over crushed stone, each one tugging tighter at the thread between you. The soul tether that had bound him long before either of you admitted it. As he passed, his fingers brushed lightly against the back of your skirt. Not to startle. Just to anchor himself.

You didn’t look up.

The orchids were in bloom, thickening the dusk with scent. Vines curled around the lantern tree like watchful arms, casting dappled light across your skin.

He saw your eyes flick toward his hair. Still bright, even in the fading day. You pretended not to notice. But you always noticed.

He stopped just short of you, standing at the edge of sacred light.

“Shouldn’t you be packing?” you asked, voice clipped. Half a joke. Half a dare. Like if he smiled, you’d survive it.

He didn’t smile. “There’s only one thing here I want to take.”

Your jaw tightened. The ache behind your eyes sharpened. You closed them and exhaled, like someone bracing for cold water.

“That’s not your choice.” You say quietly.

“Maybe not,” he said. “But I’ve made it anyway.”

You looked up.

He stood in the threshold between lantern light and shadow, coat loose at the shoulders, collar undone. No grin. No bravado. Just the brutal stillness of a man who had already made up his mind.

You rose slowly. “You said you weren’t here to start a war.”

“I lied.” It didn’t land like a threat. It landed like a truth, quiet, and crushing.

Your mouth fell open and he struggles not to bite you.

Before you could retreat, he stepped closer. “I heard what you said. To Hancock.”

Your spine went rigid. “You were listening?”

 “I was hoping,” he said, another step closer, “and now I’m done hoping.”

You stood frozen in that strange, suspended space between fight and surrender. He didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to.

“I came here to behave,” he murmured. “To follow the rules. Give you my best. But I’m not a hero. I’m a pirate. And pirates take what they want.”

He tilted his head, eyes locked on yours. “And I think we both know what I want.”

Now you saw it, the faint tension along his jaw, the crease at his brow that came only with danger. Or honesty. And he was both.

“If you never want to see me again,” he said, “say it. Say it now. Make it hurt. I’ll go.”

The silence stretched. Your pulse thundered. But no words came.

You didn’t want him to go.

A breath above cracked the stillness.

“Red-Hair.”

You looked up.

Boa Hancock stood on the high balcony, wrapped in imperial silk, her gaze cold as the night tide. Arms folded. Voice layered in thunder.

“You presume too much.”

Shanks didn’t flinch. “Maybe,” he said, eyes on you, making you blush. “But I’d rather beg your wrath than walk away empty-handed.”

“She is not foolish enough to belong to you.”

“No,” he said softly. “But I’m foolish enough to keep trying.”

You turned, heat rising to your cheeks. The scroll slipped from your lap, forgotten. Your soulmark pulsed beneath your skin.

The Empress’ gaze lingered on you. Then him.

“Be careful, Red-Hair,” she said coolly. “I won’t forgive such candor.”

With a final sweep of her hair, she turned and vanished into the palace above.

The moon hung low, a blade drawn clean across the sea. Its reflection trembled on the water like a warning left unsaid.

The palace held its breath.

Even the guards, exceptionally vigilant due to Boa’s new orders, had grown complacent. dulled by the stillness of two long weeks. They had mistaken peace for surrender, forgotten he was as wily as he was charming.

Shanks moved barefoot through the inner halls, his coat trailing like a whisper across stone. His shirt hung open, salt still clinging to his skin from a late swim meant to calm him. It hadn’t worked. The glow of his soulmark, your soulmark, flickered low and steady beneath his collarbone, like it was holding its breath.

He didn’t rush. Every step felt like a promise unraveling.

His fingers grazed the walls as he passed, as if to apologize to the island itself for what he was about to do. He’d sworn to respect their terms. To stay within bounds. To give you time. But time had become unbearable.

And you had given him so much hope.

He stepped into your room like a tide returning.

The air was warm, thick with the scent of jasmine and rain-polished stone. You lay curled on your side, lost to sleep, cheek against the curve of your hand. The soulmark beneath your palm beat in rhythm with his own. He watched it, watched you, for what felt like hours in the span of a minute.

You looked soft. And it broke him.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined it. Not how a love like this should begin, if it was actual love and if he hadn’t simply lost his mind to longing. But it was the only goodbye he could bear to give, one that was selfish, cruel, and entirely within his control.

Hancock had triples the guards after the terrace incident. He didn’t blame her.

But it didn’t matter.

His Haki rolled out gently, like a lullaby. Not sharp or punishing. Just… absolute. A blanket of silence settled over the palace like sleep.

No alarms. No footsteps. No one to stop him.

You didn’t stir when he knelt beside you, didn’t flinch when he touched your arm and gathered you against his chest. His embrace was careful. Reverent. As though you were something divine, he had no right to hold.

But he held you anyway.

A thief and a guardian both.

And then he moved you over his shoulder.

His pulse roared in his ears as he carried you through marble corridors strung with moonlight, past murals of queens and legends, past the inner sanctum where Hancock once vowed she’d never let him win. Past every line he’d be warned not to cross.

He crossed them all.

Outside, the tide welcomed him with foam-flecked arms. The dinghy waited where he’d hidden it, tucked against the rocks like a secret too dangerous to name. When his foot touched wet sand, the soulmark beneath his collarbone burned bright. On his shoulder, you stirred faintly. He patted your thigh. 

Your lips parted, your brow creased. “...Shanks.” You sighed dreamily.

He faltered.

The sound of your voice, still asleep, nearly undid him. He should have stopped. Should have laid you down, whispered a truth, and let you go. But he was already knee-deep in the one sin he could never regret. Wanting you.

He pressed his cheek against your temple, the night wrapping around both of you like a shroud.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered. “But it’s not kidnapping if the universe agreed.”

Then he stepped into the boat, settled you across his lap, and pushed off into the tide. The oars moved silently through silver water. The soulmark tether glowed between your skin and his, a thin, radiant thread stretched taut between fate and rebellion.

You didn’t wake.

Not yet.

But you would.

And when you did, he would be there, waiting to face whatever came next.

Likely, your wrath.

[solxamber]

Hello! I saw your fic(?) On the reader being similar to the white rabbit!

So I had a similar idea but with absolem the caterpillar from Alice in wonderland. With heartslabyul, octavinelle and pomefiore (added on maybe chenya ?). Basically the reader is a 2nd year and is a very cocky person when it comes to things like subjects they get high scores in along with having bad anger issues? This is just an idea I have at the top of my head 😅 I also don't make requests often if that was clear lol.

Thank you if reading my request ! :)

It's been so long since I read Alice in Wonderland but I hope this is what you wanted <3

Absolem! Reader with Heartslabyul, Octavinelle and Pomefiore + Che'nya

Rest of the characters: here

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle Rosehearts had no idea how to handle you. On one hand, you were technically a model student—when you weren’t terrorizing everyone with your arrogance, that is. On the other hand, your cocky attitude made his eye twitch like he was seconds away from writing up a whole new rule just for your ego.

“You may have gotten the highest score in Alchemy,” Riddle said stiffly, his hands clenched behind his back like he was bracing himself for an incoming tidal wave of sass, “but that does not excuse you from following protocol during experiments!"

You leaned back in your chair, all smug grin and half-lidded eyes. “Oh, Riddle, Riddle, Riddle. If I followed your ‘protocol,’ we’d still be stuck trying to figure out how to transmute lead into potatoes.”

His face flushed as red as a rose. “That is not the point!”

“I’m just saying,” you replied with a shrug, “your rules are cute, but some of us prefer actual results.”

There was a long, tension-filled silence. Then, Riddle’s lips twitched, and you could almost hear his brain rewriting Rule 392: No Sassing The Dorm Leader.

Trey Clover

If Trey had a talent, it was the ability to defuse a situation with nothing more than a laid-back smile and a soft-spoken word or two. But when it came to your outbursts, even Trey occasionally had to roll up his sleeves.

“You’re getting pretty fired up over here, huh?” Trey said, folding his arms and giving you that calm, big-brother smile.

You narrowed your eyes. “They just don’t get it, Trey. If they’d actually listen to me, we’d be done with these stupid group projects in half the time.”

Trey hummed, still as placid as ever. “Maybe. Or maybe they just don’t appreciate being called ��incompetent cabbage heads’ every time they mess up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t call them that this time.”

“Oh, my mistake. That was last week.” Trey chuckled, grabbing a cupcake from a tray. “Anyway, maybe you should try a new approach. Like, I don’t know... baking?”

You squinted at him suspiciously. “Is this another one of your ‘therapy via baked goods’ attempts? Because the last time I tried, Cater put the whole thing on Magicam, and I’m still seeing memes about ‘exploding tarts.’”

Trey just smiled knowingly. “Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”

Cater Diamond

“#MoodSwings, am I right?”

Cater had this incredible (and incredibly annoying) ability to pop up just when you were about to lose it. Today was no different. You were fuming over some insignificant thing someone said in class, and right when you were about to explode, there he was, phone at the ready.

“I swear, if you tag me in another one of your posts—” you started, but he was already snapping pics, duck-lip selfie style.

“Whoa, chill, bestie! It’s not my fault you’ve got that ‘rage extrodinaire’ aesthetic. The followers eat it up. Seriously, you should start a channel. #CaterToYourAnger.”

You glared. “I’d start with a video called ‘How to Get Away with Smashing Cater’s Phone.’”

Cater grinned, absolutely unfazed. “Aww, love you too, cupcake. Just think of all the likes we’d get!”

Ace Trappola

Ace? Oh, Ace lived to rile you up. He thrived on it like a plant soaking in the sun.

“So,” he said, leaning back against the wall with a smug grin, “I heard you were bragging about your Potions grade again. Shocking.”

You glared daggers at him. “I don’t have to brag. The results speak for themselves. Unlike your grades, which are probably hiding in the shadow of your last failed test.”

“Oof, that’s cold. You sure you’re not secretly studying Ice Magic?” Ace shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You know, all that boasting is just you overcompensating for something. Like, maybe you’re secretly terrible at everything else?”

Your temper flared instantly, and you stepped closer, ready to unleash your wrath. “Say that again, and I’ll show you what happens when—”

“Oh, hold on—Deuce! Hey, Deuce!” Ace shouted, and before you could lay into him, Deuce was running over, looking confused and ready to brawl for no reason.

“Are we fighting? We’re fighting, right?” Deuce asked, fists already up.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Deuce, no one’s fighting.”

“Yet,” Ace muttered with a wink, and you had to resist the urge to scream.

Deuce Spade

Deuce tried. He really did. But no matter how hard he tried to match your fiery personality, he just couldn’t seem to get it quite right.

“You know, I’ve been practicing too,” Deuce said one day, puffing out his chest like he was about to impress you. “I’m getting better at Transfiguration!”

You blinked. “Really? Didn’t you turn someone’s textbook into a chicken by accident last week?”

Deuce’s face turned red. “I-It wasn’t a chicken! It was... okay, maybe it was a chicken, but I’m improving!”

“Sure you are,” you teased, crossing your arms. “I bet your next experiment will turn the whole dorm into a petting zoo.”

Deuce stared at you for a moment, clearly weighing his options. “...That would actually be kinda cool.”

You facepalmed. “Deuce, please.”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul wasn’t intimidated by your cockiness. No, in fact, he saw it as something to be... monetized. Because why not take that overblown confidence of yours and turn it into something profitable for the Mostro Lounge?

“You could be quite the business partner,” Azul remarked, smiling slyly from across his desk. “With your top grades and undeniable talent, I’m sure students would pay handsomely for tutoring sessions.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What’s the catch?”

Azul feigned innocence. “Catch? Why, there’s no catch at all. Just a little... arrangement. I take a modest percentage of the profits, and in return, you gain access to the resources of the Mostro Lounge. Think of it as... a mutually beneficial partnership.”

You tilted your head. “So basically, I do all the work, and you skim off the top?”

Azul’s grin widened. “A shrewd observation, but I prefer the term strategic partnership.”

Jade Leech

Jade, on the other hand, was a master of subtlety. He didn’t confront you head-on like the others did. No, Jade had this unnerving way of quietly watching you, like a predator biding its time.

“Your temper is quite fascinating,” Jade remarked one day, his eerie smile never faltering.

You crossed your arms defensively. “Fascinating how?"

“Oh, just the way it flares up so quickly. It’s almost... predictable.” He tilted his head slightly. “I wonder, how well do you control it in dangerous situations?”

“Why, are you planning to test me or something?” you asked warily, already regretting the question.

Jade chuckled softly. “Oh no, nothing of the sort. I’m merely... observing. You’re quite the specimen, after all.”

You shuddered. “Please stop talking like I’m some kind of lab rat.”

Floyd Leech

Floyd, on the other hand, lived to push your buttons. He loved it when you lost your cool because it meant you were interesting. And Floyd? He thrived on interesting.

“Oi, Shrimpy!” Floyd’s voice echoed across the lounge as he slung an arm around your shoulders. “Heard you got top marks again. Big shot, huh?”

You side-eyed him. “Don’t call me Shrimpy.”

“Awww, but I like it!” he whined, pouting dramatically. “You get all mad when I do it. It’s fun! Do it again! Get mad!”

You groaned. “Why are you like this?”

Floyd grinned, his sharp teeth gleaming. “Why not? It’s more fun to watch you blow a gasket. Maybe I’ll squeeze ya real good next time you freak out.”

You shook him off. “No thanks, I’d rather not have my ribs crushed.”

“Awww, but that’s the best part!”

Vil Schoenheit

Vil couldn’t stand your cocky attitude. Mostly because he couldn’t stand anything that was less than perfection—and in his eyes, you were far from it.

“Such arrogance,” Vil remarked, inspecting his reflection in a compact mirror as you ranted about how no one appreciated your brilliance. “It’s one thing to be talented, but it’s another thing entirely to lack grace.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. Like you’ve never been confident in your own abilities.”

Vil snapped the compact shut, finally looking at you with a sharp, withering gaze. “Confidence is one thing. Vulgarity is is another.” He raised an eyebrow, his perfect lips curving in a condescending smile. “And darling, you’re teetering dangerously close to the latter.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I’m just saying, if everyone else could keep up with me, maybe I wouldn’t have to be this way.”

Vil waved a hand dismissively. “Keep up with you? I highly doubt that. There’s a fine line between confidence and crudeness, and you’ve trampled right over it in those worn-out boots of yours.”

You glanced down at your boots, scowling. “Hey! My boots are perfectly fine!”

Vil gave you a once-over, a pitying sigh slipping from his lips. “I could recommend a stylist, but I doubt even the best could save you from that attitude of yours."

Rook Hunt

If there was anyone who found your fiery personality endlessly amusing, it was Rook. The man seemed to delight in your temper tantrums, treating them like some kind of grand performance.

“Oh, what a magnifique display of passion!” Rook exclaimed one afternoon, after you’d shouted at some poor first-year for knocking into you. “Your fire burns so brightly, it is a wonder you do not set the very air ablaze!”

You glared at him, still fuming. “I’m not trying to entertain you, Rook.”

“But you do! Oh, you do!” Rook clapped his hands together, his eyes shining with admiration. “To witness such raw emotion—it is truly a gift. You are like a tempest, sweeping all in your path.”

“Pretty sure that’s just a fancy way of saying I’m a walking disaster.”

“Non, non, non!” Rook laughed, shaking his head. “You are a force of nature, one that cannot be tamed! To tame such a spirit would be a crime against beauty itself!”

You blinked at him, unsure whether to be flattered or concerned. “Okay, sure. Whatever makes you happy, Rook.”

Epel Felmier

Epel had mixed feelings about you. On one hand, he admired your guts—your temper was something to be feared, and Epel respected that. On the other hand, you were annoying.

“You know, just ‘cause you’re good at Magic History doesn’t mean you gotta rub it in everyone’s face,” Epel grumbled one day after you’d corrected him in class. “Ain’t nobody here tryin’ to hear that.”

You leaned against the desk, a smug grin on your face. “It’s not my fault you can’t keep up. Maybe if you spent more time studying and less time trying to look tough, you’d have better grades.”

Epel’s face turned red. “I am tough! And if you say somethin’ like that again, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” You raised an eyebrow, daring him to continue.

Epel gritted his teeth, fists clenched at his sides. “I’ll... I’ll... kick your butt in PE next time!”

You snorted. “Sure, Epel. Let me know how that goes.”

He muttered something under his breath, probably swearing revenge in the form of some country-style wrestling move, but you were already too busy planning your next academic triumph to care.

Che'nya

Of course, Che’nya didn’t mind your attitude at all. In fact, he found it downright entertaining. He’d pop up at the most inconvenient moments, grinning that mischievous grin of his and waiting for you to lose your cool.

“Nyah~ Why so serious, Y/N?” Che’nya’s voice floated down from seemingly nowhere. “All that steam comin’ outta your ears can’t be good for your health.”

You looked up, scowling as you spotted him lounging in a tree, that trademark grin never leaving his face. “What do you want, Che’nya?”

He tilted his head, blinking innocently. “Just wonderin’ if you were plannin’ to blow a gasket today. I’ve got a front-row seat!"

“Get down here before I make you,” you snapped.

“Oooh, feisty! You know, it’s a good thing you’re not in Wonderland.” He chuckled, disappearing and reappearing right beside you. “You’d fit right in with all the wild tempers down there.”

You rolled your eyes. “And you’d fit right in with the pests.”

Che’nya laughed, not the least bit offended. “Nyah~ You say the sweetest things! See ya around, Hothead.”

And with that, he disappeared again, leaving you to stew in your own frustration. Typical Che’nya.

Masterlist

[axeeglitter]

Back from the Vault: Alexa

“What do you mean you forgot your passport?!” asked Simon through his phone.

“I don’t know dude; I was sure I had it but I can’t find it anywhere. Can you go and check in my room if I didn’t put it on my desk or somewhere else, please?”

“Alright, I’m on my way, but dude, really, you have to be more careful!”

Simon and Michael had been roommates for almost four years now. They’d been paired together in their first year of uni, and since they were getting along pretty well and their shared bedroom was small, they decided to look for an apartment together. Things turned out great, and they’ve shared the same apartment since then. When they met, Simon was pretty shy and lacked confidence, but thanks to Michael, he really came out of his shell and found the courage to live fully. He started going to the gym, taking care of himself, and making some friends along the way. He even managed to find someone he found attractive. They just started dating a few weeks ago, and he hoped he would manage to bring his love interest home while Michael was away.

Michael had always been the more outgoing of the two. Always chatting and laughing with everyone, his big dumb smile plastered on his face, letting his perfect white teeth shine and illuminate his face. Sure, Michael wasn’t the brightest student, and even though he preferred working out to spending his evenings studying, he still did everything he could to succeed in his studies and at his part-time job as a bartender. He also managed to have some free time to play video games, practice sports, and, most of all, play with the parameters of his Alexa.

When Michael saw the ad for Alexa’s new features a couple of years ago, he fell in love with the concept. The first thing he did when they both got the apartment was to put Alexa everywhere in the house. Simon was a bit skeptical about this artificial intelligence listening to them all the time, but Michael was so happy. Michael couldn’t stop having fun with his new toy. Alexa turned the volume up, Alexa lit up the kitchen. Alexa added ketchup to the grocery list. As time passed, Simon got used to it and didn’t even realize it was there anymore.

“Ok dude, I’m in your bedroom. Damn, you could have cleaned up a bit; for fuck’s sake, there are dirty underwear and socks everywhere! Gross!”

“Sorry bro, was in a bit of a hurry. I thought my flight was tomorrow, not today! Listen, my passport should be somewhere around my desk. I remember taking it out and putting it on my desk to finish packing. Look around if it’s not there, please.”

“Okay, hold on, putting the speakers on,” Simon said as he clicked on the button to activate it and turned the volume all the way up before placing his phone on the desk.

“You sure you put it there? I can’t find it anywhere, dude!”

“Yes, I am! It must be somewhere around. Take a look on my nightstand,” Michael said, half-listening to what his friend was saying as he was stressed and still searching for it in his backpack.

VOICE DETECTED

“Bro, I can’t find it anywhere. I don’t know where you’ve pu… What the fuck? What was that?” said Simon, not understanding where the voice was coming from. “Dude, did you just say something?” Simon asked again, waiting for an answer.

INTRUDER PROTOCOL ACTIVATED… STARTING INTRUDER PROTECTION PROGRAM

As Simon heard this voice again, he heard a beeping sound coming from Michael’s computer. Suddenly, the screens lit up with a weird-looking graphic. Simon tried to understand what was happening, still asking if this was a prank from Michael. “Dude, can you hear me? I don’t know what you are up to, but it’s not funny. You know what? Fuck you, I’m out of here!” said Simon as he started walking out of the messy bedroom.

“Bro, I know, maybe it’s in the closet!” answered Michael, not listening to what his bro was saying and still looking for it in his suitcase.

All of a sudden, Simon felt something grabbing his right ankle. He tilted his head only to realize his foot was stuck in some kind of cable knot. He smiled a bit, thinking all of this was getting on his nerves, but as a shy laugh escaped his mouth, the knot tightened on its own, and another cable wrapped around Simon’s left ankle. Then they started pulling him. Simon fell on his butt right onto a pile of dirty jockstraps and used socks. The cables resumed their pulling. Simon tried to resist, but it wasn’t working.

“Michael, help!!” he screamed loud and clear, but Michael had put his phone away as he was asking about his passport to his family.

“HELP ME!!” Simon screamed once again as he was dragged across the dirty floor. Then it all stopped. He was not moving anymore. His ankles were still tied to the cables, and as he tried to get back up, he heard a whipping sound and turned his head just in time to see two new cables grab his wrists and tie them up too before spreading them apart, resulting in Simon being held down against his will in the middle of Michael’s dirty bedroom floor.

“Michael, help me!” screamed Simon again, and this time Michael answered just as the voice started talking again.

INTRUDER NEUTRALIZED… WAITING APPROVAL TO START INTRUDER PROTECTION PROGRAM…

“YES!” screamed Michael from afar. “I knew I had packed it!” Michael’s voice got louder as he got his phone back to his ear. “Sorry bro, I’ve found it! My mom was keeping it and didn’t tell me. Sorry! I’ll catch you in a month after my family trip. I’ll grab you something from Disney World, bro. See you!” And with that, Michael hung up on Simon.

MASTER4S VOICE DETECTED… STARTING PROTOCOLS IN 3…2…1…

Simon was terrified. He couldn’t move, and now his only hope, Michael, had just hung up on him. As he realized he would have to find a way to free himself on his own, the cables started to tense again, pulling his limbs a bit more until his legs and arms were outstretched. Now he couldn’t move at all anymore.

STARTING SCANNING AND BACKUP PROTOCOL…

Simon lay there, immobile and jerking as much as he could in the hope of untying one of the knots when he saw a new cable starting to move on its own. It undulated on the floor in Simon’s direction, and as it got near his head, it floated in the air above him. There it stood just long enough for Simon to see it. It was different from the ones holding him down. This one had a device plugged into it, looking like something used for scanning. As Simon thought about that, the device turned itself on and illuminated Simon’s body in a blue hue, going from the tip of his feet to his head. As it scanned along, Simon saw a weird blue holographic square pattern projected onto him.

“What the fuck is all of this?” thought Simon as the device finished its work.

INTRUDER SCAN FINISHED… SAVING OF THE DATA… DATA SAVED… RESUMING PROTOCOL…

Simon heard again. Suddenly, the scanning device lit up again, but this time it was not a blue light. This time it was red. It started scanning all over his body again, but Simon felt like something was heating all around him. As he felt this weird but not painful sensation, he realized he was feeling something on his right ankle. He lifted his head only to see that wherever the red light touched, his clothes were disintegrating. His socks and brand-new Air Forces were already gone, and now he watched as his favorite pair of jeans was getting destroyed right in front of his eyes. Simon screamed and moved as much as he could in every direction, hoping to stop all of this, but it was not working. Worse, the voice started again.

INTRUDER NOT STANDING STILL, SPEEDING UP PROCESS BY 50%

Simon watched in fear as he felt his whole body getting naked faster. With the blink of an eye, Simon was standing there, tied up and naked on the floor. “Please, make it stop. I’m Michael’s roommate. I’m not an intruder. I live here!” Simon tried to talk with Alexa, but the only response he heard froze him in terror.

VOICEPRINT INCORRECT… RESUMING PROTOCOL IN 3…2…1…

As he heard those words, he saw new cables flying from every corner of the room. They were like snakes ready to strike, and the only thing he could do as he saw them freezing in place waiting for orders was close his eyes as tears built up on his cheeks.

Suddenly, all the cables jumped onto his body. He felt them plugging into his biceps, forearms, pecs, abs, and legs. He even felt some getting plugged into his fingers and soles. Simon was in excruciating pain. It felt like he was being stabbed all over his body at once. Just as he was about to faint, he heard the voice again.

MODIFICATION PROCESS STARTING IN 3…2…1…

Simon felt all the cables attached to him vibrating harder and harder. It was like his whole body was being shaken. His nerves were on fire, and he felt like he was about to be torn apart. Tears of pain streamed down his cheeks as he suddenly felt an electric shock inside his body. He was in such pain that he couldn’t even turn his head to see what was happening to him.

Just before Michael left for his family vacation, he received a notification on his Amazon account about a new version of Alexa. Being Michael, he jumped on the opportunity and upgraded it right away, without paying much attention to the modifications. The only new feature he was interested in was the “Intruder Protection Program” and its assimilation feature. “Cool,” he thought, “Just before leaving for a month, this new version is released. What perfect timing!”

Once the download was done, Alexa needed information to register who was welcome and who was considered an intruder. Michael did so and, just as he finished entering his information and was about to input Simon’s details, Alexa reminded him that his flight was leaving in 4 hours. Surprised, Michael jumped out of his desk, packed as much as he could into his backpack and suitcase, and rushed to meet his family at the airport, not realizing he never entered Simon’s information into Alexa’s database.

Simon lay frozen in pain on the dirty floor as he felt his bones cracking and compressing. He heard cracking everywhere, and at some point, he thought maybe all of this was a nightmare and he was about to wake up. But what jolted him from this thought was the excruciating pain in his feet. Simon felt his size 39 feet starting to grow longer until they were now a size 45 and a half. The pain was awful. He fell as his toes elongated and became more articulated. It felt like he had more movement in them than before. Then the same happened with his hands, and it was too much for Simon’s pain tolerance. As he fainted from the pain, the changes didn’t stop. Once the bones were modified, Simon’s muscles were next.

All his muscles entered a vibration state. They grew larger and larger until his previous slim, athletic frame was replaced by that of a gym god. His muscles bulged in every direction. Once the muscles were done, the vibration moved to his head. His nose was the first to break into pieces before being remolded into a larger, less slim version. Then the same happened with his chin and brows. Once the bones were done, the muscles in his face also started to vibrate, resulting in a more angular, jockish face.

Then the scanning device came back to life and started scanning Simon’s fainted body with a green light. Every inch of skin touched by the light tanned to a healthy golden shade. Once done, the device turned a yellow light and focused on specific zones: the legs, armpits, head, chest, and most importantly, the pubic area. There, it started to light up and remained immobile on the skin until a certain number of hairs had sprouted. This resulted in Simon’s body having slightly hairy legs, chest and an imberb face (except for hair and brows), hairy armpits, and, most notably, curly brown pubes.

When all the hair had been scanned, the device focused back on Simon’s head and his eyes. This time, the device emitted a purple hue. Unbeknownst to Simon, his blue-gray eyes started to change until they were a warm brown color. The scanning device turned off and fell next to Simon’s head, only to be replaced by another cable with a peculiar apparatus at its end. It looked like a tube.

The cable started to undulate toward Simon’s crotch and then, out of nowhere, jumped onto his 5-inch cock and grape-sized balls. Alexa spoke again.

LOADING BACKED UP DATA…

The device began to suck harder and harder, and suddenly, Simon’s cut cock started to grow and harden. It grew bigger and bigger inside the tube until it was now an 8.5-inch uncut cock with huge testicles.

GENITALS MODIFIED…

The device detached itself and fell just between Simon’s legs. Simon’s body remained immobile for a couple of seconds before he slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was two huge pecs in front of his sight. He screamed and turned his head to the right and left, watching as his arms had also become huge.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” he screamed, but the only response he got was another notification from Alexa.

BODY MODIFICATION PROTOCOL COMPLETE… STARTING THE ASSIMILATION PROTOCOL IN 3… 2… 1…

Simon watched in fear as a new cable appeared in his sight. This one looked similar to the others that had plugged into his body, but it stood right between his eyes. That’s when he understood what Alexa had just said.

“No, Alexa, stop! STOOOO…”

The cable jumped into the middle of Simon’s eyes and plugged itself directly into his brain. For Simon, it felt like a switch had been turned off. He was still feeling everything but couldn’t move anymore. It was like he was no longer there, and for a moment, he thought he might have died. Then he heard Alexa’s voice again, but this time it was clearer and louder, as if it were directly in his brain.

SAVING AND DUPLICATING INTRUDER’S INFORMATION

Simon felt like something was off. It felt like he was being scanned deeply, and then suddenly, he felt himself falling into darkness. It was like falling into an endless pit of obscurity, and he couldn’t grab onto anything to stop his fall.

INTRUDER’S INFORMATION SCANNED AND SAVED… STARTING ASSIMILATION…

Simon stood in darkness, hearing Alexa’s voice but unable to move or react. He was frozen in time and floating in a dark place. Suddenly, right in front of him, he saw a bright, intense, and warming light. From all around, he saw movie clips floating toward it, merging together, making it grow bigger and stronger. Simon was forced to watch these clips until one caught his attention. It was a memory of himself and Michael playing Mario Kart. Simon remembered this night perfectly because it was when he realized Michael was a true friend, and he was happy and thankful to have him in his life. But it was strange because in his memories, he was on the right side of the sofa, not the left. It was as if the memory was mirrored. That’s when he realized.

“Wait, why am I watching myself playing Mario Kart in this clip? I should be looking at Michael, not myself!”

Simon panicked and tried to find another clip, only to see once again himself in front of his eyes, not Michael. Now he understood. Simon was not looking at his memories but Michael’s.

“ALEXA, STOP, PLEASE!” Simon screamed, but nothing happened. Instead, more and more movie clips merged in front of his eyes until the last one was Michael downloading the new version of Alexa called “Intruder Protection Program” in his room. Simon screamed as loud as he could, only to be cut short by Alexa once again.

ASSIMILATION DONE…

In the outside world, all the cables unplugged themselves and unknotted from Simon’s ankles and wrists.

Simon’s body lay sweaty and naked on the dirty floor for a couple of seconds before Alexa spoke once more.

INTRUDER PROTECTION PROGRAM TERMINATED… CAN I DO SOMETHING FOR YOU, MICHAEL?

Michael opened his eyes, and Simon watched, trapped inside his own brain, as his body betrayed him. He felt everything but couldn’t move anymore. He felt his body starting to blink before opening his mouth and speaking in a deeper voice, mimicking Michael’s.

“Nah bro! I’m good. Thanks, Alexa!”

With that, Michael’s body began to get up and realized he was naked. Worse, he was getting excited watching himself in the mirror.

“Well, guess I have to take care of you,” he said, gripping his huge veined cock before spitting on it and starting to pleasure himself.

Simon was in hell. He felt everything and couldn’t do anything to stop his body and this new Michael personality. Then he felt his body tense up and prepare to explode. He grabbed one of the dirty underwear on the floor, smelled it, laughed a bit, and said “Noice” before finishing himself in it. He then sat on the bed, the dirty jockstrap still stuck between his calloused hand and his hard cock.

The new Michael closed his eyes and slowly fell asleep.

TIME TO WAKE UP, MASTER, IT’S 8 AM, YOU’RE GONNA BE LATE…

Michael woke up with his dick still tucked inside the crusty jockstrap. He got up, looked at the time, and thanked Alexa. He looked around his bedroom to see what he was about to wear and only after 2 minutes of running naked did he realize he still had the jockstrap stuck to his cock. He laughed and grabbed it before putting it on. He then jumped into cargo sports shorts and a pair of well-used Nike socks before putting grabbing a red and white tank top under his arm and his favorite necklace.

As Michael left his bedroom, he screamed through the house.

“Simon bro, gonna be late, I’ll see you tonight!”

Before leaving, he never realized that Simon was, in fact, stuck in his own head, screaming for this nightmare to stop and for him to be freed.

As Michael closed the door and jumped into his car, Alexa started again.

MICHAEL OUT OF HOUSE… STARTING INTRUDER PROTECTION PROGRAM…

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hey guys, here is the first story I've retrieved from my vault. You may have already read this one a couple of months ago, but unfortunately, it got lost over time. So, I decided to post it again after refining it a bit and adding new pictures kindly created by @tf-vigilante for this story. As always, let me know what you think of it, and feel free to leave a like, share, or send me a message if you want to talk about this story or anything else :)

Let me know if you’d like to see a continuation of this story, as I have plans for Michael, Simon, and Alexa.

If you have any ideas or plots you'd like to discuss, feel free to send me an ask or a DM ;)

In the meantime, take care, and see you soon for more stories resurrected from my vault!

[terriblesoup]

I see you

A/N: It's been a whiiile, took me so long to finish this one, but you'll like iiit!

Content: fluff, slightest angst with comfort, voluntarily mute! mc, sfw, 1600k

The wind swept low across the mountainside, curling its way between the old pine beams of Sylus's bedroom like a breath remembering a colder time. The lamps inside had already been lit, golden pools of warmth flickering against stone walls and maps, but silence ruled the corridors of his home. Outside, snow flurried against the windows, delicate and persistent, a hush falling over the world beyond.

Sylus sat on his couch facing a small table, the room’s hearth long since burned down to amber coals. He worked by habit more than need, papers scattered before him, flickering shadows bending over words and scribbled routes. The hush was a companion he’d grown used to. A part of him.

Then came the soft sound of the outer door.

Not urgent, not loud. A quiet presence. 

He looked up.

She stood in the threshold like a memory, wrapped in her black travel coat, hair tangled from wind. She said nothing. Her eyes, dark with long miles, found his. She did not smile. She did not need to.

She lifted her hand. Two fingers brushed her chest, then extended outward.

"I’m back." She signed.

Sylus rose before he thought to.

There were no orders, no reports. No questions. He crossed the room in three long steps, boots silent on the rugs. When she stepped forward, he met her halfway.

Her arms wrapped around him, sudden and full, and he folded her in like she had always belonged in the hollow of his chest.

No words.

Just warmth. The kind that crept in quietly. The kind that stayed.

She smelled of gunpowder and winter air, of earth and distance. Her face pressed to the place where his heartbeat lived. And he held her, fiercely and carefully all at once.

"You're home," he murmured, a breath into her hair.

She only nodded, her face hidden, her silence a language he had long since learned to speak.

He closed his eyes.

And in the stillness, the base no longer felt so quiet.

It was never announced when she chose to be silent. The first time it happened around him, it was a quiet morning, the kind when snow gathers thick and soft against the base’s windows, muffling the world outside. Inside, his men moved with subdued energy, preparing for missions, checking equipment, their voices low and routine. She was there visiting him, still early in their fragile beginning, weaving excuses as reasons to see each other. Hers that day was simple enough, that she needed information on some obscure protocols’ buyer, a pretext that barely veiled the truth of her desire to be near him. She hid that desire well, scattering it beneath bursts of energetic chatter with the men around them, laughter masking the quiet ache he sensed beneath.

Sylus noticed it first, how she had gone quiet. Not just still, but silent in a way that felt deliberate. She stood near the equipment table, her fingers grazing the surface of a datasheet, eyes distant. When someone asked her a question, she responded with a nod, a gesture, but no voice. The rest of the men exchanged uncertain glances.

He didn’t ask. Not then.

Later, when the day's noise had softened and the base was humming low with evening quiet, he knocked gently at her door. Not urgent. Just presence.

She opened it. The lights inside were dim. She hadn’t spoken a word all day. But now, her fingers moved.

"I’m sorry."

She signed it quickly, but her hands lingered mid-air after, hesitant.

Sylus stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “You don’t have to speak for me to understand.”

The words fell into the space between them like a warm blanket. She watched him closely, searching for anything in his voice that might hint at frustration or confusion. But she found none. Only quiet care.

“Will you teach me?” he asked.

Her brows lifted.

“Just a few signs,” he added, sheepish. “So I know how to listen.”

She smiled then, small and true. The kind that curled her lip just slightly and reached her eyes. Then she stepped aside, inviting him in fully. He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, knees close.

She began with his name. How to sign it. His fingers fumbled the first time, but she didn’t laugh. She took his hand, corrected him gently.

They went slowly.

Words like: okay. hungry. safe. stay.

And then, a pause. Her fingers brushed against his, more deliberate now.

“You see me?” she asked, hands shaping each word.

Sylus looked at her.

And signed back; clumsy but clear:

“I... see... you.”

Not just the silence. Not just the hands that spoke. But her.

All of her.

The days that followed were stitched together with small, quiet moments, each a step closer to understanding her silent language.

Sylus sat before the cracked mirror in his room, fingers fumbling awkwardly as he tried to form the signs she had patiently taught him: good morning. His brow furrowed in concentration, the shape of the words foreign and fragile between his hands.

She appeared beside him, watching with a soft smile. When his hands wavered, she reached out, guiding his fingers gently, their skin brushing. The touch sent a warmth threading through him, mingling with the frustration of clumsy attempts.

“Again,” she signed, eyes bright.

He repeated the gesture, slower this time, lips parting to catch her silent encouragement.

Later, in the quiet solitude of the base, Sylus found himself tracing new shapes, I missed you, against the dim light. The words felt heavier, layered with the ache that had settled in his chest.

One evening, seated side by side, he gathered courage. Turning to her, he signed carefully, fingers trembling, “You’re… safe… with me.”

Her eyes glistened, moisture pooling like fragile glass. With a trembling hand, she signed back, “I know.”

No words spoken. No sounds made.

But in that silent exchange, everything was said.

The aftermath of the mission settled over the base like a thick fog, dulling even the hum of machinery. Sylus moved through the muted halls, the quiet pressing heavily against his chest. For days, she had been silent, not the peaceful kind of silence, but a fortress, built strong and high around her. No words came from her lips, no explanations, only distant glances that cut sharper than any blade.

His mind had been elsewhere during the mission, fragmented by the weight of her absence in their conversations, her silence haunting him like a shadow. He missed crucial details, hesitated at moments that demanded precision, and faltered when clarity was needed most. The failure was a bitter reminder that the distance between them wasn’t just emotional, it had tangible consequences.

Each step through the base echoed with his frustration, not just with the mission’s outcome, but with himself for letting his focus slip. More than that, he feared the widening gulf between them, the growing silence that seemed to push them further apart with every passing hour.

One evening, the tension finally broke.

He confronted her, voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation, words spilling out faster than he could stop them. His questions demanded answers, sought the reason behind her silence and the cold space she now occupied.

“Why won’t you speak to me?.... What am I supposed to do? You’re here, but it’s like you are not.” He stepped forward with quiet care, the sudden rush of words ebbing from his lips like a broken stream. His hands reached for hers, warm and steady, enclosing them gently within his own. Without a word more, they settled onto the floor, two souls drawn close in the hush of the room, facing one another in a silence as he waited for her to respond as he always did.

But she didn’t respond with words.

Her hands moved instead, sharp, deliberate, a storm of sign language cutting through the tension like blades. The silent language was fierce, a shield built from pain and distance. It spoke of walls, of a heart retreating from the world, and of fear buried beneath layers of quiet. But he did not understand, he did not yet know all the words of her language.

He shook his head slowly, the weight of longing softening his gaze. Bringing her hands gently to his chest, he held them there as if anchoring himself to her. “No,” he whispered, voice low and earnest, “please, say the words, I want to hear you. do not disappear.”

She met his eyes with a quiet plea, her hands slipping free from his grasp to circle gently around her own neck, then gesturing away as if pushing the weight of words from her. Her lips parted again and again, but no sound came, and he waited patiently. 

“Sometimes... it’s heavy.” She whispered.

Her gaze dropped to her lap, fragile and trembling, as she fought back tears that threatened to spill. she slowly moved her hands

“Sometimes the silence is the only way I feel I can breathe.”

Her vulnerability hung between them like a fragile thread, delicate yet unbreakable.

Sylus met her gaze, caught in that fragile moment where uncertainty wavered between them. For a heartbeat, he did not know what to say or do, then, as he saw the quiet ache in her eyes, his own frustration softened and melted away. Slowly, deliberately, he drew closer, pulling her gently to his chest, his breath warm against her ear. His lips brushed softly, a whispered promise carried in silence.

“Then I’ll breathe with you,” he promised, voice low and steady. “In silence, if that is what you need.”

They sank down together on the cold floor, her on top of him, the silence folding around them, not as a barrier, but a shared breath, a sanctuary.

In that quiet space, words no longer mattered.

Only the soft rhythm of their heartbeats, beating in tandem, speaking what neither dared say aloud.

dividers by @uzmacchiato

[hevvxx2]

Title: Firebreak

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

(Tony mentioned)

Warnings: uhh.. none I think..? Just pure fluff!

If you’re interested in part 1 then check out part 2 here!

Summary: A woman with uncontrollable flame powers lives in isolation, unable to touch anyone without burning them. (Karlach reference!! Bg3!) At the Avengers Compound, Bucky Barnes—who knows what it’s like to be feared—offers her his vibranium hand. For the first time in her life, she feels the touch of another person without causing harm. It’s a small moment, but it changes everything for her…

The Avengers Compound hummed with quiet energy—labs buzzing, training rooms echoing with sparring matches, but in the farthest wing, in a temperature-sealed suite built entirely of reinforced vibranium alloy, sat her.

She stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, arms folded tightly against her chest as sunlight filtered through the reinforced glass, flickering off her skin like heat waves. Her body shimmered subtly, like a mirage—she was always warm to the touch, always glowing faintly with the embers of what she could never control.

A living furnace.

Born with the gift—or curse—of flame manipulation, her body ran hotter than any human could withstand. At rest, she was searing. With emotion—fear, joy, anger, desire—she became an inferno.

She’d never touched anyone. Not without leaving a scar.

Tony had been working on a solution for months now: gloves, suits, containment tech. So far, everything failed. Heat-proof materials melted under her skin. Nanotech overloaded. And today, for once, she let her disappointment show.

Bucky Barnes watched her from the hallway through the heat-insulated glass.

She didn’t notice him at first—her head leaned softly against the window, eyes closed, lost in thought. Even though she had trained with the team, saved lives, fought battles… loneliness followed her like a second shadow. She was surrounded by people who fought beside her—but never with her.

No one could touch her. No hugs. No handshakes. No comfort. No closeness.

And Bucky?

Bucky…. understood isolation. He knew what it meant to feel like you didn’t belong in your own body. He knew the weight of being dangerous—of being afraid of yourself.

He stepped through the sealed entrance after activating the fireproof protocol Tony had designed just for this room. His vibranium arm was already exposed, jacket tossed over his shoulder. That arm could withstand her at her worst—probably. It was the rest of him that worried her.

“You’re not supposed to be in here.” she murmured without looking.

“I know.” Bucky replied. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

She turned to him then, wary. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Tony says he’s getting close.”

“He’s always getting close.” she said, her voice trembling. “But I’m still here. Still untouchable. Still burning. I don’t even know what it feels like to hold someone’s hand Bucky. Or to hug someone without hurting them. You have no idea—”

“I do.”

That shut her up…

Immediately.. her mouth snapping shut.

“I know what it’s like to think you’re too dangerous to be loved.” he said. “To think your touch is poison. I spent years afraid of myself. Afraid I’d snap. Hurt someone. Lose control. But you—” His voice softened. “You don’t hurt people. You protect them.”

She shook her head. “I’m a hazard.”

“No. You’re a goddamn miracle.”

Silence fell between them, thick and hot.

The ambient temperature was rising—her pulse speeding up, body reacting involuntarily to his nearness, his voice, the sincerity in his eyes. Her skin shimmered brighter now, her control fraying.

“You need to go.” she whispered. “I’m burning hotter. You’re going to get hurt.”

But Bucky didn’t flinch.

“I trust you.”

And slowly—so slowly—he reached out his vibranium hand.

“Let me try.”

“No—Bucky—if I lose focus—”

“Then burn me.”

Her breath hitched.

“I’ve had worse.” he added, with a slight smile.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she stared at his outstretched hand. No one had ever offered this. No one had ever dared. Her hand hovered in the space between them, shaking.

One inch.

Then two.

Her fingers touched the metal.

A hiss of steam rose in the air.

But he didn’t pull away.

Her fingertips pressed to his palm. The metal darkened, glowing orange at the edges—but it held. He held.

Her eyes widened, emotion crashing through her like a wave.

“I can’t feel anything.” she whispered. “Except the pressure. But still—”

“It’s a start.”

She choked on a laugh, breathless and overwhelmed. “You’re insane.”

“Probably.” Bucky said. “But if there’s a way to get closer, I want to find it—with you.”

And that was it. The moment that rewrote the rules of her world.

Because now she knew—touch wasn’t just a sensation.

It was trust.

It was daring.

It was him.

And for the first time in her life… she wasn’t alone in the fire.

A/N: i hope you guys enjoyed this little story I made! I have no idea if I should maybe make this a series..? y’all let me know if you’d like this to be a series!

[22ayla21]

I need more repuests/scenes with Jing yuan husband/boyfriend as a dad, and yanqing as Big brother of the little one (I'm sure It Will be so adorable)

The General and the Adorable Menace

While mother was away on business, the General and the Lieutenant took care of the little adorable menace.

In the abode of the Divine Foresight, where strict discipline usually reigned and commands rang out as sharp as a blade strike, a completely different atmosphere prevailed today. Along the walls, slightly bewildered, stood young cadets, observing an astonishing – almost unbelievable – scene. General Jing Yuan, one of the Seven Arbiters, once the terror of all enemies, was now rocking a tiny baby girl in his arms. The expression on his face resembled that of a kind grandfather rather than a stern warlord.

"Just look at her," he murmured almost in a whisper, admiring his daughter, who had grabbed a strand of his hair and was trying to put it in her mouth. "Already taking the enemy prisoner. Strategy, it's in her blood."

Beside him stood Yanqing, with a seriousness befitting a decisive battle. In his hands, he held a wooden rattle, carved with his own hands, and carefully, but with obvious enthusiasm, shook it, eliciting peals of laughter from the little one.

"General, she's smiling! Do you see? She just smiled at me! That means she likes me!" The lieutenant's voice held so much genuine joy that a senior knight passing by couldn't help but offer a slight smile.

"I told you she'd take a liking to you," Jing Yuan chuckled. "She has a taste for good people."

On a nearby table lay completely forgotten papers: a fresh intelligence report, a resource allocation protocol, and even an urgent summons to a meeting. All of this had been relegated to the background.

Jing Yuan carefully transferred his daughter to a portable cradle that had been thoughtfully placed directly in the office. And Yanqing was already bustling about, taking out a soft blanket to cover the little one.

"Isn't she cold, do you think? Maybe put another pillow under her? Or call a doctor to check if she doesn't like the air conditioning in the meeting hall?" the lieutenant muttered anxiously.

"Yanqing, we're on a starship. The system is stabilized. The humidity and temperature are ideal."

"But what if she doesn't like this 'ideal' at all?" he countered, intently scrutinizing a barely noticeable wrinkle on the baby's forehead.

At that very moment, the door swung open.

The General's wife, majestic and tired after an inspection by the Alchemy Commission, entered. She stopped at the threshold, slightly raising an eyebrow.

Before her stood the two most formidable warriors of the Xianzhou. One, the General, was leaning over the cradle, humming a quiet lullaby in an unusually gentle voice. The other, his adopted son and lieutenant, was holding a pacifier and angrily drilling holes into the soft blanket with his gaze, as if he suspected it of treachery.

She smiled. Quietly, with a slight mockery, but with boundless warmth in her eyes.

"How I love to see my lions turn into gentle kittens."

Both turned around. Jing Yuan blinked, as if only now realizing he wasn't in a cozy home living room. Yanqing guiltily hid the pacifier behind his back.

"We were... just looking after her," the General tried to maintain his composure.

"Strategic care," Yanqing added, clearing his throat.

"Of course," she nodded, approaching and gently taking her daughter into her arms. The little one giggled happily and reached for her mother's hair. "I hope next time you'll at least try to sign the report before you start building barricades out of blankets and pillows?"

Jing Yuan barely suppressed a smile.

"I can't promise. She's too good at distracting. Just like you."

"Well, Command will have to accept it. Their General is now under the thumb of the most adorable menace in the entire galaxy."

And although time relentlessly moved forward, meetings awaited, and reports demanded attention, at that moment no one was in a hurry. In this room, another battle was being fought – for laughter and warmth, for love and tenderness, for every fleeting moment of happiness. And in this battle, they had already achieved an unconditional victory.

[whisperedmeg]

RE-ENTRY BURN ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part vi

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: spencer returns to the field, and the soft parts of him begin to harden. together, they search for a way to hold on.

genre: hurt/comfort, like kinda fluff if you squint I guess?

w/c: 2.7k

tags/warnings: post-prison spencer, spencer goes back to work, reader gets anxious again but for a diff reason, spencer is still a reassuring sweetie pie, reader meets (part of) the bau, just some kissing but nothing more than that, big moment in their relationship !!

a/n: I wrote, erased, and rewrote the second half of this chapter like five separate times before I was happy with it and I’m still not 100% convinced, so I hope it turned out okay. no spoilers but there’s some major payoff at the end in this one 🙂‍↕️. as always, thank you sm to everyone who has followed this series so far 🫶🏼

series masterlist

The call came on a Thursday morning.

Spencer was sitting on my living room floor, back against the couch, flipping through a book of poetry he insisted he didn’t like but kept rereading anyway. I was in the kitchen in one of his old t-shirts, buttering toast and making an omelette and wondering if I had time for a shower before my shift. The air smelled like coffee and rain. It felt like a quiet, ordinary kind of day.

Then his phone rang. And I watched everything in his body go still.

“Yes,” he said after picking up. “This is Dr. Reid.”

His fingers tightened around the phone. His spine straightened. I turned off the burner.

I didn’t try to listen, but I didn’t leave the room either. He only said a few words: Okay. Thank you. I understand. See you soon. But when he hung up, he didn’t just look different — he looked lit up, like something dormant had just sparked back to life.

He stared at the phone in his hand for a second, then looked at me with wide, stunned eyes.

“That was them?”

He nodded slowly. Then, voice thick with disbelief and something close to awe: “They’re taking me back. I’m reinstated.”

For a beat, all we did was stare at each other.

Then I crossed the room and launched myself at him. He caught me, laughing, and spun us around so fast we nearly knocked over a vase.

“Oh my god,” I said, cupping his face. “Spencer, that’s amazing. You did that.”

“I didn’t think—” he broke off, blinking fast. “I thought it would take longer. Or that they’d changed their minds.”

I kissed him, hard and messy and happy and full of relief. He kissed me back just as fiercely, both hands buried in my hair. We were still tangled in each other when the real weight of it started to settle between us.

I pulled back slightly, breathless. “So… what happens now?”

“I report to Quantico next week. There’s some re-entry protocol — updated field certifications, paperwork, so on. Then I’m back on the team.” He paused, then added, “Back on the jet.”

I nodded, trying to keep my smile steady. “Right. Of course.”

But a quiet fear had already begun to curl into my chest — something I didn’t want to name. The fear that maybe the version of Spencer I’d come to know, the one who made me coffee with too much cinnamon and traced my shoulder blades with reverence, was only who he was here, with me.

Who was he when he was chasing monsters across state lines again? Who was I to him in that world?

“Hey,” he said gently, reaching for my hand. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I admitted. “I’m so, so happy for you. And I want this for you. I… I just don’t know what it means for us. I don’t know that version of you. Your life is about to get a lot bigger, and I’m still here, going back and forth to Millburn, in scrubs, on twelve-hour shifts, staying exactly the same.”

“You think I’m going to leave you behind?”

I paused. “I don’t really think that. But I still fear it. Which might be worse.”

His grip tightened slightly. “I’m not going anywhere. But… I know this will change things. I just don’t know how yet.”

We sat with that — the not-knowing. It was becoming a constant companion.

He exhaled slowly, his forehead resting against mine. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

—

His first day back, I packed him lunch.

It felt stupid and too intimate and maybe a little bit like denial, but I did it anyway. Hummus, cut-up vegetables, and fruit, plus two hardboiled eggs he’d probably forget to eat. Spencer had a habit of doing that — starting a meal but then getting too absorbed in his work or the documentary on TV or the book in his lap to remember to finish it. I tucked in a note before I could overthink it: You’ve survived worse. Just breathe. You’re gonna be great.

He texted me later to say thank you. Then I didn’t hear from him for six hours.

I tried not to spiral.

When he finally walked into his apartment, he looked… different. Not bad, but sharper. Like someone had ironed some of the softness out of him. I was already waiting for him on his couch — he’d given me my own key last week and told me to use it.

“How was it?” I asked.

“Strange,” he said honestly. “Good. Overwhelming.”

I kissed him and tried to pretend I wasn’t searching his eyes for cracks.

—

By day three, he was already packing an overnight bag.

“There’s a case,” he said, tucking mismatched socks into a duffel. “We think there’s an unsub targeting sex workers.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, watching. “That was fast.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s the job.”

The words landed harder than he probably meant. I swallowed thickly.

“Will I get to know where you are?”

He turned, reaching for me. “You can know everything I’m allowed to tell you. I won’t shut you out.”

I nodded, because I didn’t trust my voice.

He kissed me once — soft and lingering — and then he was gone.

—

The next few days passed slowly.

He texted when he landed in Denver. Again when they reached the local precinct. That first night, he called me from his hotel room. His voice was tired but steady, full of soft reassurances: I’m okay. I’m thinking about you. I wish you were here.

But the check-ins were short. Sporadic. Sometimes twelve hours went by without a word, and I had to remind myself he was just busy. That it wasn’t about me. That he had bigger things to worry about. That he wasn’t retreating.

Still, I found myself staring at my phone more than I wanted to admit. Writing texts I didn’t send. Wondering if this low, quiet ache in my chest was normal or the beginning of something harder.

When he got back four days later, he smelled like airplane soap and adrenaline. His arms were around me the second he was through my front door, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

“I missed you,” he murmured against my hair.

I squeezed him closer. “I missed you every second.”

Then he pulled back, and I saw it — the part of him that was already half gone again.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded. “Are you?”

“I’m tired. But yeah.”

“Did you eat the eggs?”

He blinked. “What?”

“In the lunch I packed. On your first day back.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “I forgot.”

—

That weekend, Spencer’s work friends invited him out to a nice dinner downtown.

He insisted I join him. Said he wanted me there. That he wanted me to meet more of his team, and that they wanted to meet me, too.

I said yes because I could tell it meant a lot to him — and because I genuinely did want to meet the people closest to him — but I was a nervous wreck over it. I felt like I was going to be interviewed by the people who had known him for years, who had pulled him from blood-soaked crime scenes and watched him unravel and rebuild more than once. People — profilers — who could probably read body language as easily as breathing. People who would know if I was feeling even just a little bit off.

Penelope nearly vibrated with joy when Spencer and I walked into the restaurant, hugging me like I was a gift-wrapped surprise. JJ gave me her usual perceptive, friendly smile, the kind that made me feel both seen and slightly exposed.

But it was meeting Emily and Rossi for the first time that made me sweat.

Emily shook my hand with polite warmth, but her eyes were sharp. Measuring. Assessing. As if she couldn’t help it. As if it was hardwired into her, the way it was hardwired into me to check pupils and track vitals. Rossi gave me a smile so charming it almost felt intimidating — not because he was skeptical, but because he was paying close attention, the way you do when someone you love finally lets you see something they’ve been protecting.

I did my best to hold my own. I answered questions about myself — my job at the infirmary, the story of how Spencer and I met (they loved hearing how I’d given him my number via scrabble tiles), what I liked to do outside of work. I laughed when they teased Spencer about still being the worst at remembering to eat, and about the time he tried to explain string theory at a retirement party and knocked over an entire cheese platter mid-metaphor. He rolled his eyes and claimed it was an unfair exaggeration, but his ears turned pink.

There was a moment when Emily asked what had drawn me to Spencer, and a million different answers piled up in my throat all at once. I just smiled and said, “He’s easy to care about. Even at his lowest, he was still always the kindest person in the room. Plus, he even pretended to feel bad when he kicked my ass in chess.”

Garcia let out a delighted little sound, pressing her hand to her heart. JJ’s eyes softened with something almost protective. Rossi gave an approving nod and raised his glass. And Emily — she didn’t quite smile, but her shoulders loosened, like she was easing off an invisible trigger.

Still, the entire dinner felt a little like walking a tightrope — one foot in Spencer’s universe, the other still hovering over mine. I couldn’t tell if I was holding my breath or just trying to match their rhythm.

“You okay?” JJ asked gently while we waited for dessert. “It’s a lot, I know.”

“Being part of this world?”

She tilted her head. “Being with someone who spends half their life chasing ghosts.”

I smiled tightly. “I haven’t quite figured out where I fit yet.”

“You don’t have to know today,” she said. “But if you care about him — and it’s pretty clear you do — then hang on. He’s worth the turbulence.”

I looked over at Spencer, who was in the middle of arguing with Garcia about the probability of alien life as if the past six months hadn’t nearly broken him. His hands moved as he spoke, his expression animated, utterly absorbed in the debate. There was something so familiar about it — the way he lit up, the way he met the world with open palms and big questions. Like the worst thing had already happened, and now he was trying to believe in wonder again.

“I know he is,” I said softly. “But turbulence still leaves you breathless sometimes.”

—

Later, in the car, Spencer took my hand. “You okay? You’ve been kind of quiet.”

I shrugged, watching the city pass by through the window. “I’m just tired. It was a good night.”

He glanced over at me, unconvinced but gentle.

“I really like Penelope,” I added. “She always hugs me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“She thinks you are,” he said, no hesitation. “And she’s right.”

I smiled, feeling my cheeks warm. “And JJ. She’s… perceptive. And kind. Like she sees things but doesn’t make you feel too exposed.”

His thumb brushed across my knuckles, slow and steady.

“And Emily was warm in a scary, FBI-chief sort of way. I was terrified she hated me, but then she made that joke about your hair and I felt like I passed some kind of test.”

Spencer let out a soft laugh. “That’s exactly how you know she likes you.”

“And Rossi’s stories are even better than you said they’d be,” I continued. “Though I’m still not convinced that the one about the ambassador’s wife and Ringo Starr actually happened.”

“Oh, it definitely did.”

That made me laugh. I leaned my head back against the seat, exhaling. “It was a good night, Spence. Really.”

Spencer smiled softly, but didn’t say anything. His thumb moved in slow, absentminded circles against my hand — like he was trying to ground me without interrupting whatever was unraveling inside my head.

I hesitated. “It’s just…”

He waited, thumb still brushing lightly over my knuckles. I kept my gaze on the window.

“It’s strange,” I said slowly. “Watching you slip back into your world so naturally. Not in a bad way — it’s a good kind of strange. But I’m still figuring out where I fit.” I paused for a beat. “Sometimes I worry I’m just watching your life take off without me.”

He turned to look at me, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “That’s not what’s happening.”

“I know,” I murmured. “But it feels that way sometimes. You’re re-entering a life that’s so much bigger than I ever knew, and I’m still finding my place in it.”

His fingers tightened gently around mine. “You’re not on the outside of this. You never were. You’ve always had a place with me.”

I nodded, though the ache lingered. “I know, Spence. It’s just… kind of a lot, I guess. I wasn’t ready for how much of it existed before me, which I know sounds incredibly silly.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled the car over with a soft turn of the wheel, settling us into the stillness of a side street, headlights casting long shadows through the trees. Then he turned toward me fully.

“You’re part of my life,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “The best part. I just need you to trust that I’m still in this. Even when I’m gone on cases. Even when I come home wrecked and quiet. I’m still with you.”

I looked at him then, really looked. At the man who had once been shattered, who had let me see every broken edge, who had handed me the glue and trusted me not to cut myself as I helped him put the pieces back together. And who now was flying straight toward the storm again, because that’s what he was made to do.

“I trust that,” I said softly. “I really do. I just don’t want to be the thing that keeps you grounded if what you really need is flight.”

His brow softened, and he reached across the console to cup my jaw, thumb brushing just beneath my cheekbone, tender and steady. “You’re not holding me down,” he said. “You’re giving me a reason to land.”

My throat tightened. The knot in my chest loosened — not all the way, but enough. I nodded, blinking against the rush of everything that wanted to spill out.

He gave my hand a final squeeze and slowly pulled back onto the road.

And this time, I really did let myself believe him.

—

That night, we didn’t sleep right away. We just… laid there, wrapped around each other, quiet and breathing like the hush itself was sacred. His hand rested against my back, fingers tracing slow, absent-minded lines — like he was etching something into the moment to keep forever.

It all felt different now. Not just tender, but certain. Like something had settled between us that couldn’t be undone.

He shifted slightly, just enough to look at me. His eyes moved across my face like he was studying it, memorizing it, letting the silence stretch long enough to make my breath catch.

Then he said, softly but without hesitation, “I love you.”

No preamble. No buildup. Just the truth, laid bare between us.

It hit me like a tidal wave, sudden and warm and full. I think part of me had been waiting for him to say that — aching for it, really. I had felt it already, but still, actually hearing it aloud cracked something open in my chest.

I blinked hard and reached for him, tracing his cheek with the backs of my fingers.

“I love you too,” I whispered. “I think I have for a while now.”

Something in him shifted — softened, unknotted. He exhaled like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. And then his lips curled into a smile so bright it almost hurt.

“You mean it?”

I nodded, and his smile deepened, eyes full of hope. “I think I’ve been waiting to hear that since the moment I met you,” he murmured.

Then he kissed me — slow and deep. Not hurried or desperate, just honest. His lips on mine like he was saying it again with his mouth, his hands, his whole body:

I’m here. I’m yours. I’m trying. I love you.

ᝰ.ᐟ

part vii

[jikooklove9795]

Hi,

I just wanted to ask if white day is a special day for Jikook

I’ve seen all sorts of posts today but couldn’t grasp the timeline? Has it only been since 2022 that they’ve done something that is known?

Cheers

Hi Anon 😊

Before we dive into this post, let's first see what White Day is.

In South Korea, March 14th is celebrated as White Day, exactly one moth after Valentine's Day. In SK Valentines Day is traditionally focused on women. It is the woman who express her love for her man through gifts. And on White Day the man who received gifts on Valentine's Day is expected to return the favor with gifts of his own.

So, basically White Day is considered as an important day for couples in SK.

On 14th March 2022, White Day, Jimin opens his IG and posts a pic of him and Jungkook backstage during their PTD concerts:

As expected it sent us into chaos, a happy delightful chaos. But it didn't stop there. Later we found out that Jikook went out for dinner on White Day joined by Jimin's friends.

Not only that but in the restaurant pic we couldn't help but notice Jungkook wearing a cap that most likely belonged to Jimin. The one that has "Jimin" written on the back. Just another detail adding to the Jikook filled night.

And just when we thought that was it, Jikook dropped the biggest bomb with the release of the BTS Monuments documentary. That's when we finally got the whole picture.

On March 13th 2022, just two hours after their concert, Jungkook arrives at Jimin's apartment. We know this from the date displayed on Jimin's fridge. Jimin orders fried chicken for them and Jungkook also cooks them dinner. They spend the night together. And the next day, which is White Day they head out for dinner together from Jimin's apartment.

Most jkkrs here, myself included believe that Jikook have been living together for a long time now. So, hearing and seeing all of this? Not exactly surprising, just one more proof of what we already knew.

Now let's move on to 2023.

On March 14th 2023 Jungkook went live from his home when Jimin was in the US for his FACE promotions. This live has 4 parts. Should've known who this live was meant for when Jungkook started the live at 8:11 pm KST. The songs for this live are heavily Jikook coded.

1) Jungkook played There For You, a song which he used for his first ever GCF, which was basically all about Jimin.

2) He also sang the Korean version of Mistletoe (Christmas Day) for which Jimin wrote the lyrics and which Jikook covered back in 2014.

3) Then there's Nothing by Bruno Major. In 2020 Taehyung posted a selca of him and Jimin under which he mentioned this song saying that it was Jimin's recommendation. Then in 2022 when Jimin was asked to pick a song for the ending credits of a documentary about him he again chose Nothing saying that the mood of the song goes well with him.

4) How can we forget Hate Everything? Jungkook posted a cover of this song on 3rd Feb 2022. The cover was 1:18 mins long (there's that number again). This was the time when Jimin was receiving in patient treatment following his surgery. And Jungkook had to stay away from him due to covid protocols. And then in 2023 he again plays this song when Jimin's away from him, this time due to his schedule.

5) The next song is Falling. This is a song both Jimin and Jungkook like. Jungkook posted a cover of this song on 28th Oct 2022. And guess what's special about 28th Oct? Well, Jikook went on their Tokyo trip on 28th Oct 2017. (Numbers are not a joke when it comes to Jikook. They give importance to special dates, milestones in their relationship).

Jimin comments during the second part of this White Day live. His presence was so significant throughout the live. Though he was not physically present his presence was still felt, thanks to Jungkook.

Jungkook also flexed his JM tattoo which was noticeably darker than the rest while JVKE's Golden Hour was playing in the background. He followed it up with the lyrics "Love of my life". HE'S A CERTIFIED ROMANTIC!!! (only for Jimin).

During this live he changes his outfit 2 times. Starts with a black jacket, then changes to a white shirt and then finally a purple hoodie. Ends the live by asking us to look forward to midnight saying that something amazing is dropping at midnight. And we all know how it went... SMF pt2 teaser came out. Not to forget that he also teased Jimin's song using his hair tie.

For SMF pt2 Jimin uses 3 outfits. A black jacket and a white sweater for the main mv and a purple jacket for the dance practice video.

Can it be a coincidence? Sure. But what are the chances of their outfit colors being in that exact same order, right when SMF pt2 was dropping? Most of the time Jikook and "coincidence" doesn't go hand in hand and this was one of those times.

So, these are the two times Jikook was loud on White Day.

But here's an honorable mention. It was on 14th March 2016:

Jungkook took this video of a sleepy Jimin and posted it with the caption "Jimin hyung is sleepy, someone please put him to sleep".

So, yes! White Day is a special day for Jikook. But it's not just White Day, we have also seen how much importance they place on spending their birthdays together and how much effort they put into it.

Jungkook left the entire fandom in shock by going all out for Jimin's birthday. Booking a trip to Tokyo, taking him to Disneyland and even creating a GCF to immortalize the moment, all for the world to see and scream over. Just when we thought that was the peak of effort Jimin proved once again that they match each other's energy. He took a 13 hour flight from Paris to Seoul just so he wouldn't miss his bf's birthday, arriving with exclusive limited edition gifts in hand. And as if that wasn't enough he even teamed up with Hoseok to arrange a surprise party. And just one look at Jungkook's face in that pic proves how much it meant to him.

And then in 2020 we learned that Jimin and Jungkook were together at home on Jungkook's birthday. The next day Jimin even prepared a cake to celebrate.

We have also seen them spending special couple days together.

Like wearing matching jackets on Valentine's Day. And watching the first snow together, which again is a couple tradition in SK. It signifies fresh beginnings leading to a lasting relationship

Or posting this on Chinese Valentine's Day with the caption "Love Ya ❤"

Or show up on 14th January 2018 which is Diary Day in SK again an important day for couples by wearing matching rings

I almost forgot about Chuseok. Its a family holiday in SK.

This was their first "couple" moment for Chuseok:

This is from the Chuseok of 2016.

For 2017's Chuseok, while everyone went home to celebrate the festival Jikook stayed back together at the dorm.

They posted this at 4am on the Chuseok of 2020:

And then Jimin posted the fish drawing for 2023's Chuseok with the caption " JK's work 😅" which we saw both of them talking about and drawing in AYS Jeju.

Then there's Silver Day. This pic was posted by Jungkook on Silver Day with the caption "Jimin hyung's big smile" (14th July 2019)

On Silver Day couples exchange silver accessories as a sign of their love and commitment.

Hoseok's JITB Party was on Silver Day. And there was Jimin casually wearing his Maison Margeila necklace along with the bracelet from Polyc, the very same one that unsurprisingly Jungkook also owns.

But what makes the Maison Margeila necklace special? Well he owns the one with numbers ranging from 10 to 16 and guess which number is circled? Number 11

So let's take out 11 and add all the other numbers:

10+12+13+14+15+16

We get 80

And then have 11

Together it becomes 11/8 tada 😮

So, yeah that makes it extra special for him

2023's Silver Day was a major moment in the Jikook world. Jimin boarded a flight from Seoul just to be with Jungkook who was swamped with preparations for his solo debut performance in the US. Despite the packed schedule they made time for each other, stepping out in matching black and white outfits for dinner on the same day Jimin arrived. They returned to the same restaurant again this time with no cameras, no staff just the two of them before Jimin had to fly back home.

This one isn't about a designated couple's day but its still incredibly significant. Recently K side went into a frenzy upon discovering that Jimin and Jungkook sent a joint flower wreath, something typically done by couples. They were the only individuals who sent one together.

You might have noticed how Jimin and Jungkook follow a pattern, they don't just do these things once they repeat them over the years. But we only find out when they choose to let us know or when it slips through company content. Its clear they value these traditions and make a conscious effort to spend them together. What we see is probably a fraction maybe a quarter of it. But just because we don't see everything it doesn't mean it isn't happening.

Thanks so much for this ask, Anon! I loved answering this! Have an awesome day 👋🏻

Credits to the owner of the video