#across the crystal light barrier

[birindale]

As we enter the second wave of toys, a new She-Ra and Swift Wind have to be explained to the consumer, so Adora and Spirit wander through an interdimensional portal into a beautiful land called Crystal World. Josh is there. 

Transcript/Image ID below the cut

[Image Description: 14 comic pages from the She-Ra mini-comic, “Across the Crystal Light Barrier���.

Cover: Starburst She-Ra stands with arms spread high to show off her sparkles, Crystal Swift Wind at her side. They’re standing atop a mountain made of glittering crystal, beneath the Princess of Power logo. At the bottom of the page, “Across the Crystal Light Barrier” is written and actually outlined, though still definitely not the color I would have gone with. Beneath that, in a small font, it reads, “Illustrations: (copyright symbol) Mattel, Inc. 1985 Hawthorne CA 90250 U.S.A. PRINTED IN HONG KONG. All Rights Reserved. (registered trademark symbol) and TM designate U.S. trademarks of Mattel, Inc. 

The coloring style from this issue on becomes more pastel, and the gouache is blended more, giving it a softer feeling.

Page 1: A pink caption box reads, “Outings in Etheria are always very special and today’s picnic had been no exception. Adora smiled as Josh and Bow leaned against a fruit tree, the picnic basket empty and their bellies full. Spirit and Arrow stood nibbling at the lumps of sugar Glimmer held out in her hand.” Which pretty much covers the illustration. Adora is sitting on a blanket with the empty picnic basket.

Josh was apparently slated to be the Robin to Bow’s Batman at one point, but he never did get an official design, so this is just ‘generic blond man’. A second pink caption box at the bottom of the page contains the credits, “Produced exclusively for Mattel by: Writer… Tina Harris & Eric Frydler. Penciler… Jim Mitchell. Inker… Todd Kurosawa. Colorist… Charles Simpson. Editor: Joan Dumbauld & Lee Nordling”. 

“Want to race, Adora?” asks Glimmer. The composition on this page is leaps and bounds over the previous issue. Whatever Jim Mitchell was doing between waves one and two, I appreciate it.

“Sure! Come on!” says Adora.

End Page 1. 

Page 2: Adora and Glimmer mounted up. The second Bow fired his starting arrow, they took off! Galloping down the orchard path, they disappeared from sight. Neck-in-neck [sic], they raced against each other. Adora and Glimmer sped over field and stream, dashing wildly along the winding path.” So apparently we’re just going for outright narration. That’s cool. Kind of a weird decision in a comic, but I’m not a cop. Bow shoots his starting arrow and the girls take off, Adora on Spirit and Glimmer on Arrow. 

A beautifully colored panel of the race in partial silhouette. 

A rounded white caption box reads, “Suddenly, a mysterious burst of light appeared from nowhere!” and we see Adora rear back on Spirit, who balks at a stylized glow. 

End Page 2.

Page 3: A pink caption box reads, “Adora and Spirit slowed their pace. Startled, Arrow bolted, throwing Glimmer from his back”. Arrow is rearing and our heroes are walking sedately into the light.

End Page 3. 

Page 4: A lavender caption box reads, “Rounding the bend, Josh and Bow hurried to see the race’s finish. They found Glimmer on the ground and helped her to her feet. "Where is Adora?" Bow asked. "I don’t know," Glimmer replied. "She just disappeared!" "Over here!" Adora cried. I’ve crossed the Crystal Light Barrier." Missed some quotation marks there. Another reason not to use them in caption boxes. Adora and Spirit’s silhouette is distorted by the field of light and Josh’s hair is brown now. 

“Spirit and I are lost in a strange and wondrous land!” says Adora.

End Page 4. 

Page 5: A lavender caption box reads, “There Adora and Spirit stood, across a bottomless crack. "Arrow and I will save you!" Bow exclaimed. Glimmer begged him not to go and Adora breathed a word of caution. "She’s right. It’s much too dangerous. We’ll have to find our own way back to Etheria."" Adora and Spirit stare down into a foggy abyss, surrounded by crystal.

“Come on, Spirit! Maybe we can find someone to help us,” says Adora. 

End Page 5. 

Page 6:  A pink caption box reads, “Adora and her faithful steed wandered for many miles. Above them shone a bright rainbow sun. All around them, jewel-like mountain tops and petrified flowers glistened under the strange light.” over an illustration of exactly that.

“How beautiful!” says Adora, smiling.

End Page 6.

Page 7: A lavender caption box reads, “Soon they came upon a dazzling sight–a glittering herd of horses, unlike any they had ever seen before! Each horse had a color all its own–and each one shone like crystal! "Spirit, look!" Adora cried. "We’ve found help at last! But who can these beauties be?"" Adora points at a group of seven sparkling steeds, each with a pair of feathered (crystalline) wings.

“We are the Guardians of Crystal World,” says a voice from off panel. 

“Who…? What…?” asks Adora, looking around. 

End Page 7. 

Page 8: A lavender caption box reads, “The voice belonged to a sleek, crystal horse named Crystal Moonbeam. Adora quickly spoke to him. "We came across the Barrier and now we can’t get back." The lavender stallion nodded. "Recrossing the Crystal Light Barrier is certainly most difficult."" And I have to tell you, this horse is not lavender. His toy is a translucent violet, but this comic has him a soft periwinkle, cut through with orange light because he’s made of crystal. 

“Quite soon, you and your horse will become like us,” says Crystal Moonbeam, ominously.

“You mean we will turn into crystal?” asks Adora. Neither she nor Spirit seem thrilled at the possibility. 

End Page 8. 

Page 9: A pink caption box reads, “Crystal Moonbeam nodded gravely. "Yes. Anyone who touches the ground of Crystal World must change." But Adora hadn’t changed at all!” There was plenty of room for dialogue boxes saying this. Why even make this a comic? 

“I haven’t stepped from Spirit’s back,” says Adora. “I haven’t touched your world."

“Then, there may be a chance,” says Crystal Moonbeam. 

End Page 9. 

Page 10: A lavender caption box reads, “Dashing to his herd, Crystal Moonbeam returned with a sparkling filly. "This is my sister Crystal Sun Dancer," the lavender horse whinnied. "She knows the way across the Crystal Light Barrier."" The still distinctly un-lavender Crystal Moonbeam introduces them to a slightly smaller, yellowy orange horse.

“But to cross the Barrier again, you must have the power to fly!” says Crystal Moonbeam. 

“The crack is too deep to risk crossing it any other way,” says Crystal Sun Dancer.

End Page 10.

Page 11: Adora raises her arms and becomes Starburst She-Ra, with a long flowing cape with two wrist loops. Swift Wind becomes Crystal Swift Wind, a transparent pink plasticine version of himself. Herself? What are Swift Wind's pronouns this wave? The horse is see-through now. They have wings and a golden pleather mask, complete with unicorn horn. Light and sparkles radiate off the pair of them as they transform.

A pink caption box reads, "Adora unsheathed her Sword of Protection at once and raised it to the sky. In an instant, she and Spirit were transformed. Crystal World echoed with her powerful cry. "For the honor of Grayskull, I am She-Ra!" 

End Page 11. 

Page 12: "Swift Wind! Walking here in Crystal World has given you a crystal sheen!" says She-Ra, smiling as she reaches around to touch Swift Wind's face. 

A pink caption box reads, "Crystal Sun Dancer, Crystal Moonbeam, She-Ra and Crystal Swift Wind glowed with an unearthly energy as they leaped toward the deep opening. With a brilliant burst of color, they broke through the Crystal Barrier and vanished—gone!" as we see all three winged horses take flight, Swift Wind carrying She-Ra, surrounded by glowing and sparkles. 

"We'd better change back fast before our friends find out our secret!" says She-Ra, dismounting from Swift Wind and spreading her arms to show off her new starburst cape. Crystal Moonbeam and Crystal Sun Dancer aren't in frame, but they're still around, I promise.

End Page 12.

Page 13: A pink caption box reads, "Meanwhile, in Etheria, Bow, Glimmer and Josh had been looking high and low for Adora and Spirit. Suddenly Bow heard a rustling sound behind him." Right, Josh is here. I forgot about him already. He's a brunet now. He's holding onto his belt and kind of pouting at the panel gutter, while Glimmer stares forlornly at her staff (here a pink and blue rendition that looks more like a clock than the toy-accurate rose-with-jewel). Bow looks over his shoulder at the approaching Adora, Spirit, Crystal Sun Dancer, and Crystal Moonbeam. A mountain range towers behind her, and the few trees we can see are full of orange… bubbles? Transparent fruit? They've missed a few of the leaf portions. Sloppy work, Skip, but you were dealt a poor hand here. 

"Adora! Where have you been? We've been worried," says Bow, with an uncomfortable smile.

"Oh Bow! I've been in a wonderful land called Crystal World," says Adora. These last two panels were just close-ups, but the backgrounds have some really beautiful gradients on them. It really seems like they were going for more of a 'storybook' feel from this wave on. 

End Page 13.

Page 14: A lavender caption box reads, ""Tell us, Adora, who are your new friends?" Bow asked. Adora made introductions all around and Glimmer fairly gleamed. "Oh Spirit, with your crystal coat, you're more beautiful than ever!"" Josh and Arrow smile on as Glimmer and Bow greet the new, shinier version of Spirit. Adora has an arm slung around Spirit's neck, while Crystal Sun Dancer and Crystal Moonbeam watch with smiles of their own. 

"It is exciting to see another land…" says Adora.

"But it's so much better to come home to my friends!" she finishes, in the traditional red used for a minicomic's 'moral'. So… I guess the moral is don't wander into interdimensional portals? Traveling might seem cool but you're going to enjoy going home way more? Who knows. Bow, Glimmer, and Josh have all shuffled places, but they're crowded around Adora now, horses nowhere in sight. Everyone's smiling contentedly. 

End Page 14.

End ID]

[amyzworldds]

Title: Across Continents, Still You

Masterlist

Five years after leaving Seoul to protect Seokmin from a scandal, Y/N unexpectedly reunites with him at a wine festival in Rome, stirring old wounds and unspoken love. Pairing: DK x Y/N Genre: Slice of life, Angst, Drama WC: 5.4k

Y/N had carved out a life for herself in Rome, a far cry from the bustling streets of Seoul where she was born. Five years ago, she landed in the Eternal City for a job opportunity, trading the familiar hum of Korea for the sun-drenched cobblestones of Italy. The first year was a whirlwind of challenges—language barriers, a new timezone, unfamiliar weather, and the aching loneliness of not knowing a soul. But time, as it does, softened the edges. She learned to savor the bitter tang of espresso, mastered enough Italian to banter with locals, and even grew fond of the humid Roman summers. Most importantly, she found a small circle of friends who became her anchor.

Today was her day off, and her phone had buzzed early with a call from her friend Giulia. “Y/N, you’re coming to the wine festival in Greve, right? It’s tradition!” Giulia’s voice was bright, almost demanding, through the speaker.

Y/N laughed, pulling a light jacket from her closet. “Do I have a choice? You lot would drag me there if I said no.”

“Exactly!” chimed in Matteo, another friend, who’d grabbed Giulia’s phone. “We’re meeting at the usual spot. Don’t be late, or we’re starting without you.”

The Greve wine festival was an annual ritual for their group—two women, Giulia and Sofia, and two men, Matteo and Luca. They were locals who’d taken Y/N under their wing, helping her navigate the chaos of her new life. Over time, they’d become her family away from home. Y/N wasn’t a wine enthusiast when she arrived in Rome, but five years of festivals and late-night tastings had changed that. She could now appreciate a good Chianti, even if she’d never admit it to Matteo, who’d tease her endlessly about her “refined” palate.

Y/N drove to their meeting spot, a quaint plaza just outside Greve. The air was warm, carrying the scent of blooming lavender and fresh bread from nearby bakeries. As she parked, she spotted her friends lounging near a fountain, their laughter echoing.

“There she is!” Sofia called, waving dramatically. “Thought you’d bailed on us, Korea.”

Y/N rolled her eyes at the nickname. “And miss Matteo trying to pronounce ‘Sangiovese’ wrong again? Never.”

Matteo clutched his chest in mock offense. “My pronunciation is flawless, thank you very much.”

“Flawlessly terrible,” Luca added, earning a playful shove from Matteo.

The group fell into their usual rhythm, strolling through Greve’s charming streets. They stopped for pizza at a hole-in-the-wall trattoria, the kind only locals knew about, and then grabbed gelato—pistachio for Y/N, always. Luca, ever the photographer, insisted on snapping pictures, teasing Y/N about her “model poses” while she stuck out her tongue for the camera.

Y/N and Luca had a close bond, the kind that sparked whispers among their friends. People often teased them about being “more than friends,” and Y/N knew Luca harbored feelings for her. But her heart, stubborn as ever, wasn’t in it. She cared for him deeply, but romance? That was a door she’d locked long ago. So, they stayed friends, and Luca never pushed.

As the festival’s opening hour approached, the group joined the lively crowd at the entrance. They were near the front of the line, buzzing with excitement. Each grabbed a wine glass, the clinking of crystal signaling the start of their adventure. The festival was a maze of booths, each offering a different vintage, and soon the group scattered, chasing their favorite flavors.

Y/N wandered alone for a bit, her glass catching the golden afternoon light. She sipped a bold red, savoring the way it warmed her chest. As she moved through the crowd, she noticed a cluster of large cameras and a small crew. The sight piqued her curiosity, but what caught her off guard was the language she overheard—Korean. Her heart gave a small, unexpected lurch. It had been years since she’d heard her native tongue in person, and the sound felt like a tether to a life she’d left behind. She smiled to herself, feeling a quiet joy at seeing fellow Koreans so far from home. Maybe they were filming a travel show, she thought, her mind drifting to memories of Seoul.

Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the tall figure in a white shirt until they collided. Her wine glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the cobblestone with a sharp crash. “Oh no, I’m so sorry!” she gasped, crouching to gather the shards before anyone could step on them.

The stranger knelt beside her, his voice soft but flustered in broken English. “No, no, my fault. Sorry, so sorry. Let me help.”

That voice. It hit her like a wave, familiar in a way that made her breath catch. She froze, her fingers hovering over a piece of glass. Slowly, she looked up, and the world tilted. Their eyes locked, and time seemed to unravel.

It was him. Lee Seokmin. DK. Her best friend from high school. Her first love. The man she’d dated when he debuted with Seventeen, only to break his heart two years later without ever telling him why. The reason she’d fled to Rome, carrying a secret she’d buried deep.

His eyes widened, mirroring her shock. “Y/N?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the festival’s hum.

“Seokmin…” Her voice trembled, barely a breath.

The world around them blurred. The chatter of the crowd, the clink of glasses, the distant calls of his Seventeenmembers shouting “DK, where are you?”—it all faded. For a moment, it was just them, crouched on the ground, surrounded by broken glass and unspoken history.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Flashback

Back in high school, Lee Seokmin was already a star in the making, a trainee under Pledis Entertainment with dreams as big as his heart. Y/N, on the other hand, was just a regular student, her biggest worry being the pile of assignments due every Friday. The two were an unlikely pair, yet inseparable, their lives intertwined by chance and proximity.

It was a Friday afternoon, the school day done, and they walked side by side down the familiar Seoul streets toward their apartment building. Y/N’s backpack swung lightly as she rambled on, her voice bright with excitement. “Seokmin, I can’t wait for you to debut! You’re gonna be so famous, and you know what that means, right? Free food for me forever!”

Seokmin threw his head back, his laugh warm and infectious. “Yah, is that all I’m good for? Feeding you tteokbokki and ice cream?”

“Exactly!” she teased, nudging his shoulder. “You better keep your promise, Lee Seokmin. When you’re a big star, I expect you to buy me whatever I want.”

He grinned, his eyes crinkling in that way that made her heart skip. “Deal. I’ll buy you the whole world if I make it big. Just wait.”

Their closeness wasn’t just chance. They lived in the same apartment building—Seokmin in Seventeen’s dorm with his fellow trainees, Y/N with her family a few floors up. Their friendship sparked years ago when Seokmin, on his way home from practice, spotted Y/N outside their building, kneeling on the pavement, feeding a scruffy street dog with scraps from her lunch. He’d stopped, charmed by her kindness, and offered her a spare water bottle to wash her hands. From that moment, they were glued to each other’s sides. Same building, same class, same wavelength.

Seokmin was a golden retriever in human form—bright, warm, and impossibly kind. To Y/N, he was the gentlest soul she’d ever met, always ready with a smile or a silly joke to lift her spirits. He’d listen patiently to her complaints about school, sneak her snacks during late-night study sessions, and cheer the loudest at her small victories. To him, Y/N was his safe harbor, the one person who saw him as Seokmin, not just a trainee chasing a dream.

-------------------------------------------------------------

As they grew, so did their feelings. It wasn’t a sudden spark but a slow, steady deepening, like roots burrowing into the earth. They both knew it, felt it in the quiet moments—stolen glances during class, the way their hands brushed when they walked. When Seventeendebuted, and Seokmin became DK, their puppy love bloomed into something real. Y/N was there for it all, from his trainee days as Lee Seokmin to his first stage as Dokyeom. She cheered at his debut showcase, her voice hoarse from screaming, and he’d looked for her in the crowd, his smile brighter than the stage lights.

To Seokmin, Y/N wasn’t just his girlfriend; she was his future. Even as teenagers, he was certain. He’d lie awake in the dorm, exhausted from practice, dreaming of a life with her—lazy mornings, shared laughter, maybe a dog like the one she’d fed all those years ago. “I’m gonna marry you one day, Y/N,” he’d whispered once, half-asleep on her couch during a movie night. She’d laughed, thinking he was joking, but the look in his eyes said otherwise.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Years passed, and Seventeensoared. Their schedules grew hectic, their fame global, but Seokmin stayed true to his word. He spoiled Y/N relentlessly—not because she asked, but because he wanted to. A new scarf when she mentioned liking one in a shop window. Concert tickets to her favorite band. Late-night deliveries of her favorite desserts when she was stressed over college exams. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” she’d say, holding up a box of pastries he’d sent.

“I know,” he’d reply, grinning over a video call from some far-off city. “But I want to. You’re my person, Y/N.”

They were each other’s anchor. When Seventeen faced pressure, Y/N was his voice of reason, reminding him to breathe. When college overwhelmed her, Seokmin was her cheerleader, sending voice messages full of encouragement. “You’ve got this, Y/N. You’re unstoppable,” he’d say, and somehow, she’d believe him.

-------------------------------------------------------------

But then came that night. Seventeen was in the middle of a world tour, cities blurring into one another. Seokmin was in a hotel room halfway across the globe when his phone lit up with Y/N’s name. His face brightened instantly. “Hey, you! Missed me already?” he answered, expecting her usual stories about college or a funny anecdote from her day.

But her voice was different—flat, distant. “Seokmin, let’s break up.”

The words hit like a punch. “What? Y/N, what are you talking about? Are you okay?”

“I just… I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.” And then, silence. The call ended. He tried calling back, but it went straight to voicemail. Her number was blocked. Her social media accounts, gone. It was like she’d erased herself from his life in an instant.

Seokmin spiraled. He called her family, desperate for answers, but her parents were vague. “She’s busy with college,” her mother said softly. “Or work. She’s just… busy.” He went to their apartment when the tour ended, heart in his throat, but Y/N was never there. One night, he waited outside for hours, hoping to catch her, only for her father to step out, his expression kind but firm. “Seokmin, we love you. But Y/N has her reasons. She won’t tell us, and you need to stop waiting.”

Reasons. That word haunted him. What reasons? Why wouldn’t she tell him? Why had she vanished without a trace, leaving him with nothing but questions and a shattered heart?

-------------------------------------------------------------

Present

The world stood still as Y/N and Seokmin stared at each other, the shattered wine glass forgotten at their feet. The festival’s noise—laughter, clinking glasses, the hum of conversation—faded into a dull roar. It was as if the universe had carved out this moment just for them, a fragile bubble in the chaos of Greve. Their eyes held a thousand unspoken words, a history that neither time nor distance could erase.

“DK! We gotta go, man!” Na PD’s voice cut through, sharp and urgent, pulling Seokmin back to reality. At the same time, Luca’s voice reached Y/N, softer but insistent. “Y/N, you okay? What happened?”

A festival staff member approached, kneeling to clean the broken glass. “I’ve got this, don’t worry,” they said in accented English, waving them off.

Y/N and Seokmin stood slowly, their gazes still locked, reluctant to break the spell. Joshua, standing nearby, caught sight of Y/N and froze, recognition flickering in his eyes. He knew her instantly—the girl who’d been Seokmin’s world, the one whose absence had left him hollow for months. But the cameras, the crowd, the risk of a scene—it was too much. Joshua stepped forward, his voice steady in fluent English. “Sorry about the glass. Hope you’re okay. Goodbye.” He grabbed Seokmin’s arm, pulling him gently but firmly away.

Y/N watched as Seokmin was led through the crowd, his broad shoulders and familiar silhouette shrinking with every step. Her chest tightened, an old ache resurfacing, sharper now. Luca stepped in front of her, concern creasing his brow. “Y/N, seriously, are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She blinked, the world snapping back into focus. Seokmin was gone, swallowed by the festival’s chaos. She forced a smile, her voice unsteady. “I’m fine, Luca. Just… bumped into someone. No big deal.”

Luca frowned but didn’t push. “Okay, but we’re heading out. It’s getting dark, and Giulia’s starving. You know how she gets.”

Y/N nodded, letting him guide her toward their friends. But her mind was elsewhere, replaying the moment their eyes met. Seokmin had changed—his face sharper, his frame stronger, matured by time and fame. Yet those eyes, so lively and warm, were the same ones that used to crinkle when he laughed at her terrible jokes. He was different, yet achingly familiar, a living echo of the life she’d left behind.

For five years, Y/N had avoided Seventeen. No music, no news, no social media. She’d built walls around her heart, convinced herself she’d moved on. She’d endured the weight of her secrets, the pain of her choices, alone in a foreign city. But seeing him, so close yet so unreachable, shattered the illusion. The heartbreak she’d buried clawed its way back, raw and unrelenting.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, Seokmin was silent as Joshua pulled him through the festival, the other Seventeen members trailing behind with Na PD. The producer, ever observant, noticed the shift in Seokmin’s demeanor. “DK, what’s up? You okay?” Na PD asked, his tone light but curious.

Seokmin didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the ground. Joshua, quick to deflect, laughed. “He’s fine, just embarrassed. Bumped into a girl and forgot how to talk. Classic DK.”

The members chuckled, and Na PD grinned, letting it slide. “Who gets drunk off wine tastings?” he teased, clapping Seokmin’s shoulder. But Seokmin didn’t laugh. His silence was heavy, a stark contrast to his usual brightness. The members exchanged glances—something was off.

Joshua knew the truth. He’d seen Y/N, seen the way Seokmin’s face had lit up and then crumbled. He knew the devastation Y/N’s sudden departure had caused years ago. Seokmin had never fully recovered, carrying a quiet hope that their paths would cross again. The members had watched him struggle, piecing himself back together while clinging to unanswered questions. Joshua stayed close, shielding him from further probing.

That night, at the restaurant, Seokmin was a ghost of himself, pushing food around his plate. Na PD raised an eyebrow. “DK, you’re scaring me. Where’s the guy who was singing karaoke an hour ago?”

Joshua jumped in again, laughing. “Told you, he’s drunk on wine. Lightweight.”

“Drunk on wine?” Na PD scoffed, grinning. “What is this, a rom-com?”

The table laughed, but Seokmin’s smile was forced, his eyes distant. The members sensed the shift, their curiosity growing, but Joshua’s subtle glances kept them quiet. He knew this wasn’t the time or place.

-------------------------------------------------------------

On the bus back to their transient house, Joshua slid into the seat next to Seokmin, tapping his knee gently. “Hey. You okay?” he asked, his voice low, meant for Seokmin alone.

Seokmin nodded, staring out the window. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Joshua didn’t buy it. He knew those eyes, the way they hid a storm. But he didn’t push, just rested a hand on Seokmin’s shoulder, a silent promise of support.

Later, in the quiet of the transient house, with the cameras off and Na PD gone, the members gathered in the living room. The air was heavy, the unspoken tension finally breaking. Joshua spoke first, his voice steady. “It was Y/N. We saw her at the festival.”

The room stilled. Every member knew her name, knew the weight it carried. They’d seen Seokmin unravel when she left, watched him search for answers that never came. Now, here she was, in Italy of all places.

Hoshi broke the silence, his tone light but cautious. “Y/N’s in Italy? What, was she hiding from you in Rome this whole time?” He laughed, trying to ease the mood, but Jeonghan nudged him, whispering, “Don’t be insensitive.”

Hoshi shrugged, sheepish. “Just trying to lighten things up.”

Jeonghan sat beside Seokmin, his voice gentle. “So, what’s the plan, DK? You’ve been waiting for this, right? A chance to talk to her?”

Seokmin shook his head, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I don’t know, hyung. I don’t know what to do. Or what to feel.” His voice cracked, raw with confusion. “We’ve got an early schedule tomorrow. Let’s just… rest.”

The members hesitated but respected his words, filing off to their rooms. Seokmin lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, the darkness pressing in. His mind replayed her face, her voice, the way she’d looked at him—like she was seeing a ghost, too. Five years of questions swirled in his chest, but one burned brighter than the rest: Why did you leave me?

He exhaled, turning to the wall. “I’m okay,” he murmured to no one, or maybe to himself. “Let’s just sleep.”

But sleep didn’t come. All he could think about was her, and the truth he’d been chasing for years, now closer than ever yet still out of reach.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The moment in Greve lingered like a ghost for both Y/N and Seokmin, a fleeting collision that lasted mere seconds but unraveled years of carefully buried emotions. It was their last interaction, a brief spark in the chaos of the wine festival, and neither knew if their paths would ever cross again. For five years, they’d built walls around their hearts, but that single glance had cracked them open, exposing the raw, unresolved ache they’d both tried to outrun.

For Seokmin, the encounter was a cruel tease of hope. Back in the transient house, he lay awake night after night, replaying her face, her voice, the way her eyes had widened with recognition. Was she living in Rome? Just visiting? He had no way of knowing, and the uncertainty gnawed at him. The odds of seeing her again in a city of millions felt impossibly slim, yet he couldn’t let go of the fragile thread of hope. “Maybe it’s a sign,” he whispered to himself one night, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe we’re not done.” But even as he said it, doubt crept in. What if that was it? A final, fleeting glimpse of the girl who’d once been his everything?

Y/N, meanwhile, fought a different battle. She’d spent five years avoiding Seventeen, steering clear of their music, their faces, their world. But seeing Seokmin up close shattered her resolve. Back in her Rome apartment, she found herself typing his name into her phone, hesitating before hitting search. When she finally gave in, the flood of results overwhelmed her—Seventeen’s global success, sold-out stadiums, awards piling up. Her heart swelled with pride, but it came with a sharp pang. “They’ll never know how proud I am,” she murmured, scrolling through photos of their NANA Tour, their laughter lighting up Rome’s streets. She remembered the grueling days of their trainee years—Seokmin stumbling home from practice, exhausted but smiling, trading normal teenage adventures for endless hours in a practice room. She’d been there through it all, from their debut struggles to the sleepless nights of their early tours. Knowing they were in Rome for NANA Tour, enjoying the city she now called home, brought a bittersweet comfort. But it also hurt, a reminder of the life she’d walked away from.

Life in Rome marched on. Y/N threw herself back into work, her days filled with meetings and deadlines. But the encounter with Seokmin lingered, a quiet undercurrent to her routine. Then, a rare gift arrived: her boss granted her a month-long vacation. She called her parents that night, their voices crackling with excitement over the phone. “Y/N, come home,” her mother urged. “It’s been five years. We miss you. Spend your vacation in Korea.”

Y/N hesitated, her mind flashing to Seokmin’s face in Greve. Could she handle being back in Seoul, where memories of him waited around every corner? But the longing for home was stronger. “Okay, Mom,” she said softly. “I’ll come.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

Now, here she was, standing outside Incheon Airport, breathing in the crisp Korean air for the first time in half a decade. The familiar chaos of the city buzzed around her—taxis honking, travelers rushing past, the faint scent of street food in the distance. She adjusted her scarf, waiting for her parents’ car, when her eyes caught a massive billboard across the street. It was an advertisement, bold and colorful, and there, plastered across it, was Seokmin’s smiling face. His grin was as bright as ever, those lively eyes staring out at the world. Y/N’s breath hitched, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. “Of course,” she whispered to herself, her voice tinged with both fondness and pain. “You’re everywhere.”

She stood frozen, staring at the poster, memories flooding back—late-night walks, his promises to buy her the world, the way he’d looked at her like she was his future. Five years ago, she’d walked away, carrying a secret she couldn’t share. Now, standing on her home soil, with his face beaming down at her, she wondered if fate was playing a cruel trick—or offering her a chance to finally face the truth.

-------------------------------------------------------------

A week had passed since Y/N landed in Seoul, her hometown now feeling like a distant memory she was rediscovering. She spent her days with her parents, playing tourist in the city she once knew by heart. They ate steaming bowls of tteokbokki at bustling street stalls, wandered through Gyeongbokgung Palace like wide-eyed visitors, and laughed over old family stories at cozy restaurants. But Seoul, vibrant and alive, was overwhelming. The biting winter air, the spicy tang of kimchi, the rhythm of the city—it was all so familiar, yet it stirred a deep ache in Y/N’s chest. Everywhere she turned, Seventeen was there. Their songs spilled from coffee shop speakers, their faces beamed from mall billboards, their names lit up restaurant TVs. Each encounter was a jolt of nostalgia, tangled with a guilt that gnawed at her. For five years, she’d carried a secret, one that had driven her to hurt the one person who’d deserved nothing but her love. “I’m such an idiot,” she muttered to herself one night, staring at her reflection in her childhood bedroom mirror. “Why did I think I could just erase him?”

Tonight, unable to sleep, Y/N slipped out of her parents’ house and found herself walking toward the Han River. It was a place etched into her soul, where she and Seokmin used to stroll, sometimes with his members in tow, laughing and chasing each other like kids with no cares in the world. She smiled at the memory of Hoshi tripping over a rock, Seungkwan’s dramatic reenactments of their latest practice mishaps, Seokmin’s arm slung casually around her shoulders. Her laughter faded as she reached the riverbank, the water glinting under the moonlight. Then she froze. A familiar figure stood a short distance away, gazing out at the river, his silhouette unmistakable even in the dim light. It was him. Lee Seokmin. DK.

Her heart stuttered. She could turn back, pretend she hadn’t seen him, and let the moment slip away like she had in Greve. Or she could stay, face him, and finally confront the truth she’d buried. “Is this you, universe?” she whispered, her breath visible in the cold air. “Giving me a chance, or just messing with me?”

She hesitated, then glanced at him again—and her breath caught. He was looking at her now, his eyes wide with the same shock she’d felt in Italy. For a moment, they just stared, the river’s quiet ripple the only sound between them. Then Y/N smiled, a small, tentative thing, and walked toward him. She stopped a few feet away, her hands gripping the railing as she gazed at the water, gathering her courage. Taking a deep breath, she turned to him, her smile steadier now.

“It’s been a while, huh?” she said, her voice soft but clear. “How are you? You guys are huge now, aren’t you? I’ve been here a week, and your faces and songs are literally everywhere.” She laughed, light but nervous, her eyes flickering to the river to avoid his gaze.

Seokmin’s expression softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, we’re doing great. Working on a new song, actually. It’s… been a ride.” His voice was warm, but there was a cautious edge to it. “What about you? How’s life been?”

Y/N’s smile widened, a playful glint in her eyes. “Oh, I’m a full-on Italiano now. Just a tourist in Korea.” She laughed, then softened, her tone turning wistful. “I’ve been living in Rome for a while. Five years, actually. This is my first time back, and it’s… so nostalgic. Everything feels the same, but different, you know?”

Seokmin nodded, his gaze lingering on her face, searching for something she wasn’t sure she could give. They fell silent, standing side by side, the Han River stretching out before them, its surface reflecting the city’s lights. The quiet was heavy, filled with years of unspoken questions. Then, out of the stillness, Seokmin’s voice came, low and raw. “Why?”

Y/N’s heart clenched. She knew exactly what he meant. She turned to him, meeting his eyes for a brief, aching moment before smiling faintly. “I didn’t break up with you because I fell out of love.”

The words hung in the air, a fragile confession that left them both suspended, the truth teetering on the edge of revelation.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Flashback

Five years ago, Y/N’s world had crumbled in a single moment. She’d just gotten home from college, exhausted from a long day of classes and drowning in stress over a pile of paperwork for a presentation due tomorrow. She slipped into comfy sweats, tied her hair up, and sank into her chair, reaching for her phone to call Seokmin. His voice always had a way of grounding her, no matter how chaotic her day had been. But just as her thumb hovered over the call button, her phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number.

Her heart stopped as she opened it. Videos and photos of her and Seokmin—intimate, private moments, stolen snapshots of their love—filled the screen. Below them, a chilling message: Break up with DK, or I release these and ruin his image. Her blood ran cold, her hands trembling. Seventeen was still rising, their name just beginning to shine. She’d seen the grueling years Seokmin poured into his dream—the endless practices, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices. How could she let a scandal destroy that? How could she be the reason his world fell apart?

She was only a teenager, scared and unprepared. Acting out of fear, she made a choice. “Seokmin, let’s break up,” she’d said over the phone that night, her voice flat to hide the way her heart was shattering. When he pressed her, frantic—“Y/N, what’s wrong? Talk to me!”—she hung up, blocked his number, and cut him out completely. She knew he’d fight for her, knew he’d show up at her parents’ house, so she avoided him, hiding behind excuses of school and work. After graduation, when a job offer in Rome came, she seized it, fleeing to a new life where she could bury her guilt and try to mend her broken heart.

Present

Y/N stood by the Han River, the moonlight casting a silver glow over the water. Seokmin’s question—“Why?”—still hung between them, raw and heavy. She took a shaky breath, her eyes meeting his, and began to unravel the truth she’d carried for five years.

“That night I broke up with you,” she started, her voice trembling, “I’d just gotten home from school. I was stressed, exhausted, and all I wanted was to hear your voice. But before I could call you, I got a text. From someone I didn’t know.” She paused, her fingers tightening on the railing. “It was pictures of us. Videos. Private moments I thought were just ours. And a message saying if I didn’t break up with you, they’d leak everything and ruin your image.”

Seokmin’s eyes widened, his breath catching. “What? Y/N, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was scared, Seokmin,” she said, her voice breaking. “I was just a kid. Seventeen was just starting to make it, and I saw how hard you worked—how hard all of you worked. The sleepless nights, the practices, the sacrifices… I couldn’t let some stupid scandal destroy that. I couldn’t be the reason you lost everything.”

He shook his head, stepping closer, his voice thick with emotion. “Y/N, I would’ve fought it. We could’ve figured it out together. You didn’t have to carry that alone.”

“I know,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “But I wasn’t brave enough. I thought… if I told you, you’d try to fix it, and it’d make things worse. So I left. I blocked you, avoided you, and when I got a job offer in Rome, I took it. I thought I could move on, fix myself. But I never stopped feeling guilty for hurting you.”

Seokmin’s eyes glistened, his jaw tight as he processed her words. “All this time… I thought you just stopped loving me. I kept asking myself what I did wrong, why I wasn’t enough.”

“No, Seokmin,” she said fiercely, turning to face him fully. “It was never about you not being enough. You were everything to me. I loved you so much it hurt. I just… I couldn’t be selfish. I couldn’t risk your dream for my love.”

He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “Y/N, my dream meant nothing if you weren’t there. You were my anchor. Losing you… it broke me.”

Her tears fell faster now, her smile bittersweet through the pain. “I guess I just wasn’t brave enough back then. But I loved you, Seokmin. I still do. And I’m so proud of what you’ve achieved. Seeing you everywhere here, hearing your songs… it’s like you’re part of the city’s heartbeat. But I don’t know if love is enough right now.”

Seokmin stepped closer, his hand brushing hers on the railing, tentative but warm. “Y/N, I never stopped loving you either. Not for a second. Every city, every stage, I looked for you in the crowd. Even in Rome, when I saw you… I thought maybe the universe was giving me a second chance.”

She laughed softly, wiping her tears. “The universe is funny like that, isn’t it? Throwing us together in Rome, now here. But I hurt you, Seokmin. I don’t know if I deserve that chance.”

“You were protecting me,” he said, his voice steady despite the tears in his eyes. “You made a choice out of love, even if it hurt us both. That’s not something to punish yourself for. It’s something we can learn from.”

Y/N looked at him, her heart aching with the weight of his words. “If we ever meet again… and we’re still looking at each other the same way…” She paused, smiling through her tears. “Then I’ll know. That even after everything, it was always you.”

Seokmin’s hand closed gently over hers, his touch grounding her like it always had. “Then I’ll keep looking your way, until the universe brings you back.”

They stood there, hands entwined, the Han River flowing quietly before them. The city hummed around them, but for that moment, it was just them—two hearts that had weathered years of pain, finding solace in the truth. Whether the universe would weave their paths together again, they didn’t know. But under the Seoul sky, with the river as their witness, they held onto the fragile hope that love, in time, might be enough.

-------------------------------------------------------------

an: DK looks like total boyfriend material to me! He seems like such a green flag, like a perfect prince. Where can I find someone like him???

[sthilarions]

Had an idea that I can’t think too much about without it fucking me up so I’m offering y’all the bare bones

Charles gets made alive again as the consequence of an accidental wish. They’re never quite sure who heard the wish; a djinn, a monkey’s paw, a fey, a powerful witch, a god, an Endless. It doesn’t really matter, in the end. A wish is a wish.

The thing about being alive is that you can’t remember being dead. Mortal minds fundamentally can’t comprehend it, they’d snap under the strain, and whoever granted the wish, they seem to have been kind, more or less. They made sure Charles remembered nothing of being dead except for the traditional white light that is all mortal minds can hold on to. And they made sure he was able to more or less seamlessly fit into modern life, despite effectively appearing from nowhere with no records, via having him take the place of a 16 year old who had just died. They fix him up with Life so fully that he doesn’t even count as having had a near-death experience. A remarkably thorough job, really.

You may have noticed the issue.

Crystal, at first, thinks it should be an easy fix. She can go and tell Charles what’s happened, maybe they bop him on the head so he can see ghosts, and they become the One Dead Boy One Living Boy and One Psychic Girl Detective Agency.

Edwin has to stop her physically, in the end.

Because they can’t. They can’t remind Charles of his afterlife. They can’t risk those memories coming back, breaking through whatever barrier the wish-granter placed. They can’t risk Charles’s brain melting in ways he would never recover from, might even not recover from after his eventual death.

They can’t do anything.

For several years, Edwin and Crystal and Niko run the Agency together. It’s rocky, but Niko provides just enough of a stabilizing influence to keep Edwin and Crystal from killing each other. The girls grow out of it eventually, move on to the wider mortal world, and Edwin works solo for only a few months before putting up a Closed sign on the Agency door.

Charles has married, by then. A wonderful girl, a spitfire, clever and sharp. Edwin moves in to the empty lot across from their house, and he waits.

He waits as Charles has two children, who are warm and clever and sharp and brave. Too brave, too reckless; Edwin saves their lives half a dozen times, from falling out of trees, from fights they shouldn’t have gotten involved in, once from a riot cop putting down a protest.

He waits as the children grow up, moves with Charles when he and his wife become empty-nesters.

He waits as Charles becomes more and more respected in his profession, and finally retires with the greatest of honor; moves with Charles again to a house by the sea. Charles always liked the ocean.

He waits as Charles’s wife gets brain cancer. Three years later, he waits at her bedside, his hand on Charles’s shoulder, unfelt. He ducks out of the room just as Death comes, and then back, holds his arms around Charles for hours as Charles holds his wife’s cooling hand, and he knows his ghostly touch is making Charles shiver but he can’t bring himself to let go.

He waits as Charles’s grandchildren get older.

He waits as Charles gets Alzheimer’s, and sometimes when Charles stares into the distance it seems like he’s staring at Edwin, but Edwin can never quite be sure.

And finally, one day, it’s time to stop waiting.

Edwin sits at Charles’s bedside, hand over his, in a chair left empty between the children and grandchildren, because many of them can see him, by now. He’s told them he’s Charles’s guardian angel, and that they must never, ever tell Charles.

He sits, and he thinks he’s never been more terrified in all his existence, even in Hell, even when he was dying himself.

He sits.

Charles closes his eyes.

Charles sits up.

Charles opens his eyes again, and they look right where they should, like they’ve been pulled by a magnet, like they’re pulled by destiny.

“Edwin? Are you all right?”

[vitalverstappen]

Rooms Where You Waited - D. Ricciardo

summary: you traded galleries and studios for pit lanes until the space he left behind became louder than his presence

pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x painter!reader

warnings: swearing

word count: 4.8k

masterlist

The gallery hummed with the low murmur of money and quiet negotiations. Crystal glasses clinked, catching the soft light like scattered diamonds while designer heels clicked on polished marble. The scent of expensive perfume mingled with faint traces of oil paint and varnish, an odd but intimate perfume of creation and commerce. Outside, the Mediterranean sun was beginning to dip behind the Monaco skyline, casting long, golden shadows that stretched like fingers across the city’s glittering facades. 

You stood by the far wall, eyes fixed on the painting you’d just sold - friction. A chaotic storm of reds and deep shadows, every brushstroke seemed to pulse with both violent motion and aching heartbreak. You hadn’t planned on letting it go - not this soon - but your agent had insisted “Monaco attracts noise and wealth. You need the exposure.”

Across the room, surrounded by a crowd of well-dressed strangers, stood Daniel Ricciardo. Sharp suit, undone collar, a presence that vibrated beneath the surface. It was clear that he didn’t belong here, but he’d just spent eighty-five thousand euros on your piece. The money made you skeptical, but his words surprised you. 

“I don’t really get art,” he admitted when he found you along the wall, his champagne glass in hand, “but this one made me stop.”

You smiled, studying him carefully. There was a flicker of sincerity beneath the casual bravado, and skepticism waged a quiet war with curiosity inside you. “Most people say that right before they ask for a refund.”

Daniel laughed, warm and unguarded, the kind of sound that cracks the surface of a stranger’s shell. “Not me. I like that it doesn’t explain itself.”

Your eyes met, and in that brief moment, a silent recognition passed between you - two restless souls circling different worlds but somehow caught in the same orbit. 

“Come to the race tomorrow,” he said suddenly, his tone shifting, no longer casual but carrying something hopeful. 

You raised an eyebrow, amused and wary. “So you can parade me in front of billionaires?” 

“No,” he said softly, the humor now long gone from his voice. “So you can see the part of me that doesn’t know how to paint.”

You hesitated, the weight of a thousand unspoken possibilities pressing down. And then, something - call it curiosity, or perhaps the flicker of something else - pulled you in. 

“Alright,” you said finally. “Surprise me.”

The next day, the roar of Formula One engines ripped through the Monaco morning like thunder. You stood behind the VIP barrier, heart pounding as the cars flashed past, a symphony of speed and danger. The sharp, intoxicating smell of burning rubber and fuel mixed with the salty tang of the sea breeze, assaulting your senses and pulling you deeper into this foreign world.

You were a fish out of water. Around you, the crowd was a sea of focused faces - fans, sponsors, commentators - all fluent in the language of lap times and tire wear that you had no words for.

But when you saw Daniel. Helmet in one hand, the other clenched at his side. His eyes, fierce and burning with an intensity carved from pressure and expectation, cut through the chaos and the noise. In that moment, you understood him - not as a driver, but as a man carved from pressure and expectation. 

The race blurred by in a torrent of motion and noise, but when Daniel crossed the finish line in second place, a cheer erupted. You watched from afar as he went through the familiar rituals - the podium celebrations, the flashing cameras, the relentless media interviews - before he finally slipped away to the quiet sanctuary of the balcony, away from the crowds, where you waited. 

“Congrats,” you said softly as he approached, his head bowed, eyes locked on the gleaming trophy in his hands.

At the sound of your voice, his head snapped up, wide eyes searching yours, “you stayed,” he said, his voice rough with exhaustion, but carrying a soft undercurrent of surprise.

“I wasn’t sure if I should,” you admitted quietly, the weight of the moment settling between you like fragile glass.

“Most people don’t,” he said, his eyes softening 

He stepped forward, the glow of the city wrapping him in gold and shadow. There was still an adrenaline clinging to his skin, the faint scent of swat and engine oil in the air, but something about him had shifted. The race mask was gone. What stood before you now was just Daniel - bare, unguarded. 

You both stood in silence for a moment, the kind that doesn’t demand to be filled. 

The breeze lifted the scent of fuel and sea salt from below, brushing cool against your flushed skin. Below the balcony, the paddock continued its chaotic symphony - shouts in different languages, metallic clanks of gear being packed away, laughter that echoed off the concrete. But up there, above it all, time slowed, like someone had turned the world down to a whisper. 

Daniel exhaled through his nose, a quiet, worn-out sound. He looked at the trophy again like it wasn’t real, like maybe he wasn’t real either, unless he was moving fast enough to blur. 

“Come with me,” he said, his voice almost too soft to hear.

You turned toward him slowly, unsure if you’d heard him right. “What?” 

He met your eyes. His gaze was steady now. No jokes, no grin. “Come with me,” he repeated. “To Montreal, Barcelona. Wherever the calendar takes me. Just…come.”  

Your breath caught, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. A second passed. Then another. 

“Why?” you asked, because the part of you that had always been afraid of being wanted for the wrong reasons wouldn’t let the silence carry that answer. 

He hesitated, and in that small beat, you saw him peel something back, just enough to let you in. 

“Because I feel like I’ve been driving circles around myself for years,” he said, his thumb rubbing absently along the edge of the trophy, “And then I saw your painting, and it hit me harder than any crash I’ve walked away from. And then I met you, and suddenly nothing made sense again. But not in a bad way. Just-”

He paused, brow furrowed, like he was choosing his words carefully as if he were braking into a corner at 300 kilometers an hour. 

“Just in the way that made me want to stop spinning for a minute.” 

Your heart cracked open and filled all at once. “Daniel…” you started, but you weren’t even sure what came after that. You were staring at a man you barely knew and somehow knew too well. Standing on a balcony above the world, above the noise, with the ache of something rare blooming between you. 

“I know it’s messy,” he said quickly. “I know it won’t always be easy. And I can’t promise I’ll be the guy who always says the right thing or shows up with flowers or - fuck, I don’t even know if I’ll be good at this.” He gave a soft, self-conscious laugh. “But I promise I won’t pretend like you don’t matter.” 

You looked at him for a long moment. The lights reflected off his skin, soft and golden. The hum of the paddock faded further, like the world was holding its breath. 

And despite everything - the noise, the distance, the risk - you found yourself saying it. 

“Okay.” 

A slow, surprised smile broke across his face, so different from the ones you’d seen on the podium or in press photos. This one was smaller, steadier. Real. 

“Yeah?” he asked, like he didn’t want to trust it just yet

You nodded, and for the first time that day, you felt grounded. 

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Let’s go.”

The air in Montreal was crisp, cooler than in Monaco or Florence, the kind of clean that filled your lungs and made you feel like maybe things would continue to be simple. They had been during the two weeks Daniel had off. You had stayed at his place in Monaco as you learned more about each other. 

Maple trees lined the winding streets near the hotel, their leaves trembling in the breeze. You arrived just past midnight, the city quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional burst of laughter from a late-night bar. 

Daniel had picked you up from the airport himself, cap low over his eyes, hoodie pulled up. No team, no handlers. Just him, arms folded and grinning like a kid playing hooky. 

You hadn’t said much on the ride to the hotel. You didn’t need to. There was something sacred about that kind of silence - the kind that only existed between two people trying not to break whatever it was they’d just started. 

The suite overlooked the St. Lawrence River. You could see the lights from the paddock in the distance, already assembled for the race weekend. Daniel kicked off his shoes, peeled off his jacket, and sank into the couch like it was the first time he’d sat still in days. 

He looked at you, eyes glassy with exhaustion. “You’re really here.”

You nodded, suddenly shy. “Yeah, I am.”

He reached out, fingers grazing yours without pressure. Just a touch. Just enough. 

That night, you didn’t sleep so much as fall into each other - quiet laughter, tangled limbs, breathless pauses. It wasn’t perfect, not choreographed or cinematic. It was real. Messy. Warm. You fell asleep with your head on his chest, the rise and fall of his breath a rhythm you didn’t know you’d been missing. 

The next morning, Montreal’s energy snapped into focus. The race weekend began in earnest. And suddenly, everything sped up. 

Daniel’s days vanished into debriefs, simulator sessions, press conferences. The hotel room filled with the sound of early alarms and rustling gear bags. You’d wake up to an empty bed and a scribbled note on the counter:

Practice at 10. Didn’t want to wake you. Back after media. You looked peaceful - D

You wandered the old city streets alone, sketchbook in hand, trying to create with borrowed time. The buildings were beautiful there - old stone, ivy-covered, worn with memory. You funda quiet cafe near the circuit and spent hours sketching him from memory: the curve of his jaw, the tired intensity in his eyes, the way his hand gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding him together. 

At night, you’d return to the suite. Sometimes he was there. Sometimes he wasn’t. 

When he was, he was bone-tired, still smelling faintly of sweat and gasoline. He’d curl into bed beside you, half-asleep before he could ask how your day had gone. You didn’t blame him. Not really.

On Saturday, just before qualifying, you found him alone in the garage. His helmet was off, race suit half-zipped, a bottle of water clutched in his hand. He looked up when you approached, surprise flashing across his face before it softened into a smile. 

“You made it,” he said, stepping closer.

You nodded, then looked around. “Is it always this…intense?” 

He laughed quietly. “This? This is calm. You should see race day.”

You hesitated, then asked, “Do you want me to come tomorrow? Or would it be easier if I didn’t?” 

His smile faltered, just for a second. Not in cruelty, but in calculation. As if he wasn’t sure which answer would hurt less. 

“I want you there,” he said. “But I also don’t want you to think I’m only half-present. Because I am. When I’m in this-” he gestured to the garage, the car, to everything, “-I can’t be in anything else.”

You met his eyes. “I know. I just, I’m trying to figure out how to fit without disappearing.” 

That stopped him. His jaw worked, trying to find the right thing to say. But the call came from his engineer, and the moment passed. 

“I’ll find you after quali,” he said. “Promise”

And then he was gone, helmet on, world closed off. 

And that’s how most of the weekends went. You started to mark time by the sound of sippers and the screech of wheel guns on pit lane. 

There was always a promise. “I’ll find you after the session.”

Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t. 

When he did, he was drained - a hollowed-out version of the man who once traced constellations on your shoulder in the Monaco spark. He’d ask how you were, but never quite listen. Not fully. Not because he didn’t care, but because he’d left all his energy on the asphalt, in the car, in the fight for a tenth of a second that would decide everything. 

When he didn’t - well, you stepped waiting with hope and started waiting out of habit. 

You sketched in the VIP suite, in the local cafe, on hotel stationary. Anything and everything you saw: the chaos of the paddock, the city lights, the sun as it dipped beneath the horizon. 

But the sketches began to change.

The lines grew tighter. Harsher. You weren’t drawing Daniel anymore. You were drawing the space he left behind. A crumpled bed sheet. A helmet resting alone on a workbench. Your own hand, outstretched, empty. 

And still, you stayed. 

You told yourself it was temporary. That balance was coming. That love, like racing, was just about timing. 

In Hungary, you didn’t go to the race. You stayed in the room, curled under the blanket with your sketchbook on your lap, watching the muted broadcast on TV. The engine sounds didn’t carry through the glass. Just faint flashes of speed, frozen on screen like a dream someone else was having. 

You waited for the text. 

It came five hours late.

Podium. You should’ve seen it. I’ll tell you everything when I get back. X

He didn’t. 

He stumbled in close to midnight, still buzzing from champagne and adrenaline. He didn’t kiss you hello. He mumbled something about strategy and tires and how close it had been in Turn 3. He peeled his jacket off and collapsed beside you, half dressed, one arm draped across your stomach like he still remembered where you were in the dark. 

He fell asleep mid-sentence, a soft snore catching in his throat. 

You stared at the ceiling. Eyes open. Silent. 

And you realized something awful in its simplicity:

You didn’t even know what color his eyes had been that morning. 

That night, you packed your sketchbook first. 

You didn’t leave a note. You knew he’d notice your absence - eventually. But not tomorrow. Not the day after. 

There was another city waiting for him. Another circuit. Another podium. Another chance to be adored. 

You weren’t angry. 

You were finished. 

From your window seat on the red-eye back to your home in Milan, you watched the clouds blur beneath the wing. You pulled out a fresh page. The pencil trembled slightly in your hand as you began to redraw the figure from the piece Daniel had once called “the one that made me stop.”

The same orbit. The same pull. But this time, the gravity was gone. 

This time, the figure spun alone. 

======

The apartment was still. 

No engine noise. No pit lane chaos. No rustling gear bags or scuffed shoes thrown by the door. Just the ticking of an old wall clock and the scratch of charcoal on canvas. The kind of silence that isn’t just absence - it’s aftermath. 

You’d flown home from Hungary with no return flight. No tearful goodbye. No big final fight. Just quiet withdraw. The kind that doesn’t make headlines but echoes louder in private.

You fell back into your rhythms slowly - like relearning your own name. 

The studio smelled of damar, dust, and the faint sweetness of drying paint. You started waking before dawn again, slipping outside while the city still stretched and yawned under sunrise. The cobblestones near your apartment felt familiar beneath your soles - sharp and uneven in places, but grounding. Solid. 

The cafe near your building knew your order again. Strong coffee, no sugar. The same corner table. The same chipped ceramic mug. You sipped in silence and let your mind wander without being dragged into someone else’s schedule. 

You painted like you were starving again. Like art was the only language left that didn’t ask you to shrink. 

You flipped through the old sketches - the hotel rooms, the bed sheets, the outstretched hands - and you started to translate them. Not with the frantic abstraction of friction, but with stillness. Precision. Honestly.

The Ghostwork was born from those pages. A new series. 

Darker. Intimate. Too intimate, maybe. Faces turned just enough to feel withholding. Shoulders slumped inward, burdened. Hands left unfinished - not for lack of time, but because you didn’t know if they were reaching or letting go.

They were portraits of presence without acknowledgement. Of love received in echoes. Of rooms where someone had stayed too long without being asked to.

Your gallery didn’t quite know what to do with them. Too raw, your agent said. Too quiet. 

But buyers leaned in anyway - lingered longer at each canvas. A whisper of heartbreak, it turned out, sold better than any performance of contentment. 

You never dared to tell them who the muse was. You never had to. The truth lived between the brushstrokes. 

======

You didn’t hear from Daniel for twelve days. 

Not a call. Not a message. Not even the passive, accidental kind of noticing, a liked photo, a tagged repost, a stray comment from a fan account. It was as if the whole circuit had swallowed him. Or maybe, as if he’d swallowed you and simply moved on. 

You posted a carousel of photos from your travels - street scenes, a shadowy self-portrait in a cafe window, a sketch of your own feet on a balcony. The caption was one word: unfinished. 

You didn’t expect him to notice. 

He didn’t. 

Until the thirteenth day.

2:03 a.m. 

Your phone buzzed once, screen lighting up on your nightstand. Then again. And again. 

You didn’t reach for it at first. Just let it buzz, the sound sharp against the quiet hum of the fan in the corner. If it was important, it would keep buzzing. 

It did. 

By the third message, you sighed, wiped your paint-streaked fingers on your pajama pants, and flipped it over. 

Daniel Ricciardo: Did I make it worse by asking you to come with me?

Daniel Ricciardo: I thought being near me would make you feel more included. But I didn’t realize I never actually let you in

Daniel Ricciardo: I miss you

Three simple lines. Too late. Too raw. And still, they cracked something. 

Not open, not fully, but just enough to hurt. 

You didn’t write back. Not that night. Not with your body still humming from a painting session that had gone too long. You turned the phone face-down again and went back to mixing colors you couldn’t name in the dim light. Colors that felt like memory. 

The next morning, you sat on the windowsill of your studio, your coffee going cold beside you. Milan moved slowly below - the smell of bread from the corner bakery rising with the mist, mopeds coughing to life, pigeons scattering like grey brushstrokes against the sky. 

You opened the message thread. Re-read it three times. 

Your thumbs hovered. Typed. Deleted. Typed again. 

Finally, you sent: 

You: You didn’t see me. You tolerated me. There’s a difference. 

The typing bubble appeared immediately. A flicker of instinct. Maybe panic, maybe hope. But then… it disappeared.

And didn’t come back.

======

Your next show had no fanfare. 

No champagne. 

Just a long, narrow space with whitewashed brick and tall windows that let in raw, unforgiving daylight. The kind of light that left nothing hidden. 

The gallery was hushed. People walked slowly here - not out of reverence, but caution. Like they were stepping into someone’s diary. 

Each painting was hung with deliberate space around it. Enough room to breathe. To ache. Your pieces didn’t ask for interpretation. They asked to be felt.

Brushtrokes sharp in some places, blurred in others. Colors that moved like grief. This was The Ghostwork in its final form. Not a story of love, but of the haunting that followed it. 

Near the far wall, hung on raw linen and lit only by skylight, was the final piece. 

Devotion II. 

The orbit. The solitude. 

A figure half turned, walking into a crimson void. The kind of red that isn’t fire, but aftermath. Smoke. Around her: traces of another, not present, not fully. Just ghosted remnants. A shadowed boot print. An open door. 

People stood in front of that one the longest. You rarely watched them directly, but you could feel when they arrived. 

The hush. The stillness. The small, instinctive exhale. 

You were adjusting a small placard on the far end of the wall when you felt the shift.

Not noise - but weight. A quiet disruption of ari. Gravity bending, every so slightly, toward one person in the room. 

You know it before you turned. 

Daniel.  

He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t say your name. 

He just stood there - dark jeans, soft shirt, hands folded in front of him like he was afraid to touch anything. 

His eyes were on the final painting. 

You didn’t turn around right away. You weren’t ready. Not until you heard him exhale, low and tight, like he’d been holding his breath since the moment you left.  

“This one hurt,” he said quietly

You nodded, still facing the painting. “Good.”

He took a few steps forward, enough that his shoulder was just in your peripheral vision. Close, but not presuming. Still giving you space. Maybe for the first time.

“I didn’t know how loud I was,” he said after a long silence, “until you left… and everything went quiet.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. 

Not the version on magazine covers. Not the man in podium champagne and press conference smiles. 

Just Daniel.

Tired. Clear-eyed. And finally - still. Not because the world stopped moving, but because he had.

He rubbed the back of his neck, thumb grazing the line of a fresh crease you didn’t remember from before.

“I thought if I brought you with me, you’d just… fit,” he admitted. “But I never made room. I just expected you to fold yourself around the noise.”

You crossed your arms, not to shield yourself - but to hold yourself up. 

“And now?” you asked, voice level.

He didn’t flinch. “Now I want to learn how to make space. For real. Without asking you to shrink.”

Silence again. But this time, it didn’t ache. It waited. 

You tilted your head toward the painting. “She’s still walking away.”

Daniel nodded slowly. “I know.”

You watched him from the corner of your eye, waiting for the defense, the argument, the plea. It didn’t come. 

Just honesty.

“I haven’t decided if she will turn back,” you said at last, the words hanging loose, unfinished.

======

It was late September by the time you saw him again - truly saw him. Not through gallery lights or texts typed in the dark. But face to face. Present.

Florence was still warm, the kind of golden autumn that only Italy knew how to stretch into October. The air smelled like sun-soaked stone, fig trees and distant espresso. You were there for a residence - one month in a sunlit studio tucked into a courtyard near the Arno. The walls were bare plaster, the floors cool terracotta, and the windows opened wide enough to let in birdsong and the far-off bells of Santa Croce.

You painted in the mornings, walked at dusk. Your hands stayed stained with pigment and oil. You slept like someone who no longer waited for a message in the dark. 

You didn’t think of him every day. 

But when you did, it didn’t ache. Not in the sharp way it used to. It was quieter now. The kind of missing that didn’t demand to be answered.

Until one afternoon, there was a soft knock on the studio door. 

You turned, expecting your gallery contact or the courier with fresh canvas. Instead, it was the assistant - a young woman with ink on her fingers and a nervous smile on her face. 

“There’s someone here to see you,” she said

You turned, brush still in hand. “Did they give you a name?” 

She paused, then offered a half-shrug, half-smirk. “He didn’t need to.”

And just like that, you knew.

You wiped your hands, heart thudding against your ribs like it hadn’t in months. As you stepped out into the courtyard, light pooled like liquid honey across the stone. And there he was.

No race suit, no entourage. Just a soft, lived-in hoodie, jeans, and slight scruff on his jaw. A bouquet of messy wildflowers in his hand - daisies, thistle, marigolds. Nothing curated. Everything honest. 

You stepped outside, heartbeat in your ears. He didn’t speak at first. Just offered you the flowers and let his hand linger when yours touched his. 

“You look rested,” he said finally.

You tilted your head. “You look… human.”

That laugh, low and genuine, bloomed out of him. “I took some time off. Told the team I needed a break. First time I’ve said that in a decade.”

“And they just let you?” 

He shrugged, but there was a new softness in the movement. “Didn’t give them a choice.”

You smiled, but didn’t move. Didn’t fill the silence. You were learning to let people come to you - fully, or not at all.

After a beat, Daniel nodded toward the studio behind you. “May I?”

You hesitated for only a second. Then stepped aside. 

Inside, the light had shifted. Long, late shadows climbed the walls. The canvases that filled the space were different now. Warmer. Calmer. The violence had bled out of the reds. There were still shadows, but they lived alongside softness. The figures had weight again. Not in burden, but in presence. 

Daniel moved slowly, hands behind his back, as if afraid to disturb the quiet. He stopped in front of one untitled piece near the far window.

A woman, half-turned. Her spine arched with the motion of decision. Her face was indistinct, but her body was clearly grounded.

“She turns back,” he said.

You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him watch her. “You sure?” 

“No,” he said, smiling faintly, shaking his head. “But she stops running. That’s something.”

You stepped forward, close enough to catch the faint scent of travel and lavender soap on him.

“Why did you really come?” you asked, not accusing. Just… steady.

Daniel met your eyes, and this time, he didn’t look away. His voice didn’t waiver.

“Because I don’t want to be a chapter in your work. I want to be part of what comes after.”

You stared at him. Your chest tightened. Not from pain. From recognition. 

“I’m not giving up what I’ve built,” you defended, voice slow and even. 

“I don’t want you to,” he replied instantly.

“I won’t chase you around the world.”

“You don’t have to.”

You stepped closer. Until you could see the faint creases by his eyes - the ones that only appeared when he was telling the truth. 

“You hurt me,” you reminded him, plain and simple.

Daniel nodded “I know.”

“I don’t forgive you because you came back. I forgive you because I believe you want to stay.”

He let the words settle, like paint drying. 

“I do,” he said. “Not as a driver. Not as someone who needs rescuing. Just as me.”

You reached up and touched his cheek, just once, before resting your forehead gently against his. 

And in that quiet, sun-drenched studio in Florence, no one was racing. 

No one was performing. 

There was no finish line.

Only this. Stillness. 

One year later, somewhere outside Lisbon

The house was small. Unremarkable from the outside. Weathered white walls. Shutters faded from too much sun. Vines and flowers climbed lazily across the back terrace. The kind of place you didn’t find unless you meant to. 

It sat on the edge of a cliff road, just far enough from the city to hear your thoughts, just close enough to walk to the ocean. Daniel had found it on a whim after announcing his retirement during the offseason. You had arrived two months later with your brushes packed in linen, a half-finished canvas strapped to your back. 

Now, it belonged to the both of you. Or maybe, more truthfully, it belonged to the version of you that had learned how to stay. 

The morning light spilled across the kitchen table where a cup of coffee steamed beside a smudged sketchbook. Daniel padded in barefoot, hair a mess, hoodie borrowed from your side of the closet. He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head and sat down, barefoot ankles bumping into yours under the table. 

On the windowsill, a vase of wildflowers had started to wilt. Thistle. Marigold. Daisies. 

Outside, the waves rolled in slowly. No rush. No roar. Just rhythm.

You picked up a pencil, started drawing the horizon. He watched you for a while, quiet. 

After a moment, he asked “What’s this one called?”

You tilted your head, still sketching. “Maybe nothing,” you said. “Maybe not everything has to be named.”

He nodded, content. 

You kept drawing. 

And this time, he stayed. 

[madswritesthings]

Jealousy Looks Good on You (Pro Hero AU | Spicy, Possessive Iida)

Iida wasn’t the jealous type. He was logical, level-headed, above such irrational emotions.

At least, that’s what he thought—until he saw another pro hero touching you.

The gala was a networking event, meant to foster connections between agencies. Heroes from all over mingled in expensive suits and elegant dresses, champagne flutes in hand, exchanging pleasantries under the glow of a crystal chandelier. It was all very professional—until Iida spotted you across the room, deep in conversation with another hero.

They were leaning in too close. Their smile lingered too long. And worst of all, their hand brushed your arm—just a light touch, casual, effortless. But the moment your lips curled into an amused smile, something inside Iida snapped.

He had been watching from afar, reminding himself that you were capable of handling yourself, that he had no claim over you—

But then your acquaintance laughed, tucking a stray hair behind your ear like they had any right to be that familiar with you.

Iida didn’t even think. One moment he was sipping his drink, the next he was there, closing the distance in long, purposeful strides. His presence alone was enough to command attention, his broad frame cutting between you and the other hero like a barrier.

“Ah, Ingenium,” the hero greeted, smiling politely. “Didn’t see you there.”

Iida ignored them completely. Instead, he turned to you, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you effortlessly into his side. His grip was firm, deliberate. The warmth of his palm against the thin fabric of your dress sent a shiver through you.

“I believe we had plans, didn’t we?” His voice was smooth, polite, but there was something dangerous beneath the surface—something unshakably possessive.

The hero’s eyes flicked between you two, their smile faltering slightly. “Right. Well, I should—” They cleared their throat, stepping back. “I’ll see you around.”

The second they were gone, you turned to Iida with a knowing smirk. “Plans, huh?”

Iida didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened. His thumb brushed slow, deliberate circles against your hip, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t appreciate the way they were looking at you,” he admitted, voice lower now, quieter—just for you.

You hummed, tilting your head. “And how do you look at me, Iida?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers flexed against your waist, his touch searing through the thin fabric of your dress. “I look at you,” he said, voice slow, deliberate, “like you belong to me.”

Your breath hitched. His words hung in the air between you, thick with something electric. He was always so composed, always so controlled—but now? Now there was something raw in his gaze, something barely restrained.

Testing him, you reached up, straightening his tie with deliberate slowness. “Then maybe,” you murmured, lips just a breath away from his, “you should remind me.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His grip on your waist tightened, his other hand lifting to cradle the back of your neck. For a moment, he just looked at you—like he was memorizing you, committing this moment to memory.

Then, with a quiet, strained groan, he pulled you in.

His lips crashed against yours, firm, demanding, the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt. His fingers curled against your waist, holding you in place like he wasn’t willing to let you go anytime soon. The distant murmur of the gala faded into nothing—the only thing that mattered was the heat of his body against yours, the way his lips moved with an intensity that left you breathless.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath heavy, his grip still firm.

“Understood?” he murmured, voice rough with something dangerously close to need.

You smiled, breathless. “Crystal clear.”

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @oceanticspace @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp

----------------------------------------------------------

TW: claimers, violence, death, cuddles, escape, walkers, suggestive comments, childhood trauma, alcohol consumption.

Part 21

Dead Weight - Part 22

The rain hammers against the cabin's weathered roof like angry fists, each drop a percussive beat that echoes through the small space. You sit cross-legged on the dusty floor near the fireplace, watching the flames dance while Daryl secures the last of the windows with pieces of rotted furniture.

The orange light flickers across his face, highlighting the exhaustion etched in every line, the way his shoulders carry the weight of everything that's happened.

The past days with the Claimers had been a special kind of hell—a group of men with no moral compass in a world that no longer required one. Survival meant playing by their rules, however repulsive.

Daryl had 'claimed' you immediately, recognizing the hungry looks from the others. An arm around your waist, a gruff "Claimed" when Joe's men got too close.

At night, he'd pulled you against him, his body a barrier between you and the others, his breath warm against your neck as he whispered reassurances.

"Should be safe 'ere for the night," Daryl says, his voice rough from disuse. He tests the barricade on the door one more time before turning to face you. "Rain'll cover our tracks, keep the geeks sluggish too."

You nod, pulling your knees closer to your chest. The cabin is small—just one room with a stone fireplace, a few pieces of furniture covered in dust sheets, and cabinets that have seen better days.

But it's dry and defensible, which makes it a palace in this world.

Daryl moves to the kitchen area, opening cabinets with practiced efficiency. Most are empty, but his grunt of surprise draws your attention.

"Tch," he scoffs, pulling out a mason jar filled with clear liquid.

Then another.

And another.

"What is it?" you ask, standing and moving closer. The jars look innocuous enough, but there's something about Daryl's expression—part amusement, part resignation—that makes you curious.

"Shine," he says, holding up one of the jars to examine it in the firelight. "Homemade hooch. Whoever lived here knew what they were doing."

You tilt your head, unfamiliar with the term. "Shine?"

Daryl glances at you, something almost like a smile ghosting across his features. It's the first time you've seen anything approaching humor from him since the Claimers.

"Right, you ain't from 'round here. It's... alcohol. Real strong stuff too."

"Oh." You eye the jar with newfound wariness. "Is it safe to drink?"

"Depends on who made it," Daryl says, unscrewing the lid and taking a cautious sniff. His eyebrows rise slightly. "Smells clean enough. No methanol stink." He looks at you, something unreadable in his blue eyes.

You consider this. The past few days have been a waking nightmare of close calls and sleepless nights. The thought of something to quiet the constant anxiety thrumming through your veins is kind of tempting.

Daryl takes a small sip from the jar. He winces slightly but doesn't cough. "It's good stuff. Strong, but clean." He passes the jar to you. "Go easy, ain't your fancy ass wine."

You accept the jar with both hands, the glass cool against your palms. The liquid inside is crystal clear, deceptively innocent looking.

You take a tentative sip.

The burn hits immediately, starting at your lips and blazing a trail down your throat to your stomach.

You gasp, and splutter eyes watering, nearly dropping the jar as you fight not to cough to much.

"Fuckin hell," you wheeze, handing it back to Daryl quickly.

He actually chuckles—a real laugh, rusty from disuse but genuine. "Told you it was strong. Here." He moves to the fireplace, settling down on the dusty rug in front of it. "Sit 'fore ya land on yer arse."

You join him, maintaining a careful distance now that your alone again.

But still close enough to share warmth and whispered conversations, far enough to avoid the complications that come with proximity.

Daryl takes another drink, longer this time, before passing it back. "Little sips," he advises. "Let it sit on your tongue first."

This time, you're prepared. The moonshine still burns, but it's manageable.

More importantly, you can feel it working—a warm looseness spreading through your limbs, the constant tension in your shoulders beginning to ease.

"Better," you murmur, passing the jar back.

"My old man used to make stuff like this," Daryl says after taking another drink.

His voice is quieter now, more reflective. "Had a still out back. Sold most of it, but kept the good batches for himself."

You sense there's more to that story, none of it good.

Daryl doesn't talk about his father often, but when he does, it's always with a mix of resentment and resignation that makes your chest ache.

"Is that how you learned to tell if it's safe?" you ask gently.

"Among other things." His jaw tightens slightly. "Learned real quick to tell the difference between regular drunk and methanol poisoning drunk."

The implication hangs in the air between you—a childhood spent navigating the moods and dangers of an abusive and alcoholic parent. You want to reach out, to offer comfort, but you're not sure how.

Physical affection has always been complicated with Daryl, something you both dance around without ever addressing directly, even after the closeness around the claimers.

Instead, you accept the jar when he passes it again, taking another small sip. The burn is becoming familiar now, almost pleasant. The firelight seems warmer, the sound of rain more soothing than threatening.

"This isn't so bad," you admit, settling back against the wall. The moonshine is working its way through your system, loosening tongues and lowering inhibitions.

"Yeah," Daryl agrees, his own posture relaxing as he leans against the stone hearth. "Been a while since we could just... sit."

The observation is accurate. Between the prison, Woodbury, the Governor, the Claimers—it feels like months since you've had a moment of relative peace. No immediate threats, no life-or-death decisions to make.

Just you, Daryl and the sound of rain on the roof.

"I missed this," you say quietly, then immediately wonder if you've said too much. The moonshine is making you honest in ways that might be dangerous.

"Missed what?" Daryl's voice is careful, but his eyes move to your face.

"This. Just... talking without everything falling apart around us."

Something shifts in Daryl's expression—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. He takes another drink, longer this time, before responding.

"Yeah," he says simply. "Me too."

The admission surprises you both. Daryl isn't one for emotional revelations, especially not about feelings. But the moonshine and the relative safety of the cabin seem to be working on him the same way they're working on you.

You watch as he tips his head back, throat working as he swallows a much larger pull than you dared.

A drop escapes the corner of his mouth, trailing down his jaw before he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

"Should probably conserve it," you say.

Daryl grunts in acknowledgment, setting the jar on a rickety table with enough force to disturb the dust.

The confined space makes him seem larger somehow, filling the room with his presence in a way that makes it hard to breathe.

"Got some dry clothes in my pack," he finally says, not quite meeting your eyes. "Might be big on you, but they're clean. Ish."

You nod, grateful. Your own clothes are soaked through from the rain. "Thanks. I'll just..." You gesture vaguely toward the back of the room, seeking at least a semblance of privacy to change in.

Daryl's eyes follow your movement, then quickly dart away. "Yeah. I'll, uh, keep watch or somethin'."

Daryl's fingers drum against his thigh as he stands by the window, deliberately focusing on the rain-soaked yard rather than the sounds of you changing. He takes another pull from the mason jar, welcoming the burn that follows.

Being alone with you is different than being with you among the Claimers. There, touching you had been necessary—a clear signal to the others that you were off-limits.

Here, there's no excuse. No reason for his hands to find your waist, your shoulder, your hair. No justification for the closeness he's grown accustomed to over the past few days.

He takes another drink, longer this time, almost hoping the alcohol will dull the awareness that's been building inside him since the prison fell.

Since before that, if he's honest with himself. Since that day at Hershel's farm when you'd asked "Parent or partner?" and seen through his walls like they were made of glass.

Good lord, he'd been such an asshole to you then. Lashing out because you'd seen too much, known too much. Because you'd recognized the marks his old man left on him—not the physical scars, you haven't seen those, but the deeper ones that never quite healed right.

And still, you'd stayed. When he retreated into silence, you waited him out with a patience he didn't deserve.

The sound of your footsteps pulls him from his thoughts. He turns to find you wearing his spare shirt, the fabric hanging down to mid-thigh over your still-damp jeans. Something stirs in him at the sight of you in his clothes, and he quickly drowns it with another swallow of moonshine.

"Better?" he asks, voice rougher than he intended.

You nod, offering a small smile that does nothing to calm the riot in his chest. "Much. Thanks."

An awkward silence falls between you, filled only by the persistent drumming of rain on the roof. Daryl shifts his weight from one foot to the other, acutely conscious of the space between you—too much and not enough all at once.

"Should eat somethin'," he finally says, reaching for his pack. "Got some jerky left. Not much, but it's protein."

He watches as you settle cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, looking far more composed than he feels. He joins you, careful to leave enough space between you—but not too much. The routine of sharing food is familiar, at least. Safe.

"We heading back to the tracks tomorrow?" you ask between bites. "Try to find the others?"

Daryl nods, passing the jar to you again. "If the rain lets up. They'd have followed the signs to that Terminus place like we are."

You take a small sip this time, and he tries not to stare at the way your lips press against the glass where his had been moments before. "You think it's real? This sanctuary?"

"Don't know," he admits. "Hope so. For Glen's sake. For Maggie. For all of 'em."

"For us," you add quietly.

Something warm unfurls in his chest at the word—us. Like you and him are a unit, a pair, something solid in this shifting world. He takes another drink to hide whatever might be showing on his face.

The hours pass in conversation that grows easier with each passing sip from the jar. You talk about the others—speculating on who made it out, where they might be. You talk about the prison, about the life you'd built there.

You carefully avoid talking about what happened with the Governor, about the losses still too fresh to examine.

Daryl feels the moonshine working its way through his system, not enough to make him drunk but enough to loosen something inside him. The knot of tension that's lived between his shoulder blades since the prison fell gradually unwinds. He finds himself sitting closer to you than he started, the distance between you shrinking with each shared memory, each rare laugh.

It's dark now, the only light coming from a candle stub you found in one of the drawers. The rain continues unabated, drumming a soothing rhythm that makes the shack feel oddly cozy despite its dilapidation.

"Cold?" he asks when he notices you rubbing your arms.

"A little," you admit. "My clothes are still damp."

"C'mere," he says before he can think better of it, lifting his arm in invitation.

You hesitate, just long enough for doubt to creep in. But then you're moving, sliding into the space beside him, fitting against his side like you belong there. And maybe you do. The thought sends a jolt of panic through him, immediately followed by something dangerously close to hope.

"It's like with the Claimers" you chuckle, your voice soft but carrying a question he can't quite decipher.

Daryl swallows hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Nah," he says, the word barely audible over the rain. "Different."

Your body tenses slightly against his, and he immediately fears he's said the wrong thing, crossed some invisible line. But then you relax, settling more firmly against him, your head finding the hollow of his shoulder.

"A good kind of different?" you venture.

His arm tightens around you reflexively. "Yeah," he breathes, surprising himself with the admission. The moonshine has loosened his tongue, but not enough to blame the honesty on alcohol. "Yeah, good different."

Silence falls again, but comfortable this time, wrapped around like a familiar blanket. Daryl's thoughts wander, encouraged by the warmth of your body against his and the gentle haze of moonshine in his veins.

Merle's voice, unbidden, rises from memory, "Women like confidence, baby brother. Gotta show 'em who's boss. Take charge."

He'd been high when he said it, sprawled across their dad's ratty couch with a joint between his fingers, dispensing what he considered wisdom to a teenaged Daryl who'd never even kissed a girl.

Daryl sat with the half-empty jar of moonshine dangling from his fingers. His crossbow leaned beside him like a sleeping dog. He stared into the amber glow of the fire, but his eyes weren’t seeing the flames anymore.

They were somewhere else entirely.

His father’s voice cut through the silence like a knife—gravel in his ear, soaked in whiskey, full of contempt.

“Ain’t no girl ever gonna want you, Look at you—little runt, can’t even talk right.”

Daryl blinked hard, his throat tightening. He took another swig of the shine. It bit down, rough as sandpaper. He welcomed the sting.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with lettin’ a man learn on someone who gets paid for it,”

Merle had once said, laughing with that wheezing, drug-hazed voice.

“Hell, I did you a favor. She was clean. Mostly.”

Daryl remembered that night in brutal flashes—Merle shoving a girl toward him like she was a slab of meat. She had candy-red lips and a fake laugh.

Her eyes were empty. She called him “baby” in a syrupy voice and took off her top before he could even say a word.

“Just lay there, sugar,” she’d purred. “I’ll do all the work.”

He hadn’t even known what to do with his hands. The shame still burned—deep and black.

He barely remembered what happened after that.

He’d been drunk.

Stoned.

She didn't even ask his name.

Merle was outside the door laughing with some other guy, talking about how Daryl was finally “becomin’ a man.”

“She said you was quiet,” Merle had teased. “Bet you didn’t even take your damn shirt off.”

And now, sitting in this cabin—with you—he couldn’t shake that feeling. The heat in his gut wasn’t from the moonshine anymore. It was from memory. From disgust. From a part of himself that hated how he noticed the way his shirt slipped off your shoulder when you'd turned slightly.

He slammed the jar down beside his foot.

Don’t look at her like that.

But his eyes disobeyed him. They trailed to where you sat, while you looked into the fire warming your hands—curled towards the flames, trusting him to keep watch. To protect you.

His stomach twisted.

He could still hear the low groans, the sick moans from those nights in rundown rooms—women who didn’t care if he touched them or not, women Merle paid for or didn’t, women who whispered filthy things to make him feel like a man, even when he hated every damn second of it.

“You liked it, didn’t you? Pretendin’ you was worth somethin’. Bein’ inside a woman.”

Daryl wanted to curl in on himself, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing his hands into his eyes until colors bloomed behind his lids. His breathing grew ragged.

He looked at you again.

He hated that the thought even flickered in his head. The warmth of the fire. The burn of alcohol. The feel of you nearby.

Another memory surfaces—fumbling in the back of someone's pickup after a party, too drunk to remember her name the next day, too high to care that she'd laughed when he'd slid into her.

"You're doin' it all wrong, Dixon" she'd said between breathes, though she hadn't bothered to show him right, laughed and picked up her clothes as soon as the deed was done.

Those had been his guides to women—Merle's crude instructions and his own limited, hazy and humiliating experiences.

Nothing that prepared him for—

For the way you see through his bullshit without judgment.

For the way you make him want things he's never allowed himself to want before.

You were real.

Kind.

Soft in ways he didn’t understand.

You laughed at his jokes sometimes.

You didn’t flinch when he got angry.

You didn’t look through him the way others had.

And now you were here. With him. Trusting him not to cross that line. Not to be like Merle. Like his old man.

The sky outside the cabin’s cracked window was a dark indigo, stars paling as morning crept close. The fire had burned down to its softest embers, just enough to cast a dull orange glow that flickered against the worn wooden walls. The silence was heavy—not threatening, but dense, like the air before a storm.

You'd fallen asleep long ago but now stirred in the threadbare blankets, pulled from sleep by a faint noise.

Muttering.

Not loud enough to make out at first—just the low, rough scrape of a man’s voice, talking to no one. You blinked, turning over, blanket falling away from your shoulder as your eyes adjusted to the dark.

Daryl sat by the hearth, legs crossed, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low. The half-empty jar of moonshine dangled in one hand, catching glints of light with each movement. His voice was barely audible.

“...don’t mean nothin’. J'drunk. Just drunk, man, get over it…”

A pause.

“She don’t look at ya like that. M'stupid. She’s just bein’ nice.”

He sniffed hard, like he was fighting something. A sigh scraped from his chest.

You sat up slowly, not wanting to startle him. Your feet whispered across the floorboards as you approached. His head lifted, shoulders flinching like he’d been caught in something shameful.

He didn’t look at you—just stared into the fire like it held answers he’d been chasing for years.

Without a word, you crouched beside him and gently slid the jar from his hand. He let it go too easily.

"You okay?” you asked, voice soft as breath. “You’re cold.”

He huffed through his nose. “Ain’t cold.”

But you could see it—his fingers, raw around the knuckles, twitching a little from the chill. The tremor in his arms. The stubborn clench of his jaw.

You stood, retrieved your blanket, and returned with it. You didn’t ask permission—just draped it gently over his shoulders, like you might spook a skittish deer. Then you sat across from him, took his hands in yours.

He froze.

Your palms pressed against his—smaller, softer. You rubbed gently, slow circles along his fingers and the back of his hands. His skin was rough and chilled, calloused from years of bowstring and blade, but underneath all that? Warmth. Bone-deep. Just buried.

“Your hands are shaking,” you whispered.

He swallowed, throat bobbing. Didn’t meet your eyes. Didn’t pull away, either.

“Didn’t mean t’wake ya,” he muttered. “Was just… thinkin’. Talkin’ t’myself, I guess.”

“I don’t mind.”

Your thumbs traced over his knuckles.

“You were being hard on yourself.”

Daryl gave a low grunt of agreement, jaw tightening. Then finally, he looked at you—just a flicker of blue in the firelight, wary and full of something raw.

“Ain’t used t’someone... carin’.”

A shrug.

“Most folks just figured I’d drink myself stupid. Merle... he’d let me.”

“Lucky im not him,” you said.

His mouth parted slightly like he wanted to say something—but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he stared at where your hands held his, like it was the first time he’d ever seen gentleness up close.

After a long beat, his fingers curled slowly—tentatively—around yours. Like maybe if he touched back, you’d vanish.

Like maybe he didn’t deserve it, but he wanted it anyway.

“Y’know I don’t talk much,” he said roughly. “Ain’t ‘cause I don’t wanna. Just… don’t know how sometimes.”

You gave a small smile.

“That’s okay. I like the way you are.”

Another silence fell—but this one was different. Warm. Full. He didn’t say anything else. Just held your hands a little tighter, the firelight flickering between you both.

The fire had dwindled further, nothing but faint-glowing embers cracking quietly in the hearth.

Daryl sat back against the wall now, his eyes still distant, a little red around the edges from exhaustion, from memories he couldn’t name. The half-empty moonshine jar sat sealed beside the fire. Silent. Undisturbed.

You shifted closer on the worn floorboards, drawing your own blanket tighter around your shoulders as you looked at him with a softness he didn’t know what to do with.

“You wanna try gettin’ some sleep?” you asked gently, brushing your hair behind your ear. “We don’t have to go anywhere just yet.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just scratched at the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the boarded door like he was waiting for the world to crash through it.

“Could do with a bit more myself,” you added, almost bashfully. “Could curl up for a few more hours before we get movin’.”

You rose to your feet and started quietly arranging the blankets—layering yours beside his, using a folded flannel shirt for a pillow. Your movements were practiced but quiet, almost reverent.

Like you were building a nest, a safe little corner of the world that didn’t expect anything but rest.

“I can check the windows again if that helps you relax,” you offered, already glancing toward them.

“Nah,” Daryl mumbled, eyes down. “You already checked. I saw ya.”

His voice was low and rasped. But there was something in it—trust. Small, but there.

You sat back down beside him, wrapping your arms around your knees for a moment before speaking again.

“I know this is silly,” you said softly, eyes on the blankets. “But… if you wanted to cuddle up for a bit. I mean, it’s just body heat, right?”

You glanced at him, expression open, honest.

Daryl blinked. Visibly froze.

His body didn’t shift, but his mind clearly did—he was staring at the floor in front of you both like it had just said something offensive. He shifted his weight, pulled the blanket tighter, one hand twitching at the hem.

“Just until we warm up,” you said, barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to.”

There was a long beat of silence. The fire popped quietly. Somewhere outside, a distant branch cracked under the weight of wind.

Then—finally—he exhaled.

“I ain’t… good at that kinda thing,” he admitted, voice gruff with vulnerability. “Ain’t never really… done it like that. Not without…”

He trailed off. You knew what he meant. Not without pressure. Not without expectations. Not without the things men like Merle thought made you “a man.”

“I just mean comfort, thats all,” you replied quietly.

That—that—was what did it. His shoulder sagged slightly. Not in defeat, but like he was letting something go. Something heavy.

“Alright,” he muttered, barely audible. “Just for a bit.”

You lay down first, facing the fire, and gave him space to settle behind you. The floor creaked faintly under his weight. You felt the shift in the blanket as he settled in slow—uncertain, like someone handling glass.

You lay beside him—on your side, facing him.

He was on his back at first, one arm over his stomach, eyes fixed on the ceiling. But after a few seconds, he rolled slightly—toward you. Not fully. Just enough that he wasn’t turning away.

You reached out, slow, brushing your fingers lightly against his wrist. He didn’t flinch. You scooted a little closer. Close enough to feel the warmth off his chest.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely more than breath. “For looking out for me.”

His gaze shifted—down toward your hand on his arm, then up to your face. Still guarded. Still unreadable. But his throat worked in a swallow.

You leaned in just a little more—heart thudding in your chest—and pressed a featherlight kiss to his cheek.

It was soft. Just... gentle. Kind.

His jaw twitched. You pulled back, still watching him.

“You’re a good man, Daryl,” you said, barely audible. “I know you don’t see it. But I do.”

His breath hitched—barely, but you heard it. His eyes flicked away fast, like he couldn’t hold your gaze any longer without cracking open.

He didn’t speak.

Then, his arm draped over your waist—not tight, not possessive. Just there. His chest against your back, breathing slow and unsure.

His fingers twitched once against your side before settling.

“This okay?” he asked, voice right near your ear, thick with nerves.

You smiled softly, your hand brushing his arm.

“Mmm.” You hummed in response.

He didn’t respond. But his breathing evened out. His forehead dipped just slightly to rest near your head. And after a while, his hand shifted—not gripping, but holding.

[archivegyu]

masterlist

The Winner Takes It All

The cold seeped into her skin as she tightened the laces on her skates, her movements sharp and methodical. Her fingers trembled, not from the chill, but from the pressure building inside her. Years of work narrowed into this one moment—the culmination of countless early mornings, bruised knees, and solitary practice sessions.

Final performance. Final chance.

She took a deep breath, the frozen air filling her lungs and momentarily centering her scattered thoughts. The pre-competition jitters had evolved into something more profound—a heavy weight of expectation that pressed down on her shoulders. Not just from her coach or family, but from herself. The familiar tightness gripped her chest, threatening to steal her breath away.

"Two minutes" a volunteer called, clipboard clutched to their chest.

She nodded, stretching along the rink's edge, blocking out the noise of the arena—the distant cheers, the calls of the announcer, the scrape of blades against ice. She ran through her routine in her mind like clockwork, clinging to the safety of precision. No room for doubt. No room for error.

A person by the stands pulled her out of her focus.

Standing alone at the edge of the barrier, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, was Kwon Soonyoung. His hair was messy from the cold wind, cheeks slightly flushed, and a familiar easy grin played on his lips — the kind that made it feel like everything might actually be okay. He wasn’t waving a banner or shouting like the others; he just stood there, steady and bright, as if his being there was enough to fill the whole arena.

Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, voice carrying easily across the noise, “You’re ready. Go show them.”

Her chest tightened—but this time, it wasn't from nerves.

Of course Soonyoung would be here. He always was. Ever since high school, he'd shown up for every moment that mattered, sometimes with flowers, sometimes with bad jokes, always with that unwavering belief in her she couldn't understand but had come to rely on.

The memory of yesterday afternoon flooded back to her, warming her despite the chill of the rink.

ᥫ᭡

24 hours earlier

"Passport?"

"Check."

"Competition registration confirmation?"

"Check."

"Lucky socks?"

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling. "Yes, Soonyoung. The lucky socks are packed."

Soonyoung sat cross-legged on her bed, a detailed packing list balanced on his knee as he meticulously checked off each item. His dark hair fell across his forehead as he concentrated, the tip of his tongue poking out slightly—a habit she'd found endearing since they were teenagers.

"I've packed for competitions before, you know" she said, carefully folding her competition outfit and placing it in her suitcase. The crystals on the costume caught the afternoon light, sending prisms dancing across her apartment walls.

"I know" he said, not looking up from his list. "But this is finals. Everything has to be perfect."

The genuine concern in his voice made her pause. Soonyoung had always been her most dedicated supporter, but there was something different about him today—a nervous energy that matched her own.

"You don't have to worry so much" she said softly. "I've got this."

He finally looked up, his eyes serious beneath his playful exterior. "I'm not worried. I know you're going to win. I just want to make sure nothing gets in your way."

A sudden scratching sound at the bedroom door interrupted them, followed by an insistent whine. Soonyoung's face immediately brightened.

"Sounds like someone's feeling left out" he laughed, jumping up to open the door.

A small, wiry Norwich Terrier burst into the room, her caramel-colored fur bristling with excitement. Kwon Latte, Soonyoung's pride and joy, made a beeline for the open suitcase and promptly plopped herself on top of the carefully folded clothes.

"Latte!" she gasped, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "Get out of there!"

Soonyoung scooped up the little dog, who wiggled happily in his arms. "She’s just trying to help" he defended, as Latte licked his chin enthusiastically. "Maybe he wants to come to the finals too."

"I'm pretty sure dogs aren't allowed at the Olympic qualifying rounds" she said, carefully removing dog hair from her competition outfit.

"Her loss" Soonyoung shrugged, settling Latte on the bed beside him. The tiny dog immediately curled up against his thigh, watching them both with attentive dark eyes. "She could've been your good luck charm."

"I thought the socks were my good luck charm?"

"A skater can never have too many good luck charms" Soonyoung declared with mock seriousness, scratching behind Latte's ears. The dog's eyes closed in contentment, his tiny pink tongue lolling out.

She returned to her packing, methodically arranging everything to maximize space. From the corner of her eye, she could see Soonyoung whispering to Latte, the dog's ears perking up as if he understood every word. It was these small, ordinary moments that always calmed her pre-competition anxiety—Soonyoung's steady presence, his unwavering belief, even his ridiculous conversations with his dog.

"What are you telling her?" she asked, zipping up a compartment of her suitcase.

Soonyoung looked up with a mischievous smile. "Just that her favorite human is about to become a champion, and she needs to prepare for all the celebration parties."

"Her favorite human, huh?" she teased, though something warm bloomed in her chest.

"After me, of course" Soonyoung clarified, but his eyes softened as they met hers. "Though it's a close competition."

Latte chose that moment to jump down from the bed and trot over to her, her tiny paws making little sound on the hardwood floor. She sat at her feet, looking up with an expectant gaze that was remarkably similar to her owner's.

"See? She agrees" Soonyoung said triumphantly.

She bent down to pick up the small dog, who immediately snuggled against her chest. "Is that so, Latte? Am I really your second favorite?"

Latte responded by licking her chin once, her tail wagging so hard her whole body wiggled.

"That means yes in dog language" Soonyoung translated solemnly.

She laughed, the sound filling the small apartment and momentarily pushing away the anxiety that had been building for weeks. This was what Soonyoung did best—made the world seem lighter, even with everything at stake.

"You know" she said, sitting on the edge of the bed with Latte still cradled in her arms, "I'm actually terrified."

Soonyoung's playful expression softened. He moved closer, the mattress dipping under his weight. "I'd be worried if you weren't" he admitted. "But being afraid doesn't mean you're not ready."

"What if I'm not good enough?" The question that had haunted her for months finally escaped, hanging in the air between them.

Without hesitation, Soonyoung reached out to take her free hand, his fingers warm and steady around hers. "You've always been good enough" he said simply. "But tomorrow, you're going to be extraordinary."

Latte, sensing the shift in mood, nudged her head under her chin, her wiry fur tickling her neck. It was as if even the little dog was offering reassurance in her own way.

"You two are ridiculous" she murmured, but the tightness in her chest had eased slightly.

"That's why you love us" Soonyoung grinned, squeezing her hand once before releasing it to return to the packing list. "Now, where were we? Competition makeup?"

"Check."

"Backup music CD?"

"Check."

"Unconditional support from your biggest fan and his extremely adorable dog?"

She looked at him—really looked at him—his familiar features illuminated by the late afternoon sunlight streaming through her window, Latte now settled contentedly between them on the bed. Something shifted in her chest, a recognition of what had been there all along.

"Check" she said softly.

ᥫ᭡

The memory faded as the announcer's voice came over the speakers, calling her name. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she waited at the edge of the rink. She gave a small nod in Soonyoung's direction—all she could manage without losing the tight hold she had on herself—and stepped onto the ice.

The lights dimmed. The music rose, low and powerful.

And she moved.

Each push of her blades against the ice sent a thrill through her body—the perfect balance of power and grace she'd worked years to master. The crowd faded to a distant murmur as she surrendered to the rhythm, her body translating emotion into motion with a fluidity that felt almost effortless.

The first jump approached—a triple axel that had been her nemesis for months. She gathered speed, the world blurring around her as she launched herself into the air. For a breathless moment, she was suspended above the ice, rotating with perfect control before landing with a satisfying crunch of blade against surface.

Clean. Precise. Perfect.

Each element flowed into the next as if choreographed by something beyond herself. The step sequence that had once felt mechanical now seemed to pour from some deep, untapped well within her. She wasn't just performing; she was telling a story with every movement, every expression.

As she hit her first major combination, she caught a glimpse of him through the blur of movement—Soonyoung, fists in the air, face shining with pure pride. Not watching with the critical eye of a coach or the nervous energy of a parent, but with undiluted joy, as if her success was his own.

Something cracked inside her.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn't skating to prove something. She wasn't skating for scores or medals or validation. She was skating because she loved it—because the ice had always been the place where she felt most alive, most herself.

The freedom of that realization propelled her through the second half of her program with renewed energy. The technical elements that had once filled her with dread now felt like expressions of joy—each spin faster, each jump higher, each landing more secure.

The final note echoed through the arena as she landed her last jump, sliding into her finishing pose—arms extended, head thrown back, chest heaving with exertion. A sharp silence fell before the crowd erupted, the sound roaring in her ears like ocean waves.

Flowers rained down on the ice as she took her bows, her legs trembling beneath her. The adrenaline that had carried her through was beginning to end, leaving a curious lightness in its wake. She gathered a small bouquet of roses, cradling them against her chest as she skated to the exit.

She barely remembered how she got off the ice, legs trembling, adrenaline surging—and then Soonyoung was there, pushing past coaches and officials, pulling her into a tight hug before she could even think.

"You did it" he said, voice rough with excitement. "I knew you would."

She laughed, breathless, hiding her face in his shoulder for a moment. "You're too loud" she muttered against him, but her arms tightened around his waist.

"Someone has to be” he said easily, pulling back just enough to look at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Do you have any idea how amazing that was? You were flying out there."

Before she could respond, her coach appeared, face stern but eyes bright with satisfaction. "Scores are coming in. We need to get to the kiss and cry."

The next few minutes passed in a haze of activity—sitting in the designated area, cameras trained on her face, the nervous twist of her hands as she waited. Soonyoung hovered nearby, bouncing on his toes with barely contained energy.

When the announcement came, the numbers flashing on the screen above the rink, time seemed to stop. A new personal best. First place. Her name at the top of the leaderboard, with only one skater left to perform.

Her coach gripped her shoulder, a rare display of emotion breaking through his professional demeanor. "No matter what happens with the last skater, you've earned this," he said, voice gruff with pride.

The final competitor took the ice—a Russian skater with a reputation for technical precision and nerves of steel. She watched, breath held, as the young woman delivered a flawless program, each element executed with mechanical perfection.

The wait for the final scores stretched into an eternity, the entire arena holding its breath.

And then, the announcement that changed everything: second place. By less than a point.

Moments later, her name was announced—champion. Winner.

The arena seemed to spin around her, but somehow, Soonyoung was the one thing that stayed steady. He appeared at her side as if by magic, his face split with a grin so wide it must have hurt.

"I told you" he shouted over the crowd's roar, not even trying to contain his excitement. "I told you!"

What followed was a whirlwind of medal ceremonies, interviews, and congratulations. Coaches, officials, and other solo skaters all wanted a moment of her time, their words blending together in a symphony of praise she wasn't quite ready to absorb.

Through it all, she kept finding Soonyoung in the crowd, his presence anchoring her as the reality of her accomplishment began to sink in. He stood back, giving her space for her moment, but always there—a constant in the chaos.

Hours later, when the congratulations had died down and the crowd thinned out, he found her again, his hands stuffed awkwardly into the pockets of his jacket. She was sitting alone on a bench in the nearly deserted arena, still in her competition outfit, the gold medal heavy around her neck.

"Hey, champion" he said softly, dropping down beside her. "How does it feel?"

She looked down at the medal, running her finger over the engraved surface. "Surreal" she admitted. "Like it happened to someone else."

"Well, I watched the whole thing, and it was definitely you out there" Soonyoung bumped his shoulder gently against hers. "The same you who used to practice in that tiny local rink until your feet bled."

"The same me who fell on her first single axel and cried for an hour" she added with a small smile.

"The same you who got back up and tried again" he corrected, his voice warm with something more than friendship. "That's why you won today. Not just because you're talented—though you absolutely are—but because you never quit, even when it would have been easier."

She turned to look at him, really look at him. The familiar lines of his face, the eyes that had watched her grow from an awkward teenager with big dreams to the athlete she'd become. He'd been there for all of it, cheering louder than anyone, believing harder than anyone.

"You know" he said casually, nudging her lightly with his elbow, "I was thinking… We should celebrate. Just us. Somewhere you don't have to pretend to be perfect."

His voice was light, but his eyes told her it wasn't just a friendly offer. There was a question there, one that had been unasked for years, hovering in the spaces between them.

She thought about the packing session in her apartment, about all the competitions he'd attended, about the way he'd always looked at her as if she was already a champion, even when she was struggling. She thought about Latte, who had somehow become part of her life too, about movie nights and late-night practice sessions and Soonyoung's unwavering presence through it all.

A small smile tugged at her lips.

"Yeah" she said quietly. "I'd like that."

His face brightened, a slow sunrise of hope. "Really?"

"Really" she confirmed, reaching out to take his hand. His fingers instantly interlaced with hers, warm and familiar. "On one condition."

"Name it" he said immediately.

"Latte comes too." She squeezed his hand, feeling suddenly shy despite everything they'd been through together. "I kind of miss her."

Soonyoung laughed, the sound echoing in the empty arena. "Deal. She's been sulking since I left anyway. Probably rearranged all my furniture by now."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, hands still linked, the weight of the day settling around them like soft snow.

"You know" Soonyoung said finally, his voice quiet but steady, "I've been waiting a long time for you to be ready."

She turned to face him fully, the medal clinking gently against her chest. "Ready for what?"

"For us" he said simply. "For whatever comes next."

The directness of his words, the honesty in his eyes, took her breath away more effectively than any triple axel. She had always known, somewhere deep down, that Soonyoung's feelings ran deeper than friendship. But hearing it now, in this moment of triumph and vulnerability, made it impossible to ignore.

"I'm ready" she whispered, the words falling like a promise between them.

Soonyoung's smile was slow and sure, like he'd waited his whole life to hear those words. Without hesitation, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently against hers. "Good" he murmured. "Because I've been ready since the day we met."

In that moment, with the gold medal around her neck and Soonyoung's hand in hers, she realized that some victories weren't measured in points or marked by ceremonies. Some were quieter, deeper—the kind that changed everything without anyone else noticing.

She had won more than just a competition today.

ᥫ᭡

One Week Later

The key turned in the lock with a familiar click as she pushed open the door to her apartment. The smell of home welcomed her—slightly dusty after a week away, but comforting nonetheless.

"Hello?" she called, dropping her bags by the door.

A scrabbling of tiny paws against hardwood answered her, followed by an excited bark. Moments later, Latte rounded the corner at top speed, her caramel fur a blur as she launched herself toward her.

"There's my champion's welcome" she laughed, scooping up the tiny dog, who wiggled with uncontained joy, licking every inch of her face she could reach.

"She insisted on being the first to greet you" Soonyoung's voice came from the kitchen, followed by the man himself, dish towel slung over his shoulder. "I would've beaten her to it, but someone needed to make sure the victory cake didn't burn."

"Victory cake?" she repeated, Latte still cradled in her arms as she kicked off her shoes and padded toward the kitchen.

Soonyoung grinned, gesturing proudly to a slightly lopsided cake on the counter, decorated with wobbly blue icing that spelled out 'CHAMPION' in uneven letters. "Baking isn't exactly my strong suit" he admitted, "but the thought counts, right?"

The sight of him standing in her kitchen, flour dusting his shirt, that hopeful expression on his face—it filled her with a warmth that had nothing to do with competitions or medals.

"It's perfect" she said, meaning it completely.

Soonyoung's face lit up, and he crossed the room to place a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Welcome home" he murmured against her skin.

Latte barked her agreement, tail wagging so hard her whole body shook.

"It's good to be back" she said, looking between the man and his dog—both looking at her with identical expressions of adoration. "Though I have to say, I'm not used to coming home to a welcoming committee."

"Better get used to it" Soonyoung said lightly, though his eyes held a question. They hadn't discussed what would happen after their celebration dinner, after that first tentative kiss in the quiet of the night. They had simply enjoyed the moment, neither wanting to pressure the other.

But standing in her apartment, with Latte warm against her chest and Soonyoung looking at her like she was still wearing the gold medal, she knew exactly what she wanted.

"I could" she said softly. "Get used to it, I mean."

Soonyoung's smile was worth every early morning practice, every fall, every moment of doubt. "Good” he said, reaching out to take her free hand. "Because we're not going anywhere."

Later, as they sat on her couch with plates of slightly dry cake, Latte curled contentedly between them, she realized that the pressure that had been her constant companion for so long had faded. In its place was something lighter, brighter—a future full of possibilities that had nothing to do with competitions and everything to do with the man sitting beside her.

"So," Soonyoung said, breaking the comfortable silence, "what's next for the champion?"

She thought about it, absentmindedly stroking Latte's soft fur. "I don't know," she admitted. "For so long, it was all about this one goal. Now that I've reached it..."

"The world is your ice rink" Soonyoung supplied, his eyes twinkling.

She laughed, the sound free and unburdened. "Something like that."

"Well, whatever you decide" he said, his hand finding hers, "I'll be there. We both will." He nodded toward Latte, who had fallen asleep, paws twitching as she chased rabbits in her dreams.

"I'm counting on it" she said, squeezing his hand.

Outside, snow began to fall, soft flakes drifting past her window—nature's own celebration for the champion who had finally found her way home.

[inlovewithgreta]

Into The Woods - Brienne of Tarth x Fem!Reader

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Summary: You finally admit your feelings to your sworn protector.

Warnings: Praise, oral sex (r!receiving), semi-public sex, etc...

Word Count: 1.5k

Taglist: @celasteria @shslbunnylover @weemswife @bellatrixsbrat @finnja555 @pllduniverse @aemilia19 @winterfireblond

© Do not copy, repost, or modify any of my works.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You found yourself shivering. The air was partially crisp, the fire was crackling and canceling out the cold. But neither was the cause.

It was the woman sitting next to you.

Brienne had a stick in one hand poking at the fire while the other rested comfortably on the top of your thigh. You have never felt more at home with someone, and these past few weeks only had you falling harder.

She was strong, beautiful, and courageous. She was your protector. Your savior. How could you not fall for somebody that was so perfect?

"Brienne," you called out to her quietly.

A small hum could be heard in response as her gaze fixated on the crackling fire ahead.

"Everything I thought I knew about people and emotions can't help me describe my reaction to being with you right now." You twiddle your thumbs, finally admitting to what you had been feeling towards the knight.

"Maybe you should stop overthinking then," she simply stated, squeezing your thigh once more before tossing the stick to the side. Her gaze flicked back to you, and your heart stopped.

Her crystal blue eyes were bright from the light of the fire. Flames danced in her orbs as she admired your own beauty. Your nervousness was prominent. And Brienne's heart swelled at your behavior.

It was now or never.

Your eyes fell to her lips as you listened to her words. The small action didn't go unnoticed as Brienne's own lips were on yours in a mere instant, finally breaking the barrier.

They were as soft as you had always imagined. The softness of her lips contrasted the tough bravado she had always carried. And boy, was it welcomed.

Her body interlaced with yours, and you felt yourself immediately melting into her sensual touch.

The sweet taste of the fruity wine she had drank earlier still lingered on her tongue as she welcomed yours, entwining it with her own.

"Help me think less," you pleaded between kisses.

"I can definitely help with that," she husked.

"Oh, is that so?" You quirked a playful brow. "Prove it to me then. Distract me, Brienne."

"Careful what you wish for, Princess." The night flashed a mischievous grin as she let her hands roam across your body.

The chill from the air was long forgotten as warmth spread throughout your body from her touch. She cupped your breasts, bringing your nipples to a hard point through your thin dress.

You bit your lower lip, allowing her hands to cup you so freely. But you still wished to feel her touch against your soft, bare skin.

"Is this working?" She asked, teasing your breasts.

You nodded your head, as Brienne took her time in removing each article of clothing from your body. You were thankful she had blankets, as you leaned back on your hands to allow the knight more room to press a kiss to every inch of revealed skin.

Your panties were all that were left. "Oh..." you hummed, as her lips grazed your nipple.

"Oh?" She tilted her head, "I guess it's not working..." Brienne began to pull away, but with a forceful tug on her shirt, she wasn't able to get far.

"It's working! Please...keep going," you pleaded.

Brienne gently laid you back against the rather thin but soft blanket. Her mischievous smirk was still plastered on her face as she lowered herself.

Her teeth grazed your skin before finding the elastic of your underwear and pulling it back with a snap. You gasped at the sensation. She was being bold.

"Is this okay?" She asked, referring to your underwear.

"Yesss..." you wiggled your hips at the woman.

She slowly slid your underwear off, leaving you completely exposed in front of her. The light from the fire exposed your glistening core as Brienne took in every inch of you.

"I need to see you too.." You admitted, pulling at her top.

In a quick, fluid motion, Brienne nearly ripped her clothes off her body, and tossed them aside. Your gaze couldn't help but burn into her body, looking over each muscle and slope across her milky skin.

Your breath caught in your throat as you drank every inch of her in. She was truly a work of art. Her muscles flexed under your gaze. You internally groaned as you ached for her touch. To have her feel you, while you did the same and roamed her body.

"Tell me, Princess. What are you thinking now?" She asked, quirking a brow with a grin.

Brienne hovered over you, her breasts tickling the top of your own chest, awaiting a response. You could feel your heart beating rapidly, and you were sure Brienne could feel the same with how close she was.

"Brienne..." you whined.

Brienne tsked, shaking her head. "Answer me. What are you thinking in that beautiful head of yours right now?"

"You, Brienne." The heat of her body was making you sweat, but her hard gaze was making you shiver. "Only you..."

Happy with your answer, Brienne closed the distance. She rewarded you with a long, sweet, but commanding kiss. Her tongue was quick to dance with yours, easily winning the fight for domination.

"Good," she husked against your lips. Brienne closed the distance once again, cupping your cheeks with her calloused hands as her lips met yours in a deep, lingering kiss.

You felt as if you were on a cloud, but the ground beneath you was hard as Brienne laid you down fully on your back to straddle your smaller body.

The scent of flowers and woods invaded your senses as the two of you laid together. Brienne propped herself above you, hands landing next to your head as she took in the sight of your naked body beneath her.

"You're so beautiful." Brienne dragged a finger from your plump bottom lip, down your abdomen, to the curve of your inner thigh. She was close, daringly close. But it wasn't close enough for your liking.

You wiggled beneath her, visibly growing impatient to her daring touches. "You're just teasing me now, Brienne... please," you whined.

"No, Princess..." She hovered her lips dangerously close to yours before pulling away. "This is teasing.." Her lips followed the same trail of her finger, placing loving kisses down your body before reaching your hips.

She kissed the curve, before working her way inwards. Brienne hovered just above your cunt, taking in your soaked exterior. You could feel the ghost of her breath tickling your skin.

Growing impatient with her teasing, you cupped the back of her head. Your legs opened wider for her as you propped your legs over her shoulders to completely open yourself to the knight.

Brienne groaned at the first taste of you. You gasped as her tongue trailed along every ridge and valley. Your knight lapped against your core in thrilling, skillful circular patterns.

She hummed as she sat between your legs, and your back arched far off the blanket. Your fingers dug into her short, blonde hair as her tongue worked hard to please you.

It was easy for her to glide across your core, dipping down to play with your hole, before going back up again to your clit. She was memorizing your pussy like a map. Taking in every moan and sharp gasp as she ate you out.

"God's, Brienne!" You clamped your pussy along her tongue as it invaded your seeping, needy hole.

Her tongue then flicked at your button, causing another moan to fall past your lips. Brienne was drinking it all in as you easily became a whimpering mess. She flicked her tongue from side to side, before circling in dizzying motions that had your vision going blurry and had you seeing stars.

You could've come right on the spot after she said your name, looking up at you with her big, blue eyes as she sat between your legs eating your pussy like she was starving.

Brienne sucked on your most sensitive spot, her big, strong hands firmly gripped at your hips to not only hold you still, but to allow herself to bury her head deeper.

You were moaning freely, as the knight sat comfortably into the embrace of your thighs. Your body quivered and jerked from her tongue, completely at her mercy as you hurtled towards your release.

"B-Brienne!" The woman knew just how to please you, expertly alternating between flicking her tongue and sucking on your clit.

You cried out as you came along her tongue, thighs involuntarily squeezing against her head, nearly suffocating the woman. She slowed her movements, allowing you to ride out your high for as long as needed.

Brienne lapped up every bittersweet drop from your orgasm. Her fingers kneaded at your hips to soothe your shaking thighs. You swore you saw stars when Brienne was finally able to squeeze out of your thighs.

"What are you thinking about now, Princess?" She coyly asked, wiping her glistening mouth with the back of her hand.

You were panting heavily, "I—" you could barely muster a word, head shaking as your mouth and brain weren't corresponding with each other.

The knight chuckled deeply, moving herself up your body to be face to face once more with you.

"Well," she smirked. "Doesn't look like you're thinking at all." Her lips were on yours once more, and you couldn't help the next sinful moan that you mumbled into her mouth as you tasted yourself along her tongue.

Her plan had definitely worked.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

general masterlist | gwen masterlist | taglist

[brights-place]

Hello, I’ve been a fan of my inner demons for the longest time. I did not think the fandom was still active anymore.

And it says it’s open so if you don’t mind

Can I request noi x royal! Winged!reader where noi accidentally got separated from his group when travelling through the portal

Reader is heavily inspired by my Minecraft smp sever lore I actually plan to make a book out of it.

The reader is a princess of a huge nation and is solely the air to the throne of bunch of humans and different creatures alike and they use magic

But basically, the reader’s personality is a lot like loulan from the apothecary diaries I don’t know if you know a lot about the apothecary diaries, but it’s the closest character I can find to my server SMP lore

Noi was spared by her and basically ends up breaking down the princesses barriers to the point where she begins to act like her true self and therefore began to court each other

Noi however, does not know how important

When noi finally returns back to his prince. The reader decides to go along with him because she is curious

How do you think the other react to reader plus noi that she is a princess?

I’m not sure if you’re actually gonna do this one, but I kinda had this thought for a while and I am going to be writing it

[M.I.D] Noi x Royal! Winged! Reader Warnings: Hurt and Comfort

A/N: HAVING TO DIVE THROUGH MOST OF MY MY INNER DEMONS REQUESTS THAT I'VE BENE GIVEN THERES SO MANY! IM GRINDING THROUGH THESE WITH ENERGY DRINKS DOWN MY THROAT WOOHOO LETS GET THIS DOWN!

Summary: Noi x royal! Winged!reader where noi accidentally got separated from his group when travelling through the portal

After Noi stumbles through the portal and ends up in the Your kingdom, he’s instantly surrounded by a world unlike his own towering floating spires, winged beings casting spells mid-air, creatures with runes embedded into their scales, and a heavy magical presence in the air. When he’s brought before the mysterious princess, everyone expects swift judgment.

But you saw something in him something pure, uncorrupted, and different from the politics you were steeped in. You couldn't help but spare him, and slowly it turned to something more with Noi. Many quiet conversations, moonlit walks across sky bridges, and awkwardly sweet gestures from Noi (he totally brings you a sparkly rock like it’s a treasure), as you both fall into a slow, tentative courtship.

From others around they noticed how you slowly started to begin to smile more. Laugh, even. The palace staff whisper about how the princess seems... lighter. Like your shedding a mask that you've worn all of your life.

- You find Noi’s energy exhausting at first, but oddly comforting. Most of your life has been spent in controlled, formal environments. Noi’s genuine, impulsive affection feels like fresh air for you - He shows you strange things from the Daemos realm like broken crystals or oddly shaped mushrooms, and you always find a use for them either magically or alchemically - “How did you know this could stabilize levitation spells?” “…I didn’t.”

- Your laugh is rare, like a sudden burst of light. The first time Noi hears it, he freezes, then grins wide. From that moment on, he makes it his mission to make you laugh every day

- You stargaze together Noi flops in the grass, pointing at constellations and making up wild stories - You sit beside him quietly, tracing the real star maps, gently amused. Somehow, it works - He tries to carry you once, forgetting that you have wings. You just lift off the ground next to him, floating effortlessly . “Why walk when I can fly?”

- You’re touch-starved but reserved and Noi slowly breaks down your walls with little gestures: a hand offered, a flower tucked behind your ear, a warm hug when you’re overwhelmed - Over time, you start to reach for him, to get comfort that you craved

- You give Noi a charm, crafted from ancient magic passed down through your bloodline - It protects him from being tracked or corrupted. He doesn’t know what it is just that it glows when he's near you... but so does his horns and smile staring at you with softness in his eyes

- Noi tries to court you with flair, he gives a speech, stumbles over half of it, and nearly drops a magical flower. You simply smile and say, “I accept. But in my kingdom, we court each other equally.”

- You each create a symbolic token. You give him a carved piece of skyglass filled with magic. He gives you a handmade charm bracelet, woven from fibers that shimmer with Daemos crystal dust.

- Noi doesn’t realize how important you are until later. When he finds out you left your kingdom your throne to follow him out of curiosity and affection, he panics a little - “You’re the heir?! Like, THE heir?!” You just shrug, “You saw me as a person first. That’s why I came.”

- Meeting the other Daemos was strange for you as they all had various reactions to you = Asch would rival you as a different kingdom that they could fight until he realized your a princess, and Noi courting you meant that Daemos had a chance of more sources of magic along with places to expand in - Rhys and you are both smart and plan things out slowly eyeing each other before studying with one another within alchemy comparing plants and what they do to one another along with spells - Pierce was silent with you most of the time so whenever you we4re reading he'd be nearby keeping watch when Noi is out with Ava and the others or it's just you two in the same room - Leif tries every way to try hurt you or sneak up plus he nearly tried to nick your wings with his blade but he seemed to have made a mistake because your wings didn't exactly bleed or lose a feather they were strong and able to throw Leif back. So occasionally you block him from trying to jab you - AVA LOVES You for comfort she uses your wings as a blanket when needed and you help listen to her rambles while you do something else smiling softly at the girl who grins at you

[elyslynn]

A Change in Tides (Tim Drake x Male reader) Character info

AN: Happy finals week to anyone taking finals!!, good job and congrats for making it so far, I've had to take a small step back but now I'm ready to write and learn some more lol. This is more of a character info before i finish up the chapter.

⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧

Stellar Anchor is the reader's unique ability, centered entirely around a single soulbound weapon—Celestial’s Edge—a mythic sword forged from a collapsed core star. It appears in bursts of starlight and gravitational distortion and can only be wielded by its summoner. The blade houses a rotating star core, allowing for gravity-based abilities like slashing shockwaves, impact-heavy strikes, and high-pressure cuts.

The sword can orbit its user, creating a gravitational shield or battlefield disruption, and its Starflare Strike channels intense heat and pressure into a radiant slash that burns through barriers and repels foes.

The reader's Solar Veins glow golden-red during heightened emotion, enhancing their strength and precision. They link the reader to the sword, allowing it to be reforged if broken. Overuse results in visible strain—light bleeding, glowing skin, and overheating.

Though powerful, the sword’s strength depends on the user's emotional clarity. It isn’t limitless—more divine instrument than cheat code. The reader makes no other weapons. Just this one: a starborn blade that defines them—graceful, radiant, and overwhelming.

⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧

Origins:

The kingdom of Velorion, born from the remnants of a fallen god, is known as the Kingdom Beneath the Sea of Stars. Nestled in a tranquil ocean trench where constellations shimmer through sapphire waters, Velorion is a kingdom of breathtaking beauty—its cities built from pale crystal, flowing silver reefs, and mirrored stone that reflects the sky even in the deepest dark.

Legend says the star-god Asterion fell here, his dying light absorbed by the sea and woven into the blood of Velorion’s royal line. His fall gave birth to a kingdom touched by the cosmos.

His dying light splintered, seeding the royal bloodline of Velorion, the Crown of the Sailing Stars. To each heir, he leaves a single divine gift, shaped not by duty, but by the soul. 

You are its newest king. young, warm-hearted, and unmistakably divine.

The people of Velorion love you deeply. You are their sun beneath the sea—bright, bold, and sincere. You speak with compassion and confidence, your smile often the first thing to enter a room. You laugh easily, speak truth plainly, and carry yourself like someone who believes in softness without surrender. But there’s more to you than charm—beneath your golden aura lies the quiet gravity of someone born to carry stars.

You wield Celestial’s Edge, a blade forged from Asterion’s broken core. You summon it with a thought, and its glow casts shadows across the ocean floor. It is yours alone to command—a weapon of legacy and power, proof that your bloodline still burns.

The other kingdoms aren't as kind. They call you the God-Touched King, the pretty boy of the deep, a prince playing god. They mock your elegance and brightness, seeing softness where there is control. 

⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧ ଳ ‧₊° ⋅⋅°₊‧

AN: Chapter 1 should be out soon, let me know if you think of any changes or something you would like to see explored in this story. I'm still learning so help or guidance is appreciated.

[bnsni]

HEATED

(prowl.gn.cybertonian.reader)

While rooked into a case he needs to solve, and aside from getting a new partner for, well, reasons — the enforcer is faced with a certain 'predicament' he needs tending.

reader is taller than prowl btw. like, a little bit taller. Or like super tall. I just like the height difference ok. ever since I saw this fanart I just went AWOOGA he's so ndjdjdn his waist damn. I need him submissive. posted this at one am too :D warnings : mild robot gore, and mentions of valve spike. all that stuff.

CHAPTER ONE

UP at the south, Kaon's underground road network hasn't been fairing well these last few solar cyles. The tunnel, swarthed in ink, stretched across from both sides of the labyrinth with each end unseen, fading off into the deep chasm. The only light source now was Swindle's flashlight that lit a soft halo on the ceiling.

The tunnel was extremely obscure under radar. After several Deceptions attempted another revolutionary feat it was then banned of entry. You can barely trace any energon trails entering and leaving the tunnel. Small wonder it was chosen as a hideout — disregarding, of course, the daily patrols now that occured at fixed intervals.

Grimacing, he shifted on his pedes to avoid the murky puddle on his right. The shroud of sulfuric egg, rotten scum and the churn of garbage danced by, and Swindle wouldn't have chosen this place at all if it weren't for the pleasureable sum he's about to be gifted with.

This better be a good deal.

And, on cue, the silhouette of a mech emerged from the shadows, quelling any sense of irritation he had for the late timing. Chastise would be normally an appropriate response. But he figured there'd be no point about huffing now when he's sure this mech's not a force to be reckoned with — and is frame shouldn't be : optics a darkly blue, gold platings a pulsing radiance under the beam of light.

He's a physical embodiment of a shanix-jacked aristocrat. The ones those 'cons' would surely give a good beating to. Him, on the other hand? They're good customers. The best, if any.

"Traffic, eh Senator?" Swindle approaches, servos itching for a good deal. He's already skimming through the many treats he's got under his sleeve.

"Hardly." He grunts with a dismissive wave. "Just some mindless cogs trying to interfere with my work. I ought to establish some policy to prevent them from being this, ugh, trying."

"Believe me, those coppas are as persistent as sparkeaters leechin' off a snuffed mech." He mused.

The mech laughs, a deep rich rumble pricely enough to conjure gold bars. "It's a mystery to know when they'll emerge unannounced."

" Now, onto business. What do we have, here?"

Between them, a barrier, is a table. Producing a rectangular black box from his subspace, the mech sets it down on the surface. Inside, a clink of something can be heard like wind chimes fluttering against the breeze.

"All the crystals from the best of all cities and planets." He said. " Iacon, Vos, Teran, Xaraen — Camien delight, your favorite, is also a plus."

"Ohohoho!" Swindle unlatches the cover and beams at the myriad of vibrant gems. "You can't be giving me these beauties all for nothing, eh? What do I owe you the pleasure of?"

"Oh, nothing grand. I'd just like the usual."

Swindle, for a moment, visibly sags. " Sorry to disappoint but with all the bots cracking down on all of my sources. I don't got too many interesting Intel these days from hiding."

"Oh, no, no,no, no." He waved a servo to stop him." Not the surveillance. I don't need that. I've got enought. What I need, however. Or, rather — my boys on the air has been lacking in some...condiments for their next heist. See to it that they're sufficiently provided."

Now, that's a target he could aim.

"We-ell, why don't'cha just say so?" Swindle grins, interest piqued. "Y'got a benefactor to spare?"

"Quite. He's not very compliant at the moment and I'd rather he is. Could you, perhaps, 'alleviate' that stubbornness of that dear mech?"

Swindle chuckles and does a half-bow, servo on his chassis."Well, my good sir. Anythin' for the customer is a good go. It's in my policy to do so much more than just alleviate his stubbornness." He pinched his foredigit and thumb. Then, rubs it." For a small extra charge, of course."

He throws in several more shanix onto the table.

"I take it you'll be swift?"

"Quick as a turbofox in heat, I assure you."

Ivory white flashes as he grins. "Happy hunting."

THE sun peered between the dark blue clouds of the smothered the sky. Iacon and it's stretching towers loomed above like jagged mountaintops, abstract and austere in all it's glory.

Prowl grips the railings tight. He leant over and rested his helm against the cool metal. Much too cool against the feverish temperature of his helm. Slow and steady he vents, attempting to cool down his heating frame.

The chronometer beeped five thirty. He's outside. Outside in the barely risen morning, disturbed from a barely slept slumber and dragged out to barely risen city straight into a murder scene.

The scenery fleets by in a thin film of blue. Enforcers litter the region, half a mile at most, rousing nearby apartments and living spaces for questioning. Gradually, front porches open. Dawdling mechs and their slow blinking optics, half sleep-induced, are jostled awake at the sight of the officers.

A passing mech was jogging around the vicinity when he supposedly stumbled over a concrete slab. A quick double take proved it wasn't a slab but a dead mech sprawled out on the road, a mini crater indicating the weight of his fall.

And, looking up to the nearby building, where he supposedly fell, a smashed glass on the perfect teeth of windows indicated clear where the incident occured. Obviously, the mech is long gone : grey and parched of color; helm tilted to one side, optics black.

Prowl let's out another breath. It seethed through clenched dentas, hissing out as steam. His servos shook. Footsteps patter behind and Prowl grips it taut to reign it in.

"Sir? Are you—"

"I'm fine." He cuts off the mech. " Who is it?"

The junior officer blinks in surprise, a waver in his voice. "Uh— they, uh. It's someone. They...They claim to be your partner, sir." He trails off, unsure and also surprised at the prospect.

Partner? Prowl skims languidly across the ample litter of mechs bustling about. Only until his optics land on a familiar one, he nods stiffly. "They're with me. You can leave, now."

"Understood."

And not long after did his 'partner' emerged, lifting up the yellow tape, chatting with the passing enforcers amiably before sauntering towards where he stood.

"Not so bustling as I expected to be." You said. " Is it usually this quiet? Or, you could say — dead silent?"

The smaller Praxian had to take several steps back to regard you fully, an unimpressed look on his face. As usual, a loose smile eased at the gesture but you turned away to hide it.

"Enforcer." You bowed and held out a servo.

Instead, he eyes you with a cold reverie, nose raised high and haughty. "Doctor."

"Spoilsport."

And that's what it only took to carve out the familiar, seething scowl. "It's Commander, doctor."

"Actually, it's medic." You mused, optics fleeting over his frame."New paint job?"

"Excuse me?"

Even when he's scowling, the confused puppy look and the flicker of a doorwing alleviated the intimidating factor.

"You look different." You said.

"I don't."

"You kind of do."

"Just—" He rubs his face. "Just what on Cybertron are you trying to insinuate?"

" Come on, now." You nudge him. "Can't a mech compliment a good polished frame?"

Prowl makes an exasperated sound when you gesture to his body. You can't help it when really is shinier than usual. The Ivory veneer plating is practically glowing under the soft rays of the sun. Prowl, however, rubs his face.

"I take it you're aware of your current position?" He eventually says after a moment.

You rubbed your helm thoughtfully, reminiscing the words of Ironhide this morning. All you remember from the debrief was: 'He's a stick down on tha mud'. And also, a stick up his aft? A stick in or stick out? You're not sure.

"Quite." You snort. "Takes a while to get used to it. Especially when Prime didn't inform the reason why. "

"You don't need to know the details behind the transfer."

"Oh, trust me." You said. " I dont think want to, Praxian."

He regards you for a moment before shaking his head, whirling around to inspect the nearby scathes and scratches. Meanwhile, you knelt next to the body and grimaced, sliding on protective gloves. From the corner of your optics, Prowl does as well and he does it with prim and precise movements. It's been a long time since you're out on the fields.

"Why do I have to do this, again?"

Prowl tilts his helm, observing the body at a different angle, the last digit slides inside the sleeve with a plap. "You're experienced with helmichular fracture. Or, working with Cybertronian helms, for that matter."

You scanned the dried energon smeared under the poor mech's helm. Primus, how in Unicron's two aft did he get here? You swivel up. Oh, right. Falling.

"I work with the inner parts. Nothing the same like Chromedome does. That's heinous work. Mine's more on the anatomy, actually."Plating fracture, check. Spinal strut loose and fragile — check. Stiff joints, check. " Couldn't you have figured this out on your own?"

You prod the neck cables, feeling it flaccid. Prowl was silent for a moment. If he was irritated, you could tell by the scowl deepening from the reflection of the puddle beside you.

" I could," he says eventually. "But I don't need your input. I simply.... require a presence to rectify my hypothesis."

Oh? "That's a statement I never thought I'd hear you say." You mutter.

Prowl knelt beside you. He angles himself in a way you would have to look over his shoulder to see the body. The soft scent of datapad and office paperwork wafts by.

"This mech, here, is Strongholt." He said. "He's a member of the High Council. Tasked with handling ammunitions. Obviously, on close inspection it appears as though this body is conformed to the fall."

With the way he worded it, you're sure he doesn't think that way.

"The spinal struts is smashed." You said, optics quick and scaning. "....and everything else is broken. It could be ruled out as suicide but with you here I don't think that's the case."

He lets out a sound you're not sure if it's a conceding one or something else entirely. But he juts out a digit and you look at where he points. Disregarding the scratched plating, some regions of the surface were unusually glossy and some were worn.

"He hasn't gotten his plating polished." Prowl says.

"A bit late for that now, don't you think so?"

"He rushed all the way here in the dead of the night. Why else would he do that?" Prowl rests a servo on his face, mumbling into it thoughtfully. " Senator Stronghold is have said to taken care of his plating with precise delicacy. But this time—" Slowly, he traces a digit along the platings. " —Observe the fringes. It seems indelicate along the seams. His arm is polished but the rest isn't."

"Oookay." You try to grasp the pieces together. Trying to fit in the missing cogs from the machine. "So, he didn't jump. Is that what you're saying?"

"Not suicide."

" Then, what could it be?"

"He brought himself to a place." He muttered. " To somewhere. Unless it's someone and if he complied then it's not a matter of force-handing, is it?"

"I'm assuming things aren't as what they seem to be, apparently."

Prowl taps his thigh in an irritated manner. Either he was talking to himself or to you, it was hard to tell. But with how he disregarded your questions and looks — it was obvious he's cooped up in his thoughts.

"Dragged up there." He continues the muttering to himself. You noticed he's a little restless with the mini-movements he makes. From the rock of his kneeplates and the subtle, but often, flick of his doorwings. " No, down here. He walks. Over there. Then, close to the pole. How many footprints?"

You snapped out of your thoughts with a jolt, scrambling for an answer at the sudden question. Lamely, you said. "Five?"

"No, it's three." He waves at you dismissively. "Foot prints indicate long exposure to standing. Disagreement ensues. Blunt force trauma to the helm. Dragged up—" On cue Prowl swivels up. "Then pushed. Guise of a murder. Two mechs. An accomplice, to be precise."

" A what— Wait— so, hold on." You tug him close, lowering your voice. " He orchestrated his own death?"

Prowl leans away.

"Were you even listening to what I said?" He gives you an incredulous look." If you have so much to lose, would you really do that?"

You groan. He's not helping one bit."You're being real cryptic right now and I'm trying my best."

"No, not orchestrated." He vents. " That'd be ridiculous. But miscalculations did occur during the 'composing' of the Orchestra. He's compliant all but for the money. Both a victim to his faults and thinking."

You turn over his words in your processor. The lingering feeling that this isn't some kind of suicide rules out clear and Prowl had, somehow, figured it beforehand.".... You dont need me here to help you figure out case, don't you?"

He gives you a look that basically confirms it : a smug, but begrudging tug of his lips.

"I need you to confirm a certain theory." He points to the helm. " Blunt force trauma — Zero point."

You move over to the chassis and unlatched the plating. As expected the spark chamber indicated clear signs of restrictive energy flow from the burnt out, damaged ports. This could only occur if—

"He had suffered heavy blunt force trauma." Prowl stands up, gripping the railings with a vent.

" So, this is murder." You follow him, pacing around, a bit reeling from the new turn of events. "Its— it's murder, right?"

" We can't prove it is yet. We..." He trails off, then shake his head. "Tommorow when the warrant comes we'll able to consult his company....and...."

"Prowl, mech. You good?" You turn to the Enforcer who's looking a little off to be well, right now. "Hey, you need a moment?"

Crime scenes aren't the most pleasing sight to behold. Especially, the brutality of it all. You just didn't expect Prowl to be affected this badly.

" I'll—" He clutches his chest, shudders and groans lowly, stumbling forward.

"Prowl!" You caught him before he could hit the ground and instantly limps against your body, venting hard.

His frame was warm. So warm that once you touched his shoulder every moisture on the tip of your digit sizzles into steam. He's shaking and Primus, he's burning!

"You're sick and you didn't tell me?!" You laid him against the railing, loosening his taut platings to let air inside. Steam practically chuffs out from the pistons, smoldering your face with vapor when you unlatched the clips.

"I'm not sick." Was his weak protest and he pawed your servos away, attempting to get up. "The warrant—"

"Don't even try." You push him down. "Your optics are glazed! Plating is burning even worse than a typical fan-clog fever!"

"I'll get through it." He grits out.

"I'm sending you back. Doctor's orders."

He lets out an exasperated sound. " You're stalling the process! I need to solve the case before some overcharged single brained processor messes it up. "

"And you'll smelt into alloy by then, little mech." You clicked on your comm. " I'll deal with the body and I'll deal with the paperwork. You, on the other hand, need ratchet. If you preach for efficiency — then be compliant to it. "

Prowl opens his intake but ozone burns his tongue and another shudder sears through his platings. He turns away from you, groaning lowly. Maybe it's better if he complied because, right now, all he feels, is like a mech doused in gasoline and set on flames.

"Will you be fine?" Ratchet cocks a brow

Prowl grunts, swinging his legs off the medical berth. " I'll manage."

"Sure? Your internal processors are charged up than usual, Prowl." Ratchet grimaces at the datapads. Doesn't look much too good, if he had to be hoenst. " I wouldn't recommend you going about your tasks if you don't want your battle computer burning out out."

Prowl keeps quiet. He can feel the wanton heat pooling in his panel, itching, clawing to be spring free and abuse.

" Prowl?"

He sucks in a breath. "I need to go." And with that he turns on his heel and leaves.

He shouldn't have known it would be today. Especially, when the signs are clear enough these past few weeks : frequent mood swings, strange cravings at strange hours

He could've have pieced it all together and prevented the inevitable — but when he onlined this morning on his berth and felt the familiar trickle of lubricant coating his inner thighs, it was over.

He was too late.

Heat cycles.

Just the worse.

It was easy to know when it's coming just as easy to know it's going to get worse : the numbness on the tip of your digits, restless frame, unfocused and glazed optics. The desire to lodge a hole into every walk you find. All typical sign.

Some frames are more accustomed to such a cycle. Unlike the smaller frames, larger ones are able to disperse heat more efficiently. So, it was a tolerable task to wait it out during work and return home and take care of whatever problem they had with their conjux. Even better, take heat suppressants and the charge, while not entirely taken care of, is reduced.

But given his Praxian frame slim build, demure size and all, the heat isn't so well dispersed and the intake of suppressants just happens to make it worse. His tanks are sensitive to the chemicals; he took it once and it wasn't fun taking turns purging his tank and satisfying himself.

Prowl groans, squeezing his thighs together as the words blur out from his optics. The datapad in his servos dented from his grip and he discards it on the table, landing across with a tack. Blasted report. He keeps reading the same line over and over and his processors won't digest the damn thing.

He leans against the chair and his helm tips back until his optics met the ceiling. An experimental servo glides down his abdomen and he shudders as it clamps on his heated panel. He gives it a little stroke, venting when lubricant smear the seams. A low whine churned from his throat. Prowl flushes, chagrined.

Mhn. Hot. He feels hot. So, hot. So Restless. He needs to purge out this excess energy or driving him insane. He could head out into the sparring range and punt in a few dents jn the testing dummies but he's too restless for that. He needs something and that something has to be inside and pumping his valve until he's all but a writhing mess on the floor.

The panel slides and a throbbing spike springs out. Ivory in color, grey outline, it stands at attention and the tip weeps with transfluid. Prowl slides his digits inside the swollen valve. He groans as he feels his calipers pulsing around his digits, spreading the folds out.

He can't keep going on like this.

On cue, the door opens. Prowl jolts in his seat and swivels up at the intrusion, lodging his digits deeper inside in tandem of his fluster. It was you. You're by the doorway. Stiff and straight to the brim, optics wide. The datapad you were holding drops from your servos just as your jaw had flung open in surprise

[nina-ya]

Ice Skating With Zoro

A/N: This was written for a trade in my server for the lovely @levi-supreme I had the absolute best time writing this <3<3 Pairing: Zoro x Reader CW: none WC: 1.4k

The crisp, cold air embraced the ice rink, giving way to an exciting ambiance for the date to come. Overhead, stars dotted across the night sky, and a luminescent moon cast its silvery glow upon the surface of the outdoor rink. The soft glow of hanging lights lent a gentle radiance to the ice, transforming it into the  shimmering spot that awaited the couple's presence.

The ice rink, nestled in a secluded corner of the city, was a hidden gem. Surrounded by snow-laden trees, their branches delicately dusted with powdery snow, the rink felt like a magical escape from the world. The emptiness of the rink allowed them the freedom to lose themselves, surrounded by the beauty of the winter night. The only sounds present were the rustling of clothing as You and Zoro put on your skates. 

With skates securely laced, you gracefully glided onto the ice, and Zoro followed suit. The difference in your skating skills became immediately apparent as Zoro clung to the rink's edge, a look of uncertainty on his face. Observing his hesitant attempts, you couldn't resist skating over with a teasing smile.

"Need a little help there?" you asked, your voice playful.

"I got this, just need a minute to get used to it," Zoro replied, attempting to push off the wall. However, his bravado lasted only a second before he found refuge on the barrier once again, fingers tightly gripping the cold wall.

You chuckled, closing the distance and reaching for Zoro's larger hands. "Come on, I got you," you reassured, guiding him away from the safety of the wall. You guided him slowly, hand-in-hand as you taught him how to skate. As you moved together, Zoro's initial wobbles transformed into a more confident glide, guided by your encouragement.

With growing confidence, Zoro decided it was time to venture off on his own, to circle the rink without your guidance. You watched with a big smile as he looped around the rink, occasionally letting out cheers of encouragement as he did so. However, this seemingly simple action took an unexpected turn when he realized he had never learned the crucial art of stopping. His confident grin shifted into wide-eyed panic as he hurtled back towards you.

Zoro's arms flailed in a desperate attempt to slow down, but his efforts proved futile. The collision was inevitable, and you let out a surprised squeal as your paths met. The two of you tumbled together, laughter and shouts of surprise filling the air as you guys met the ground. In the midst of the chaos, Zoro found himself in an unexpectedly comfortable position—on top of you. His hands were planted on each side of your face, holding most of his weight up. 

Your laughter softened into an awkward silence, and a subtle heat flushing your faces. Inches apart, Zoro's gaze met yours, and a hush fell between the two of you. His eyes flickered between your eyes and your lips as he realized just how close his lips are to yours. It’s as if one subtle nudge could make your lips collide. His confidence wavered as he did not know what to do from there. You were equally as flustered and you could feel her heart race as you too realized how close his lips were to yours. 

The trance you were seemingly in was abruptly shattered as you two simultaneously realized the intimacy of your position. Zoro quickly pushed himself up, stumbling over his words in an attempt to break the tension. "I, uh, sorry about that. Didn't mean to—"

Your cheeks heated up even more as you tried to hide your own embarrassment with a nervous laugh. "No, no, it's okay. I mean, it happens, right?" Your attempt at nonchalance only made the atmosphere more awkward.

You both scrambled to your feet, avoiding eye contact as you two brushed off imaginary ice crystals from your clothes. You spoke up once again, attempting to ease the tension, “Hey, I saw this cafe on the way here, it looked good. Did you want to check it out?” You asked with a sheepish smile. 

Zoro looked over at you and offered her a grin as he nodded in response. “Yeah, actually that sounds wonderful.”

The two of you took off your skates and made your way to the cafe nearby. The walk there was silent, the embarrassment of the near kiss still occupied your minds. You two entered the cafe and sat across from each other. You and Zoro perused the dessert menu and as he scanned the menu, his eyes widened with intrigue as he spotted something on the menu. "Peppermint mocha cheesecake? That sounds interesting," he remarked, his curiosity evident.

You, looking equally interested, grinned. “I was actually just looking at that! I love peppermint mocha!”

“Then you wouldn’t mind sharing a piece with me, would you?” Zoro asked, the lingering embarrassment now replaced with a newfound confidence.

You nodded eagerly, and you placed your orders for some drinks and a slice of peppermint mocha cheesecake. The delectable treats arrived, and you both indulged. The conversation flowed effortlessly over the cheesecake, a sense of ease enveloping you two as the night progressed.

You couldn't help but notice a smudge of cheesecake on the corner of Zoro's lips. "Hey Zoro, you got a little cheesecake right there," you said, gesturing towards the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, thanks," he replied, attempting to wipe his face. However, in his efforts, he managed to miss the spot entirely. You, finding amusement in his unsuccessful attempt, took matters into your own hands. You grabbed a napkin, leaned over the table, and gently wiped the cheesecake off his mouth. This seemed to fluster him for the second time that night, and you couldn't help but let out a soft laugh at the pink tint that graced his cheeks. He muttered a quick 'thanks' as he continued to savor the cheesecake, using the moment to gather himself.

The two of you eventually finished and paid the bill. As you and Zoro stepped out into the cold winter air, his larger hand instinctively sought yours, his fingers intertwining with yours as you strolled through the empty streets.

Zoro broke the silence with a soft chuckle, “You know, I’ve never been ice skating before.”

“Yeah, I could tell by the way you nearly killed me.” You responded playfully.

He laughed louder, his hand gripping hers tighter as he responded, “Well, when you ignore that part, I was a damn good skater. You could’ve confused me with a professional.” He looked over at her with a grin.

You returned his gaze with an affectionate one, a smile spreading across your face as you responded, “Yeah, you definitely fooled me.”

"Good," he responded. Your hands swung between them in a moment of shared contentment before he abruptly halted, turning to face you. Entranced by the way your eyes seemed to radiate with each smile, and how your lips appeared irresistibly tempting beneath the moonlight, he couldn't resist the pull.

His free hand tenderly cradled her your, his thumb delicately brushing against your cheek as he leaned in. In that moment, he breathed deeply, capturing the captivating gaze of yours. His voice, with a slight quiver, broke the quiet night air as he posed the question, "Can I kiss you?"

Your heart skipped a beat, her gaze locking onto his. The air around them seemed to shimmer with a quiet intensity. "Yes," you replied, your voice soft.

With that affirmation, Zoro closed the distance. His lips met yours in a slow, gentle kiss—a moment suspended in time. His warm lips moved tenderly against yours, the kiss carrying the subtle taste of peppermint mocha. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the quiet rustle of the night and the occasional jingle of Zoro's earrings. His hand cradled your face in a protective and intimate manner, while your hands reached up, grasping his shirt as his lips continued to move against yours.

When you finally pulled away, a soft smile played on Zoro's lips, mirroring the warmth in your eyes. He looked at you with a playful glint as he added “How about this: I’ll be the one deciding what we do on our next date.”

You arched an eyebrow, a smile peeking as you responded. "Oh, really? And what exciting plans do you have in mind?”

Zoro's smirk hinted at the mysterious possibilities as he replied, "You'll just have to wait and find out."

[prince-vael]

For Day One of @rookappreciationweek, introducing Tamlen Aldwir.

Prompt: Arlathan/Discovery (340 words)

Sparks fizzle and pop at his fingertips, sending shock sharp scratches spiking over his knuckles, his wrists, singing the hair at his forearm until there is nothing of them left but a faint acrid smell of burning. Lips bitten in concentration, and eyes fixed on the crackling artefact in front of him, Tamlen doesn't so much as notice.

He runs a thumbnail over the edge of a pale yellow crystal, searching for a seam that he knows must be there, even if he can't see it. He's not been a Jumper so very long, but this, this hunt for things hidden and lives lived unseen, this is in his blood, this is what brought him to Arlathan in the first place.

You'll worry secrets from a stone, his mother used to tell him, back when she was still alive and he was still small and not yet grown into his own limbs. He hums to himself and doesn't linger on the fading echo of her voice. As long as one of those stones is this one, he'll be happy.

Click.

Tamlen stops humming. The crystal turns in place. A grin spreads across his features.

In his hands, the artefact glows, a steady pulsing light that lets him know his work is done. Only now, as he turns it over, letting it rest warm in the centre of his palm, does he notice the thin lightning lines of what will one day become new scarring across his skin, though he pays it as much heed as a grazed knee on cobblestones. He barely feels it anymore. He lifts his head.

"Anytime you like," he says to the empty space around him.

He has barely finished speaking when the air shimmers and the barrier before him dissolves into nothing, deprived of its wards. The staircase it had been guarding spirals up, up into a tall and dark tower. Something, he can see, is glittering with enticing shine at the top of it.

Careful what they tell you.

Tamlen tucks the relic back into his pocket and steps forward.

It is not the time for memories now.

[evolutionsvoid]

Tasked with preserving knowledge, the Scholars of the Black are always on the search for new and improved ways to keep centuries worth of information safe and accessible. While Black Bile crystals seem like the perfect solution, there is more to it than simply dumping in the data and moving on. How much information they can store and how long they can last all depends on their purity and structure. Despite what some may believe, not all humors are created equal, and some types of Black Bile are better suited for this job than others. While the Towering Archives have done well in creating new crystalline shards and slabs that can contain a vast array of knowledge, it is still far from perfect. In search for the theoretical "Microcosmic Star," the Scholars need just the right Black Bile to make it work, or perhaps even a combination of different types. Thus, teams of Scholars were sent out into the world in search of Black Bile sources or new ways to store information. Such expeditions occurred before the war broke out, but they still continue to this day, because now the task of preservation is needed more than ever before. Thus, Scholar teams search far in wide for the answer to this problem, but unfortunately, sometimes such searching reveals things best left hidden...

From what folks can piece together, a research team of Scholars from Akavedah were on the hunt for pure veins of Black Bile, and had come across a hidden cave system out in the wilds. Seeing little evidence of other people around, they had hopes that perhaps the resources within these deep cavities were still undisturbed. They plunged into these dark tunnels and arteries, daring to go as far down as they could in search of promising Black Bile. What can be seen from environmental clues, it looks like they faced many obstacles and sealed tunnels, but used their equipment to break through these barriers. It appeared that they entered a previously isolated area, which was quite promising to them. And deep within these subterranean cavities, they found their prize. Wondrous crystals of Black Bile! In such sizes and quantities! From found notes, this strain of Black Bile crystal was entirely new to them, and thus had unknown potential within. The Scholars were quick to set up camp and begin experiments and excavation of this incredible prize. However, these plans would never come to fruition and neither the crystals or Scholars themselves would ever make it to the surface.

When no word was heard back from this team, scouts were sent to where they were last sighted, hoping to find clues to their disappearance. Their search of the area would lead them down the same path, eventually discovering the camp deep below. However, the place was an utter mess, as if they had been attacked. Their notes torn and scattered, their equipment knocked over and smashed, and their tents reduced to rags. No sign of the Scholars were found, but the scouts wondered if more evidence could be dug up closer to the crystal chamber. Before they could continue their search, sounds in the darkness were heard. At first they thought it some cave beast, but the strange noises had a strange pattern and familiarity to them. Like crazed hooting and aggressive grunts, something that felt more fitting to man than beast.

Before they knew it, the source of the noise was upon them, and the team was attacked. With little light down below and the chaos born from the battle, they only caught mere glimpses of their attackers and their weapons. Of the survivors who made it back to the surface, they spoke of strange humanoids of a short stature. Like half the size of the average man, but skin gray as stone and bizarre crystals jutting from it. Their faces were obscured by chunks of crystal, be it a helmet or perhaps even replacing their entire head. The weapons that were flung at them were carved from crystal but incredibly crude. Clubs and spears made from this prized Black Bile and wielded in a savage manner. Magic was thrown their way as well, with shards of Black Bile flying through the air. Yet, this sort of magic was sloppy and amateur, only slightly better than chucking crystal pieces with your bare hands. Despite their size and simple tools, the scouts were hopelessly outnumbered and out of their element. Quite a few fell to these strange entities, with only a handful making it to the surface alive. Though they themselves could hardly describe what had happened, the abandoned notes they had found in the camp had survived as well, and from these pages they began to understand what was down there.

At first, the idea was that this was some nest of troglodytes that the Scholars had the misfortune of disturbing. Perhaps they lived off these crystals and saw these researchers as a threat to their home and resources. Yet, when the notes were organized in the proper order and pieced back together, a different picture started to appear. Despite the team seemingly spending weeks down below, they never made mention of other creatures or possible threats. No strange noises or unexplained phenomenon. They were going about their research undisturbed, trying to learn more about these crystals. Though the Scholars themselves made no note of anything amiss, those reading these remaining notes noticed something odd. As the days went by, the penmanship of these writings slowly began to degrade. It wasn't anything major at first, some sloppy letters and sloped lines, but then misspellings and poor grammar started to emerge. For Scholars who pride themselves in logic and research, such crude writing was quite strange. As they got to the last few pages, the writing turned to scrawls and smears, like a baby given ink and paper to play with. The phenomenon was baffling. Some suspected gas being present in the cavity that slowly poisoned them, others thought that these messy pages were written by their primitive attackers. The evidence and notes were gone through again and again, looking for any clues to answer this mystery. And that is when they figured it out.

As the research was going down, and the Scholars were writing updates of their progress, one writer made note of how well the Black Bile crystals took in knowledge. They were excited at this, as it showed promise for a strain that could hold even more information than current types, but as others followed this thread, the realization became disturbingly clear. Many mentions of how "eager" the crystals were to absorb data, and how the Scholars were becoming more and more obsessed with this find. It was through these notes the team realized the truth of it all: the strange Black Bile crystals weren't just storing knowledge, but stealing it as well. For whatever reason, their structure and strain was capable of drawing in information from all around them, and it seemed they could even pull it straight from the mind. The degrading writing wasn't because of gas, but because the intellect of these men and women was being sucked right out of them. As long as they were in close proximity to these bizarre crystals, their minds would be drained by its thieving absorption. And with this in mind, they looked back on the tale of the attack on the scouts and what they saw, and the grim truth was at last revealed. The strange shrunken creatures that besieged the scouts were what remained of the once proud Scholars who had made camp there.

From what can be deduced from the information at hand, it would seem that the Black Bile crystals down there had fed upon their minds and slowly reduced them to a primitive state. All higher thought and memory was sucked away, leaving them more akin to beast than modern man. The hooting and hollering of them, born from tongues that were robbed of their words. Their diminutive forms coming to be as the parasitic crystals stole more and more, reverting both mental and physical states. What remained of these victims was primitive and malleable, coming to worship the crystals that they no longer could understand. And so a small crude cult was born in the darkness, of those who have been consumed by the crystals. They wear it, wield it, worship it. And now they remain forever in the darkness, dancing and praying to the very parasites that stole their minds from them. They serve it and protect it, thus their aggression towards the scouts. Or perhaps they are unable to conceive of anything else that isn't them, and thus see all creatures as alien and hostile.

With this knowledge of their fate, some have demanded that a team be sent town to destroy these crystals and free these lost scholars. However, such wants were quickly squashed once the war broke out and resources were diverted elsewhere. What use is there to fighting a buried clan of mindless creatures, who have no intention of leaving their home? Why bother when greater threats bang upon our gates? However, some say that there is a dash of fear to these excuses, as many are terrified of losing themselves to these very same crystals. That, and the mentions from the survivors who claimed to have heard something else within those tunnels. Something far larger than those shrunken Scholars...

---------------------------------------

"The Lost Scholars"

[smilelikeacheshirecat]

I love you, Evangeline

Pairing: Evie x Fem!reader

warning: none, tooth rottening fluff

word count: 2k words

note: OC Belle and Beast daughter, Bellla

Summary: Prince Triston, Tiana's son, serenades his partner with a song that once ignited his parents' love during a dance practice for Auradon's royal ball. Evie is drawn into an unexpected dance with Bella as the music fills the ballroom.

Even before the kingdoms united under, the stories of each kingdom is known far and wide.  The heart excitement of how their stories start, the adventure, the struggles, with villains and challenges they face but in the end conquered. And most of all, the love that blossom in the story, and each time a sang is sang to further emphasise the forming connection between two lovers, two partners, two souls.

There were love stories — grand, sweeping, and eternal. Tales sung to children as lullabies, whispered in palace corridors, written in the stars themselves. Love that once defied curses, broke spells, and crossed impossible barriers.

Everyone knew the stories.

Beauty and the Beast, Barely even friends, then somebody bends — unexpectedly.” Their love didn’t come from first sight. It came from quiet dinners, from reading side by side, from the moment she bandaged his wounds and he gave her space to be herself. He bent. She softened. And somewhere between snowball fights and shared books, they were no longer captor and captive — but something closer.

Snow White and her Prince, “Some day my prince will come…” she sang it alone, not knowing if anyone heard. He heard. And even when she lay cursed in silence, it was that memory — her voice, that hope — that led him through the woods. He didn’t know if it would work. He didn’t know if he was enough. But love bloomed the moment his lips touched hers… and the world opened its eyes again.

Cinderella and her Prince Charming, “So this is love… so this is what makes life divine.” they spoke only with their eyes that night — no titles, no histories, no worries about tomorrow. He wasn’t looking for a princess. She wasn’t expecting a prince. But love bloomed in the music — in the stillness between twirls. And when the clock struck midnight, he didn’t chase a name or a crown. He chased the feeling of being seen.

Aurora and Prince Philip, “I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.” before they met, they dreamed of each other. Familiar, yet new. Their love bloomed like a memory returned — like coming home to someone they never knew they were missing. When he fought through thorns and fire, he didn’t do it just to awaken her. He did it because she had always lived in his dreams… and now, he wanted her in his days.

Rapunzel and Eugene, “And at last I see the light, and it’s like the fog has lifted.” she had only ever seen the world from a window. He had only ever run from it. But when they looked at each other beneath the lanterns, it wasn’t just wonder — it was clarity. Love bloomed in the realization that neither needed to be alone anymore. They were no longer just escaping something. They were running toward each other.

Jasmin and Aladdin, “Unbelievable sights, indescribable feelings…” she wasn’t impressed by gold or jewels. She wanted freedom — honesty. He tried to be someone else to win her. But love only bloomed when he stopped pretending. When he reached for her hand, not as Prince Ali, but as Aladdin — scared, hopeful, real — she saw him. And chose him.

And now they have the new generation.

Auradon Grand Ballroom — Afternoon

The golden chandeliers shimmered above the grand Auradon ballroom, each crystal catching the mellow light and scattering fragments like stardust across the polished marble. Gossamer drapes framed towering arched windows, letting in a soft breeze that rippled through the velvet banners of each united kingdom. The scent of freshly polished wood mingled faintly with blooming lilacs from the courtyard, drifting on the spring air.

Students of Auradon Prep filled the hall, their laughter and chatter echoing brightly under the vaulted ceilings as they rehearsed for the Royal Ball — the anniversary celebration of Auradon's founding and the uniting of all kingdoms.

King Ben, young but thoughtful, had generously invited everyone from Auradon prep along with their parents, and the children would perform a dance to commemorate the celebration for the anniversary of the United States of Auradon.

Now, during a brief break, the air hummed with anticipation. Someone — no one was sure who — had slipped to the speaker system and queued up a melody. It floated gently into the space: lilting, nostalgic, unmistakably familiar.

Prince Triston straightened from where he lounged, a distant expression softening his sharp features. His lips curved into a smile touched with something tender. "My uncle Luis said this was the song uncle Ray sang when my Dad realize his feelings for my Mom"

"Look how she lights up the sky"

Prince Triston sang the first line, he rose smoothly to his feet and turned to the princess seated nearby, bowing slightly with an offered hand. His partner blinked in surprise but smiled shyly, slipping her hand into his. Triston guided her up gently, steadying her waist with a practiced ease. Then he sang, clear and velvety.

"My Belle, Evangeline"

His voice reverberated softly across the marble, drawing eyes toward them like a slow ripple in a pond.

A hush began to spread through the room. Even a grumbling student muttering "Oh, please" was swiftly elbowed into silence. Couples glanced at one another, then gradually rose, compelled by the sweet familiarity of the tune.

Evie sat on a cushioned settee near the ballroom's edge, absentmindedly smoothing the rich navy fabric of her skirt. Beside her, Bella sat poised but relaxed, their shoulders brushing ever so lightly. Evie noticed, but couldn't bring herself to shift away.

"So far above me yet I . . ."

Triston's gaze on his partner was unguarded — full of quiet wonder. His steps flowed easily, but his smile betrayed how lost he was in the girl before him.

". . . know her heart belongs to only me"

At the far end, a student slid onto the piano bench, starting to play the well known song, fingers ghosting over the keys before picking up the melody, weaving it deeper into the atmosphere.

"Je t'adore,"

Bella's breath hitched — almost imperceptible. Under her breath, she murmured, "I adore you" She thought no one heard her but her blueberry heard her loud and clear.

Evie turned slightly, curiosity pricked. Surely Bella was just translating, as she often did — her playful habit of slipping between languages. But when she turned fully to face her, the air seemed to tighten.

"Je t'aime"

Bella's green eyes met hers unwaveringly. Open, clear, deeper than Evie had ever dared to look before as she says the line. "I love you" Bella breathed, her voice low and steady, her gaze never left her blueberry, you could here the genuine statement as if she was actually saying those words to Evie.

Caught of guard by her stare, Evie blushed and averted her eyes from the princess. For a heartbeat, Evie forgot to breathe. Her heart gave a disorienting lurch. The colour rose hot and swift to her cheeks, and she quickly glanced away, fingers fluttering nervously against her skirt. She can't mean it like that... can she?

"Evangeline"

The prince continues to dance and sing with his partner. Their dance contagious that other's started to dance along with their partner.

"You're my queen of the night"

Around them, more couples had taken to the floor. The music swelled gently, weaving like silk through the air.

"So still"

The strawberry blonde princess rose gracefully, extending a hand to the blueberry. Her expression was serene, but her smile carried something unspoken — an invitation and a promise all at once.

Evie's hesitation melted almost instantly. She slid her hand into the princess'. Her pulse jumped when their fingers interlaced naturally. 

Bella tugged her gently to her feet, arms slipping easily around her waist as Evie's arms looped instinctively over Bella's shoulders.

"So bright"

Their movements, unsure at first, quickly found rhythm.

Triston sang as he spun his partner, the other couples mimicking with laughter and ease.

"That someone as beautiful as she"

Bella's eyes had not shifted once. Even as they twirled, her gaze remained locked on Evie's.

The weight of it made Evie's heart skip, her breath shallow and fluttering. Why is she looking at me like that? Like I'm... precious? No one's ever looked at me like that before...

"Could love someone like me"

This line of the song made Evie think how they seem like two couples helplessly inlove with each other because of how Bella's eyes look at her. Her chest tightened, warmth blooming like a secret she hadn't realized she'd been keeping. Could a princess like her would ever love a villain kid like me?

The simple song turned into a sweet dance cotillion of the students.

The words wrapped around Evie's thoughts, making her throat tighten. She wanted to say something — anything — but her lips parted uselessly.

Mid-turn, her shoe caught Bella's toe. Bella winced softly.

"Love always finds a way it's true"

Evie's face crumpled into immediate guilt. "Oh no — I'm so sorry! I've never danced with a partner before, I didn't mean to—" She made to pull away, but Bella tightened her hold just enough to anchor her. Her smirk curved knowingly.

"Where do you think you're going? You know it's rude to abandon your partner mid-dance," she teased gently. Before Evie could stammer another apology, Bella guided her seamlessly back into step.

"And I love you Evangeline"

Evie dropped her gaze again, self-conscious. But Bella's fingers found her chin, tilting her face up until their eyes met once more.

"Don't look down. Just look at me." Her voice was soft, sure.

"Love is beautiful"

Evie swallowed thickly and nodded. Okay... okay. Just her. She let herself sink into Bella's gaze and let go of her overthinking. She really is so beautiful.

"Love is wonderful"

Their steps smoothed, gliding effortlessly now. The piano lifted, Prince Triston's voice swelling brighter:

"Love is everything. Do you agree?"

"Mais oui!" Bella answered smiling, before then dipped Evie gently as the song slowly comes into an end.

The final notes shimmered gently.

"Look how she lights up the sky"

Above them, the chandelier scattered gold and crystal light, catching in Evie's deep, glistening eyes. Bella's breath caught visibly — her smile softened into something awestruck.

Belle felt awe at the sight.

"I love you, Evangeline"

Triston's voice faded with the last chord. The ballroom fell into a reverent hush. Around them, pairs slowly stilled, but it was Evie and Bella who held the room's breath.

From the dais, King Ben exchanged a knowing glance with Fairy Godmother, who smiled softly, hands clasped. Even Doug, standing nearby, nudged Jay with a grin, whispering something that made Jay snort under his breath.

Evie blinked slowly, chest rising and falling faster now. Bella's hands remained warm and steady on her waist.

Say something, Evie's mind begged. Say anything—

Bella's smile quirked, playful but fond. "You dance well for someone who swore she couldn't." Her thumb brushed the edge of Evie's waist gently, reassuring.

Evie's lips trembled, then parted in a soft laugh. "Maybe I just needed the right partner."

Bella's grin grew wider, teeth flashing. "Ah, flattery now? Careful, princesse— I could get used to that."

Before either of them could say more, Fairy Godmother's clear voice rang through the hall. "That was beautiful everyone. Let's take five, then return to formation for the final rehearsal." Her eyes twinkled subtly as they flicked to the two girls.

Blushing deeply, Evie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, still not stepping away from Bella.

Across the room, Ben chuckled softly to his girlfriend, Mal. "Looks like the ball is working even better than I hoped," Mal nodded, smiling at her tow friends, before turning back to her notes.

And as Bella twirled Evie one last time — slower now, just for the two of them — the golden light of the ballroom wrapped around them like a promise yet to be spoken.

[steviebbboi]

🎃 - Ask a creator about a current project or WIP.

Can you post a snippet from the oldest WIP you have? 😄

Cate <3333 thanks for this ask 🥹

oh man, i had to dig into the archives for this one! This was written in 2016 - (dude what~). Tbh, im not sure that it'll ever get written but who knows! This was meant to be my first Steve x Goddess!Reader series fic starting from Thor's landing on Earth! This is so unfiltered/unedited omg lol -- anywho! Voila:

Untitled WIP (Steve Rogers x Goddess!Reader)

A distinctive, loud ‘boom’ echoed in the city of New Mexico. Citizens stopped to look around in wonder. After a few minutes, people began to dismiss the boisterous sound in amusement.

They shouldn’t have.

She was beautiful, naturally. The Goddess, Freyja, blessed her well. The woman was surrounded by a bright light, shaped to fit her and her only. She hovered above the sand covered ground before landing roughly, causing a loud thump to be heard across the city. The rings of light now gone, her position was of servitude. She had both hands curled in a fist, her knuckles pressing into the dirt. One knee touched the sandy surface, little specks of rocks pressing into her olive skin. 

The woman looked up, a smile gracing her face. Whines of police sirens were heard within earshot. She saw tiny forms of metal hit the ground around her, sparks flashing following a loud bang!  

“Peculiar…” She thought, suspecting their violent intent.

She cocked her head to the side and barely twitched her finger. After a few seconds, all the bullets stopped in mid-air as if they were stopped by an invisible force. The invisible veil no longer glimmered as the bullets fell to the ground.

“I thought the humans were supposed to be peaceful.” She voiced to the open sky, knowing the all knowing guard heard her.

Police cars and black sedans came to an abrupt stop in front of her. The men in uniform quickly stepped out of the vehicles before taking defensive positions behind their car doors. 

“Stay right there!” and “Freeze!” were heard as she took a step towards them. The woman fearlessly smiled before taking another step. Their guns cocked and fired at the woman. She quickly put her hands in front of her with her palms facing them. The shimmery barrier appeared again and disappeared as before. The smile wiped off her face and was replaced with a scowl.

“Enough.” She muttered with annoyance. The ground beneath them started to grumble and growl as the cars and sirens went off in a frenzy. It started to shake, everyone looking at the floor in a panicked awe. A loud crack could be heard as a crooked, jagged line started to appear on the dust covered Earth. 

The agents could only look amazed until a brave soul gathered some courageous sense to throw these crystal-like rocks surrounding her looming figure.

She looked down at the opaque crystals in alarm as they formed into a wide triangle-- the sediments glistened under the sun’s rays until a bright beam shined from within to exert a power she has never felt before.

The woman visibly winced as a loud, high pitched ringing noise pierced her eardrums, effectively, creating a psychic chaos in her mind. She twitched her fingers, visibly this time, towards the crystals but found that they didn’t even budge. 

She started to growl, teeth bared and banged against this static force field, violently, only for the noise to amplify the more that she hit the inner walls of the shimmering prism. She clutched her head with a pained groan and proceeded to knock on the barrier until blood spouted from her nose and ears. Eventually, causing her to black out with a defeated air.

AN: Unfortunately, no Steve in this lil snippet but would anyone be interested in reading this pairing?? 👀

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