#all you authors out there are so string and brave because this is just in my head and im fighting for my life

[nibbelraz]

Pls consider MBJ looking between his spy and his spy's didi and just trying to make sense of these two

POV: you are Mobei Jun looking at your loyal servant glare absolute murderous daggers at you while his younger brother (that you didn't know about) is just staring at you weirdly

[cheollollipop]

green sector. | k. mingyu

genre: fluff. angst. smut (18+ MDNI)

wc: 4.7k

content warning(s): fast driving, smutty smut smut. pet names, reader shoves mingyu (out of love), breast play, oral (f! receiving), please lmk if i forgot anything!

🏁 author’s note!

loved f1 mingyu so much i decided to continue. this story takes places two years after pole position . this’ll probably be the end of this story so i wanted to give yall an even more happier ending for mingyu and reader. i hope you enjoy this as much as you all enjoyed the first one! and if you haven’t read it, please check it out <3 happy reading.

The Proposal wasn't subtle.

Not with Mingyu. Never with Mingyu.

He rented out the entire rooftop of the Park Hyatt Tokyo.

I thought we were there for a sponsor dinner. I'd slipped into a navy silk dress, hair swept into a low bun, heels echoing against polished floors as he led me through the hotel like he didn't already have a diamond ring burning a hole in his pocket.

When the elevator doors opened on the 52nd floor, I knew something was off.

No guests. No tables. Just a private pathway of soft lanterns and white roses, a string quartet tucked into the corner playing the instrumental version of my favorite song, and Mingyu grinning, nervous, stunning in a black velvet tux, reaching for my hand like he'd waited his whole life for this moment.

"Is this...?" I asked, voice already trembling.

He nodded. "Yeah."

I stepped onto the rooftop with him, the Tokyo skyline glittering behind us like a million stars had fallen just for us. There were candles everywhere. Soft light. A breeze that caught the hem of my dress.

"I thought about doing this where we first met," he said, slipping his hands into mine. "But we've been through too much. And you deserve the best."

He knelt then.

Right there, on imported Italian tile, with the city holding its breath around us.

"I want every version of you. The brave one. The scared one. The one who holds the world together even when she's breaking," he said, voice shaking. "And if you'll have me, I'll spend the rest of my life proving that forever doesn't have to be terrifying."

The ring was custom. Pear cut. Set in platinum with two tiny stones on either side, one for him, one for me.

I didn't cry. I sobbed.

And when I said yes, the sky lit up behind us, yes, actual fireworks and he kissed me like a man who had something to lose and wasn't willing to risk it.

⸻

The Wedding was in Florence.

Because nothing else would do.

We flew in two weeks early. Took over an entire vineyard estate. Thirty five rooms. Custom menus. A wedding planner who had previously done work for literal royalty. White glove everything.

My dress had a twenty foot train. A cathedral veil. Hand sewn crystals. I walked down the aisle to a string version of Debussy's Clair de Lune, escorted by my mother and the memory of my father.

Mingyu looked like sin in a cream tuxedo with black satin lapels. Hair slicked back. Jaw set.

He cried the second he saw me.

Hell, everyone did. Dokyeom handed Mingyu a tissue. Minghao lost it entirely. Jihoon pretended not to.

Our vows? We had to pause halfway through because I couldn't breathe.

"I've seen every version of you," he said. "The broken one. The furious one. The one too afraid to say she loved me. And I still chose you. I will always choose you."

We kissed under a rain of ivory petals. Doves were released. Champagne poured like waterfalls.

Our reception was candlelit under a grand tent in the olive groves. Seven courses. A live jazz band. Late night espresso martinis served with hand painted macarons that had our initials on them in gold.

And when we had our first dance, it wasn't practiced. It was messy. Clingy. He kept kissing me between spins, and I kept laughing into his shoulder, thinking

This. This is everything.

⸻

The Honeymoon we went straight from Italy to the Maldives.

Private villa. Overwater. Glass floors. Champagne on ice when we landed and a butler who knew not to disturb us unless it was an emergency, or breakfast.

He booked fourteen days. Two were spent outside the villa. The rest?

Let's just say the Do Not Disturb sign didn't come off the door.

The moment we stepped inside, he let go of my hand, only to wrap both arms around my waist from behind.

"Look," he whispered against my neck, chin resting on my shoulder. His voice was low. "The floor."

Glass beneath our feet. Blue water beneath the glass. And beyond that, miles and miles of nothing but ocean and sky, fading into molten gold as the sun began to set.

"It's like we're floating," I murmured.

He kissed the back of my shoulder. "We are."

I stepped forward slowly, hand brushing over the smooth edge of the four poster bed, across the ice bucket on the table with the already sweating champagne, past the sliding doors that opened to our private deck and infinity pool.

God. This was ours.

For two weeks, this little slice of paradise was ours.

Behind me, Mingyu didn't speak. Didn't move.

I turned slowly and found him watching me with that look again. The one he'd worn the moment I stepped out during the ceremony in Florence. The one that made me feel like the center of the universe.

"What?" I asked, soft and a little shy.

His eyes drank me in. He didn't smile. Didn't blink.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said, voice low. "I don't even know what to do with myself."

I walked toward him, my hands resting on his chest as he took me in his arms.

"You already married me," I teased, leaning into him. "You don't have to keep seducing me."

He tilted his head down until his mouth brushed mine. "I'm not trying to seduce you."

"No?"

"No." His hand slid down to the curve of my waist, fingers flexing gently. "I just want you."

The kiss that followed was slow. Warm. Familiar in a way that still felt like falling. His lips parted mine with ease, his tongue brushing softly against mine as he deepened it, hands tightening on my hips like he couldn't get close enough.

I sighed into him, fingers moving up to unbutton his shirt, one by one.

He let me.

"You know what I've been thinking about all day?" he murmured against my mouth, the last button slipping free.

"What?"

"This dress." He kissed down the line of my jaw. "How it clung to you in all the right places."

"Mingyu..."

"How I knew the second you put it on... that I was going to be the one to take it off."

Heat shot straight through me.

"Do it, then," I whispered.

His mouth curved into a smirk. "Say it again."

I swallowed. "Take it off."

He groaned, voice thick and reverent. "Fuck, baby. You don't know what that does to me."

He tugged the dress up slowly, exposing inches of skin with every pass. I helped him, lifting my arms as he slipped it over my head, then gasped when his hands found my bare waist and pulled me into him, skin to skin.

"No underwear?" he asked, eyebrows raised, voice wrecked.

I shook my head, already breathless.

"I'm obsessed with you," he whispered, dipping to press a kiss between my breasts. "I don't even care if we eat tonight. I just want you. Like this. All night."

"Then have me," I breathed, reaching for his belt.

His mouth met mine again, hungrier this time. Desperate.

I made quick work of his pants, and when we finally collapsed onto the bed, bare and flushed, the air was thick with salt and tension.

He hovered above me, dark eyes roaming, like he couldn't decide where to start.

"You okay?" he asked, brushing his knuckles over my cheek.

"Yeah." I nodded. "Just nervous."

"Why?"

"Because it's you. Because this is real now. And because you're looking at me like you're about to ruin me."

He grinned, wicked and beautiful. "Oh, baby."

His voice dipped lower, heat curling around each word.

"I'm not gonna ruin you. I'm gonna worship you."

He kissed down my neck, over the swell of my breasts, pausing to take one in his mouth. I gasped, arching into him, hand tangled in his hair. He took his time, alternating between soft sucks and gentle flicks of his tongue until I was moaning beneath him.

"You always make those sounds for me," he murmured, lips trailing down my stomach. "No one else ever will."

"No one else gets to," I whispered.

His eyes met mine just as he settled between my thighs.

"Good girl," he said.

I gasped when his mouth met me. Hot. Wet. Tender. His tongue moved with slow precision, circling, teasing, licking until I was writhing, my legs thrown over his shoulders and my fingers clutching the sheets.

"You taste so good," he growled, voice muffled against me.

"Mingyu-" I moaned, hips rising, "Please. I need you."

He came back up, kissing my inner thighs, my stomach, my chest, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

"Say it again."

"I need you."

"Say you're mine."

"I'm yours."

He kissed me hard, aligning himself at my entrance.

And then he was inside me.

All the way. Deep. Slow. Stretching me with a fullness that had me gasping and clinging to his shoulders.

"Shit," he hissed, forehead pressed to mine. "You feel so good. You always feel so fucking good."

He started to move with long, deep thrusts that had me gasping, whining, saying his name like a mantra.

Every time he hit that spot, I shook.

Every time he kissed me, I melted.

"Open your eyes," he said. "Look at me."

I did.

"I want to see your face when I make you fall apart."

I moaned, tightening around him. "You're going to make me come."

"Good," he whispered. "I want to feel it. Let go for me, baby."

And I did.

It hit hard, shattering and full and bright, like every nerve in my body had lit up at once. I cried out his name, trembling beneath him, and he held me through it, hips stuttering until he followed, spilling into me with a loud, broken moan.

"Fuck, I love you," he breathed, kissing my shoulder. "You're everything."

I was still panting when he collapsed beside me, dragging me into his arms.

"Can I say something?" I asked, half dazed, body still tingling.

"Always."

"I want round two after a shower and a snack."

He laughed, loud and shameless. "God, I married the perfect woman."

"You really did."

The next few days, we swam in nothing but skin and salt. I wore silk robes and no makeup. He couldn't keep his hands off me and didn't try to.

Dinners were on the beach. Lobster tails and caviar and fresh coconut water from golden rimmed glasses. Mingyu surprised me with a spa day that included a gold leaf facial and diamond oil scalp massage.

One night, he ordered a stargazing cruise.

Just us. A velvet sky. And the sound of the waves against the hull while he held me in his lap and told me he'd never stop chasing the life we had, no matter what the next season looked like.

We didn't check our phones once.

We didn't need to.

We had everything we needed right there.

Then, we came home.

To racing.

To Monaco.

⸻

I always wake up first on race day.

It's a weird kind of calm. The curtains are drawn back just enough to let in the early light, casting golden streaks across our hotel room walls. The bed's warm, our legs tangled, the weight of his arm heavy around my waist.

Mingyu's breathing is steady, face soft in the quiet. He always looks younger when he sleeps. Less like the man who commands a Formula 1 car at 300 kilometers an hour and more like the boy who held my hand the day my father died.

I brush his hair back gently, thumb grazing his temple.

"Gyu," I whisper. "It's time."

He groans softly and burrows into my side.

"I just got comfortable."

"You've had eight hours to be comfortable."

"Was more like six. You wouldn't stop stealing the blanket."

I roll my eyes and lean in to kiss his forehead. "Get up, Mr. Monaco."

"Don't call me that unless I win it."

"Well then I guess I'll keep calling you fourth place."

That gets him. He huffs and stretches, eyes still closed, but grinning.

"Savage," he mutters. "Didn't think marriage made you meaner."

"It made me honest."

He finally opens one eye. "...Still love me?"

"Stupidly."

"Good," he says, already reaching for me again. "That'll come in handy when I forget to pit and nearly wreck into turn 13."

"You're not funny."

He smirks. "Not yet."

⸻

Monaco is not Monza.

Monza is loud. Brutal. Fast. Pure speed.

Monaco is precise. Surgical. There's no room for mistakes here. One missed apex and you're in the wall. No runoff. No forgiveness. Just concrete and consequences.

I feel it in my chest as we get closer to the paddock, the way the streets narrow, how the yachts rise like silver monoliths in the harbor, how every inch of this place feels tighter than it should.

I hate it. But I respect it.

Mingyu grips my hand as we step out of the car. He always knows when my thoughts are louder than I'm letting on.

"Same track," he says softly. "Different story."

"You always say that."

"And I always come back to you after, don't I?"

I nod.

That's the truth I hold onto.

⸻

He suits up while I meet with Jinho and a couple of the engineers. We go over tire strategy, timing windows, what the simulations are saying. The car's been temperamental this weekend. He qualified fifth yesterday, frustrated, but not shaken.

"He wants to push on the first stint," Jinho says, tapping his tablet. "But if it's a safety car lap ten, we'll box early. Undercut could work here."

"And if it rains?"

Jinho just sighs. "Then God's got a dark sense of humor."

I glance out at the sky. Clear for now.

Back in the garage, Mingyu's climbing into the cockpit. I wait until his helmet's on, until his gloves are secured, until everyone else has backed off.

Then I lean in, one hand on his halo.

"You drive smart," I say through the radio mic. "No hero moves."

"Yes, wife," he mutters.

"I mean it."

He lifts his visor slightly so I can see his eyes. "I'm coming back to you. No matter where I finish."

I nod once. "Good. Because I married you for your ass, not your trophies."

He laughs, shaking his head. "You're such a menace."

"Go win something."

Race Start.

It's clean. Mostly.

Leclerc takes the lead. Norris in second. Mingyu holds fifth through the first corner, staying tucked behind Sainz. The team radio crackles with updates, Jinho murmuring times in my ear.

By lap 10, the gap to the car ahead is shrinking.

"Box now?" Jinho asks me.

"No. One more lap. Tires are hanging in."

"Are you sure?"

"I know him," I say. "He needs one more lap."

And I'm right. He overtakes Sainz coming out of the tunnel, textbook. Clean.

Now he's fourth.

I watch him through the camera feed, every sector. Every turn.

My hand doesn't shake anymore. But I still hold the chain around my neck tighter than I probably should. It's my father's. It's always with me when he races.

Lap 27. A yellow flag. Someone clips the wall at Sainte Devote, but no safety car.

Mingyu keeps pushing.

Lap 30. He pits. Perfect stop. In and out in 2.4 seconds.

Lap 34.

Mingyu is still in fourth.

The entire garage is wired tight, mechanics frozen mid breath, eyes flicking between monitors. Monaco doesn't forgive mistakes. It eats hesitation for breakfast. And right now, we're one bold move away from the podium.

He's faster than Norris ahead. He knows it. We all do. But he hasn't made the move yet.

"Gap is four-tenths," Jinho says in my earpiece. "He's faster in Sector 2. Could take him out of the tunnel."

I swallow hard. "Or end up in the wall."

Jinho glances over. "You want to call it?"

I nod once. Slide the mic closer.

My voice is calm. Clear. Because it has to be.

"Mingyu."

A second of silence. Then his voice crackles in.

"Yeah."

"You're faster."

"I know."

"So what's stopping you?"

I hear him exhale, hard through the comms.

"If I dive... there's no margin. He turns in a half second late and I'm in the barrier."

"Do you trust yourself?"

Beat.

"I trust you more."

My chest tightens.

"Then listen to me."

The tunnel looms on the feed. Lights strobing across the carbon fiber of his front wing.

"Win it."

A pause.

"You sure?"

"No," I whisper. "But I married you anyway."

Another second.

Then his voice comes in low. Focused. Full of everything we've ever been through.

"I'll come back to you."

And then he goes.

Straight into the tunnel. Tires locking. The car dipping left hard, reckless, perfect. Norris doesn't even have time to cover the line. He's through.

He's third.

The garage erupts.

Jinho yells. Hands fly. Someone throws a headset.

I just sit there. Frozen. Breathing.

Lap 45. Hamilton's up next. Mingyu's front wing is practically kissing his rear tire.

"He's holding you up," I say into the mic.

"He knows it," Mingyu replies, voice raspier now. "Can I take him?"

"Only if you want a heart attack waiting in bed tonight."

He chuckles once.

"Yeah. I want the win."

"Then go get it."

And he does.

Lap 49. Mingyu fakes left in the hairpin, then flicks right, inside. It's insane. Monaco doesn't allow that kind of pass.

But he makes it.

He's second.

Leclerc's up front, crowd screaming in red and white.

I press the mic again.

"Do you want Monaco or do you want to come home?"

"I want both."

Lap 66. The move comes at Tabac. Tabac. No one overtakes there. It's suicide.

But he doesn't lift.

I can't speak. Can barely breathe.

No.

No, no, no.

"He's not gonna-" I lean forward, my breath catching. "Gyu-"

"Tabac's too narrow," Jinho mutters, alarmed now. "Tell him not to-"

But I'm already pressing the mic.

"Mingyu, don't you dare-"

"I've got it," he cuts in, voice strained but steady.

"Don't do it!" I yell, louder this time. "It's not worth-"

But he's already committed.

And I see it. I see it.

He brakes late, dances the tires across the edge of traction, and takes the lead in a cloud of disbelief.

"Jesus Christ, Gyu-"

"Still here," he pants. "Still yours."

My knees buckle. I brace a hand on the pit wall.

Jinho exhales behind me like he forgot how.

"He made it," someone says.

I don't move. I can't. My hands are shaking, my eyes wide, locked on the feed like I'm waiting for it to rewind and prove me wrong.

"YN?" His voice crackles in my headset, ragged with effort. "You still there?"

My throat burns. "You weren't supposed to do that."

"I told you I'd come back."

"I thought-" My voice breaks. "I thought you were going t-"

"I didn't."

Silence.

"I'm still here," he says quietly. "For you."

⸻

Lap 70.

He's holding the lead now. My breathing hasn't evened out. I keep my mic off. If I speak, I'll lose it.

Jinho's giving him standard updates, sector times, pressure from behind. But I know Mingyu can still feel me on the line.

Because he keeps saying things like:

"This is for her."

"Tell her I'm okay."

"She's why I brake late and stay alive."

⸻

Final Lap. Lap 78.

He's golden.

Every apex kisses his tires. Every turn flows like a man dancing with death and calling it a partner. He doesn't touch the wall. Not again.

Not once.

⸻

Lap 78. Checkered flag.

Mingyu wins Monaco.

The roar is deafening. Mingyu's name lights up the leaderboard in gold.

P1 – K. Mingyu

The garage explodes in cheers, hugs, and chaos.

I don't move.

I'm still clutching the wall like it's the only thing keeping me upright. My chest is burning, my vision blurry. He won. He won.

And he scared the hell out of me.

The car rolls into parc fermé, still steaming. He rips off his gloves, tears the helmet from his head, and before the mechanics can even swarm him, he's already moving.

Straight for me.

No interviews. No fist pumps. Just tunnel vision.

Me.

"YN!" he shouts over the noise, voice raw. "YN!"

And when he reaches me, I barely have a second to breathe before he's in front of me, sweaty, flushed, shaking with adrenaline and smiling like a man who just rewrote the universe.

"I told you," he pants, grabbing my waist like he's anchoring himself. "I told you I'd come back to you-"

I shove him.

Hard.

Right in the chest.

Not enough to hurt but enough to make him stumble.

"What the hell was that?" I choke, voice trembling. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?!"

He blinks. "What?"

"TABAC, Mingyu? Really? You dive bombed a Ferrari at TABAC?!"

"I-" he grins, sheepish. "You told me to go for the win!"

"I didn't say almost die while trying!"

He laughs, wrapping his arms around me before I can protest, holding me tight even as I half punch his back in a fit of nerves.

"You scared me," I whisper into his shoulder. "So bad."

"I know," he says, voice quieter now. "But I had to. I felt it."

I look up at him, eyes stinging. "You're not allowed to feel anything until I give you CPR first."

He laughs again, this time, softer. "I'm okay. I'm really okay."

"I know," I murmur, resting my forehead against his. "I just needed to say it. Out loud. Because watching you risk it like that... I thought I was gonna lose you."

"You won't," he says instantly. "Not today. Not ever. I came back."

"And next time?"

"Next time," he promises, "I'll scare everyone else first."

I snort, then press a kiss to his jaw. "You better. I'm not going through that again."

"Deal," he whispers, grinning as he leans in. "But admit it. I looked hot doing it."

"You looked like a dumbass in a death trap," I shoot back, already kissing him before he can laugh again.

And when the crowd around us cheers louder, when the champagne starts popping and the reporters call his name, we stay right there.

Wrapped up in each other.

Alive.

I toss my earrings onto the marble counter, watching them spin to a stop. The bathroom light is warm, soft, and everything feels a little surreal in its stillness.

The race ended hours ago. The champagne's dried. The cameras are gone. The whole of Monaco has settled into its golden hum of post party haze.

And Mingyu?

He's in the other room, humming to himself as he unzips his race suit, trailing it off his shoulders and hanging it on the back of a chair. He's shirtless underneath, hair still damp from the podium spray, and smiling like he's got secrets tucked in his dimples.

We're in our comedown phase now.

The real life part.

The part that matters.

I pull the tie from my hair and glance at him through the mirror. He catches my eye and grins.

"What?" I ask.

He walks in behind me, hands slipping around my waist, bare chest pressing into my back. His chin rests on my shoulder.

"You looked good in the garage today," he murmurs. "All bossed up and biting your nails."

"You looked like a lunatic diving at Tabac," I deadpan, reaching for the cleanser.

He chuckles, kissing the curve of my neck. "Still got the win."

"Still shaved a year off my life."

"You married me knowing the risk."

"And yet," I mutter, squeezing product into my palm.

We brush our teeth together. Shoulder to shoulder. Married people things.

I rinse and pat my face dry while he spits and glances sideways at me.

"Back hurting?"

"A little."

He disappears into the room and comes back with the massage oil from his kit. "Turn around."

I do. He starts working into my shoulders with those warm, calloused hands slow, practiced, gentle. I melt instantly.

We don't talk.

Just soft jazz in the background from the TV we left on and the occasional Monaco breeze sneaking through the cracked balcony door.

After, I crawl onto the bed in my robe and he joins me, still in his boxers, hair tousled and eyes sleepy.

We don't need much to feel like home.

He spoons me from behind, pulling the blanket over us with a quiet yawn.

"Did I scare you that bad today?" he asks into my shoulder.

"Yeah," I admit.

"You hit me harder than the G-force."

"You deserved it."

A beat of silence.

"Would it help if I promised never to try that move again?"

"No," I say. "But it would help if you let me pick your overtakes next time, Mr. Monaco."

He snorts. "Deal."

I trace the scar near his rib, the one from last season's crash.

"You're all I have, you know," I whisper.

"I know," he says, voice low. "Same goes for me."

He kisses the back of my shoulder, his hand is in my hair, gently combing through the knots with his fingers. No words. Just the rhythm of his breathing beneath me, chest rising and falling like it has all the time in the world.

We've been quiet for a while.

It's quiet in the way that makes you feel like you're the last two people on earth. No cameras. No headlines. Just us.

Mingyu's legs are tangled with mine under the blanket. My cheek is pressed to his collarbone. His other hand is tracing the top of my spine, fingertips lazy, deliberate.

"Let's disappear," he says suddenly, voice low and scratchy against the hush.

I shift to look up at him. "Disappear?"

He nods, eyes still halflidded. "Just you and me. Somewhere warm. Somewhere no one knows my name and I don't have to put on a suit unless you ask nicely."

I smile, dragging my fingers across his chest. "Are you asking me to run away with you, Mr. Kim?"

He hums. "No. I'm telling you I already booked the flights."

My eyes widen. "You did not."

He smirks. "Villa in Crete. Secluded. Private pool. Outdoor shower. No agenda. Just us, white sheets, and whatever you want for breakfast every morning."

"You're serious."

"Dead serious."

I sit up a little, stunned. "When?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"Mingyu, we just got back from-"

"I cleared it with your calendar, too," he says casually, pulling me back down against him. "Your assistant's a gem. She said you've been needing a break."

"You're ridiculous."

"And you're overworked," he murmurs into my hair. "You always take care of me. Let me take care of you this time."

I'm quiet.

Because how do you even respond to that?

He turns on his side, propping his head up with his hand. "Come on. Picture it. You in a linen dress. Me in too short swim trunks. Sunsets. No emails. No calls. Just you laughing barefoot in the kitchen while I burn eggs."

I bite my lip to hide the smile. "You don't even like eggs."

"I like you. That's enough."

I groan into the pillow. "Stop saying stuff like that unless you want me to cry."

He leans in and kisses the tip of my nose. "We could take a boat out. Swim until sunset. Make love on a patio no one else can see. You can read. I'll sleep. And when you're bored, I'll cook for you."

"You'll cook for me?"

"I'll attempt. You'll laugh. We'll survive."

I shake my head, heart feeling too full. "You really booked Crete?"

"Surprise," he whispers. "I want to be selfish with you for a little while longer.”

I curl into him, kiss the corner of his mouth, and rest my forehead to his.

"Okay," I whisper. "Let's disappear."

His grin is soft. Slow. Married.

"God, I love you," he says, like it's easy.

Like it always has been.

And that night, before the world can knock on our door again, we dream in linen and lemon trees, tangled in each other and the life we're quietly building. A life that's not always loud. But full.

Exactly how we want it.

⤷ network tags: @svthub @k-films @blossomnet

･ ⟢ ⋮ svt masterlist

[yunholic-jongholic]

could i request a woosan x soulmate au? it could be something like them being idols and used to each other and now they have a new addition to the bond so they’re kinda standoffish with the reader because they’re used to it being just them? orr it could be like a high school or college au where the reader hides from them because she’s scared of the bond? orrrrrr where each soulmate has a chibi that looks like them? (it doesn’t really matter which type of soul bond (like soul string, soulmate marks, soul touch etccc)

Tethered by Fate | C.S x Reader x J.WY

PAIRINGS | Choi San x Reader x Jung Wooyoung

RATING | Not really need a rating? But in case; 16+?

CONTENT WARNINGS | Soulmate AU, College AU, Soul string, Fluff, FLUFF, Nervous Encounters, Anxiety (Reader), Competition (WooSan), Jealousy, Flirting, PDA, F L U F F.

WORD COUNT | 10.8k

AUTHORS NOTE | YAY my first San story (and second Wooyoung!) I gotchu, I had to do some research on soulmates AU since I am still fairly new to it. I hope you enjoy! <3

•

You never asked for soulmates.

In a world where thin red threads faintly mark your wrist until they flare to life near the person fate ties you to, most people spent their lives waiting for that spark. But not you. The thought of destiny dictating who you should love — who you’re meant to belong to — felt more like a cage than a gift. So, when your thread began to thrum with heat one quiet afternoon in your second semester of college, your first instinct was fear.

And you ran.

It didn’t matter that the sensation wasn’t painful — just a soft, glowing warmth, buzzing with promise. It didn’t matter that it happened in the middle of the busy student union, surrounded by strangers and noise. What mattered was that it meant something — and you weren’t ready to face it.

Not if it meant them.

Wooyoung and San were hard to miss. Magnetic in completely different ways. Wooyoung, with his playful grin and boundless energy, could light up a room just by walking into it. San, all sharp focus and quiet depth, always seemed to notice what others didn’t. They were inseparable — best friends, roommates — already connected by a thread that glowed bright and sure.

And now, you were supposed to be the missing piece.

The second all three threads sparked to life, Wooyoung had let out a breathless laugh, San’s eyes had gone wide — and you’d turned on your heel and fled the building like it was burning.

---

You let out a long sigh as you closed the door behind you, the weight of the day settling on your shoulders like a stormcloud. The lock clicked into place — not just to keep them out, but to hold yourself in. Safe. Unreachable.

Hyojin, your best friend and roommate, barely glanced up from the couch, where a cheesy romcom played softly in the background. She raised an eyebrow, an all-too-knowing look on her face.

"Let me guess," she said, voice light but edged with concern. "Running from them again?"

You didn’t answer. You just dropped down beside her with a quiet thud, the couch dipping under your weight. The screen lit your face in soft colors — two strangers falling in love like it was simple, like it didn’t terrify them.

You wished you were that brave.

Hyojin didn’t press. She never did. She just nudged a blanket toward you with her foot, eyes still on the screen as if your whole world wasn’t quietly unraveling right beside her.

"You know, in these movies, the running only works for so long," she murmured, half-teasing, half-serious. "Eventually, the love interest shows up in the rain with a boombox or something dramatic."

You scoffed, curling up under the blanket. "Good thing it hasn’t rained."

"Yet," she added, casting a quick side glance your way. "And let’s be honest, if anyone’s showing up with a grand gesture, it’s Wooyoung."

You groaned, burying your face into a pillow. Just hearing his name made your thread pulse. Not painfully — it never was — but a low, steady ache that reminded you they were still there. Waiting.

"San wouldn’t," you muttered into the cushion. "He’d just stare at me until I broke into pieces."

Hyojin laughed, a soft and knowing sound. "Yeah. He has that vibe. All intense eye contact and poetic heartbreak."

You didn’t reply, but your silence was loud.

You wanted to say it wasn’t fair. That you didn’t ask for this — the connection, the glowing thread, the weight of expectation. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t about fair. It was about fear.

Because Wooyoung and San were real. They saw you. And worse — they wanted to.

And you weren’t sure you could handle what came next if you stopped running.

So instead, you sat there, pretending the movie was enough to keep your heart quiet, while your soul tugged in the direction of two people who refused to stop hoping.

---

Wooyoung paced.

Back and forth across the small dorm room, hands ruffling through his hair, his wrist glowing with that telltale red thread that never seemed to fade anymore. It hummed lightly — not in sound, but in feeling. Always there. Always warm. Always pointing toward you.

San sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, watching silently.

"She’s avoiding us again," Wooyoung muttered, more to himself than anything. "She saw me outside the art building and ran. Not walked, not slipped away. Ran. Like I was chasing her with a chainsaw."

San tilted his head slightly, his gaze calm but thoughtful. “You were holding a bouquet of red carnations.”

"...Okay, maybe that was a little intense."

San finally smiled, a flicker of amusement in his usually unreadable expression. But it faded quickly, replaced with the same quiet worry he’d been carrying since the threads lit up.

"She’s scared," he said simply. "It’s not us. It’s what we mean."

Wooyoung dropped down onto the bed beside him with a frustrated sigh. “But why be afraid of something that’s supposed to be… good? We’re not trying to force her. We haven’t even— We’re giving her space.”

"I know," San said. "But space doesn’t always feel like safety. Sometimes it just feels like distance. Like abandonment."

They both went quiet for a long moment.

Outside, campus life went on — students laughing in the hall, music drifting in through a slightly cracked window, the world moving forward while they stayed suspended in this waiting game.

"I just…" Wooyoung trailed off, looking down at the soft glow on his wrist. "I just want her to know we’re not here to trap her in some fate-shaped box. I want her to choose us. Not because of this—" he lifted his arm, the thread catching the light, "—but because she wants to."

San nodded slowly, eyes fixed on his own wrist. The thread stretched out into the unknown, toward you.

“She’ll come back,” he said quietly. “She just needs time.”

“And what if time doesn’t help?” Wooyoung whispered.

San’s answer was immediate, steady. “Then we wait longer.”

---

You weren’t sure when you fell asleep.

The romcom had ended. Hyojin had gone quiet beside you, her phone screen dimming as she dozed off mid-scroll. The apartment was wrapped in a soft kind of stillness — the kind that feels like it’s waiting for something to happen.

You stirred when a faint knock tapped against the door.

Once. Then twice. Soft, hesitant. Like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure they should be there at all.

You sat up slowly, the blanket slipping off your shoulders. Hyojin blinked awake, squinting toward the door.

"Expecting someone?" she mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

You shook your head, already knowing — somehow — who it was. You couldn’t explain how you knew. The way your thread felt suddenly alive, humming low and warm, like it was holding its breath.

You padded to the door quietly, heart thudding too loud for how little had happened. You didn’t unlock it right away. Just pressed your forehead against the cool wood, eyes closed.

“Y/N?” Wooyoung’s voice was soft. Barely a whisper. “I’m not here to push. I just… I wanted to leave something.”

There was a pause.

Then the rustle of a paper bag.

“I made too many honey muffins. Thought you might want one. Or not. Either way—” he hesitated, then gave a short, nervous laugh, “—I figured it’s harder to be scared of someone who shows up with baked goods.”

You opened the door a crack just in time to see him walking away down the hall, hoodie pulled up, hands shoved into his pockets like he wasn’t holding his breath too.

On the floor, in front of your door, was a small brown bag. The smell of warm sugar and cinnamon leaked through.

No note. No pressure.

Just muffins.

Just Wooyoung.

You didn’t call after him. But you picked up the bag and held it close, something in your chest trembling with the gentleness of it all.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like running.

Later that night, the muffins sat on your desk �� one half-eaten, the others untouched, like maybe if you didn’t finish them, the moment wouldn’t end.

You stared at your phone screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The soft light of your desk lamp cast a pale circle around you, everything else fading into a blur of shadows. The world outside your dorm was silent. Even Hyojin was asleep now, curled under a mountain of blankets.

And still, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. About them.

You opened your messages, fingers hesitating before typing:

Y/N

You didn’t have to do that. But… thank you. They were really good. My favorite, actually. I don’t hate you. Or San. I’m just… scared. Of what this means. Of what I might become if I let myself want it.

You paused.

Deleted the last line.

Rewrote it.

Y/N

I think I’m afraid that if I fall for you — both of you — I won’t know how to be myself anymore.

Your throat tightened.

You stared at the message, reread it once, twice. Your thumb hovered over the send button, a storm of emotion brimming just under your skin.

Then you locked your phone and set it face down.

It wasn’t time. Not yet.

But maybe soon.

Maybe tomorrow.

You curled up under your blanket, heart still buzzing from the echo of Wooyoung’s quiet kindness and San’s patient silence.

And even though the message remained unsent, for the first time… you thought about what it would feel like to stop being afraid.

---

San couldn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, one arm draped across his eyes, the other resting on his chest — right over the thread that hummed beneath his skin. It never stopped. Not since that day.

The moment it lit up — glowing bright red between him, Wooyoung, and you — something in him had shifted. Not like flipping a switch. More like discovering a second heartbeat he didn’t know he had.

And then you ran.

He didn’t blame you. Not really.

But the silence since then had been a strange kind of ache. Not sharp. Just there — constant, quiet, heavy. Like waiting for a storm that might never come, only clouds.

Wooyoung had tried to fill the space between you with light. San tried to respect the space at all.

But every day that passed, he caught himself watching doorways, scanning lecture halls, hoping for a glimpse. Hoping you'd look at them again the way you did, just before you fled — like your soul recognized something your fear wouldn’t let you reach for.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He reached for it instinctively — the thread always made him hope.

Nothing. Just a group chat notification. Someone sending memes. Wooyoung, probably.

He glanced at your name in his messages. Still unopened. Still unread.

Still… nothing.

San sat up, feet touching the cold floor. His wrist glowed softly in the dark, casting a faint red light across his palm.

He whispered, to no one, to maybe you, “I’d wait forever, if that’s what you need.”

Because it wasn’t about the thread.

It was about you. Choosing him. Choosing them.

And until then, he’d keep the space open. Quiet. Gentle.

Ready.

---

The café was already buzzing with early morning energy — espresso machines hissing, students half-awake and wrapped in hoodies and oversized scarves, soft indie music playing through the speakers. You stood in line, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, scrolling through your notes to mentally prep for your first class.

Then it hit you.

That now-familiar jolt. Not harsh, but unmistakable — a spark beneath your skin, dancing along the glowing thread.

You didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

Still, you did — and there he was. San, standing just a few people behind you, hair messy from sleep and hoodie half-zipped like he’d just rolled out of bed and sprinted here.

Your breath caught.

You turned quickly, tugging your own hoodie up over your head and shrinking a little into yourself, silently pleading with the universe to let him not see you.

But the universe had other plans.

“Hey! Y/N.” His voice was bright, but not too loud. Casual. Like this was just any morning, any moment. “Let me get that for you.”

You turned halfway, offering him a sheepish smile, one hand wrapped around your phone like a lifeline.

“It’s okay, really. You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, already stepping forward and tapping his card before you could protest again. “Consider it as my apology for scaring you yesterday after class.”

You blinked. “That wasn’t me being scared.” You lied.

He shrugged, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Still. I figured coffee would be a safer follow-up.”

You glanced at him, searching for any signs of pressure, of expectation — but there was none. Just San. Open. Easy. Real.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, shifting your weight as the barista called out your name.

“For both?” he asked.

You nodded. “Mine and Hyojin’s. She’ll appreciate it.”

He smiled wider, but not in a flirty way — more like someone genuinely happy just to do something kind for someone they cared about.

As you reached for the drinks, your fingers brushed his — just for a second — and the thread pulsed gently between you.

You didn’t run this time.

And San didn’t comment on it. Didn’t ask for anything more.

He just said, “Hope your morning’s a little better now,” then stepped aside with a soft wave, giving you space to leave first.

And somehow, that simple act made your heart ache more than any grand gesture ever could.

You rushed back to the dorm in a hurried shuffle.

Hyojin was still wrapped in her blanket like a sleepy burrito when you returned, the TV already playing reruns of some old sitcom she liked to put on in the mornings — just enough background noise to keep things from feeling too quiet.

You handed her the coffee.

She sat up immediately, eyes narrowing as she took the cup from your hands. “Wait… you didn’t buy this.”

You blinked, trying to play innocent. “What makes you say that?”

She gave you a look over the rim of her cup. “Because you always get the oat milk latte when you’re paying. This is almond milk. That’s a San move.”

You sighed, sinking into the beanbag chair across from her.

“…He was at the café.”

“And he paid?” she asked, eyebrows rising. “And you didn’t sprint out the door like someone lit your thread on fire?”

You threw a pillow at her. “It wasn’t like that.”

She laughed, catching the pillow and hugging it to her chest. “Okay, so tell me — what was it like, then?”

You hesitated. Chewed the inside of your cheek. The words felt fragile, like they might shatter if you spoke them too fast.

“It was… calm,” you said finally. “He saw me. Didn’t make a big deal. Just… offered to pay. No weird comments. No guilt-tripping. No soulmate speech.”

Hyojin nodded slowly, sipping her coffee like she was giving you space to unravel it all.

“And you know what’s weird?” you added, softer now. “It felt normal. Like we were just two people… being nice to each other. Not fate. Not pressure. Just—”

“San being San,” she finished for you.

You nodded, thumb running along the rim of your coffee cup.

“And… I didn’t run. I wanted to. At first. But then he smiled, and it wasn’t… intense or hopeful or anything dramatic. Just real. And I guess… I wanted to stay in that moment a little longer.”

Hyojin smiled gently, eyes warm. “That’s not nothing, Y/N.”

You nodded, a small flicker of something brave flickering in your chest.

“It’s not everything yet,” you whispered. “But maybe it’s a start.”

---

The smell of sizzling eggs and butter filled the dorm, warm and familiar. Wooyoung stood at the stove in a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, humming quietly as he flipped pancakes with practiced ease.

The door opened behind him with a soft click.

San stepped in, cheeks slightly pink from the cold outside — or maybe from something else.

"Smells good," he said, dropping his bag by the couch.

Wooyoung glanced over his shoulder. “Got up early. Figured we could use a proper breakfast for once instead of vending machine muffins.”

San chuckled, toeing off his shoes. “You’re turning domestic on me.”

“I’m adorable like that,” Wooyoung said with a wink, flipping another pancake onto a plate. “So? Where were you this early?”

San leaned against the counter, eyes twinkling.

“I don’t want to make it sound like a competition,” he started, a teasing lilt to his voice, “but I had a nice meeting with Y/N.”

Wooyoung froze mid-motion, spatula hovering in the air. His head turned slowly, eyes wide.

“You what?”

San grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Ran into her by the cafe. She was alone. Didn’t bolt. We talked for a few minutes.”

Wooyoung put the spatula down a little too carefully.

“Was she… okay? Was she scared? Did she look like she wanted to leave? Did you freak her out?”

San laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “No. She was actually calm. Quiet, but not closed off. And…” He looked down, ears reddening slightly. “She was… cute.”

That made Wooyoung pause. Really pause.

He leaned back against the counter, hands resting on the edge as he stared down at the stove, lips pressed together. “I wish I’d been there.”

San glanced over at him, his smile softening. “You kind of were.”

Wooyoung looked up.

“She mentioned the muffins,” San said gently.

Wooyoung exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

“I don’t want her to feel chased,” he said quietly. “I just… I miss her. And we barely even had her yet.”

San reached out, nudging Wooyoung’s arm.

“She’s not gone. She’s just… figuring it out. You were patient with me. You can be patient with her too.”

Wooyoung smiled at that — tired, but genuine.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “For her? I can wait.”

And as he plated the last pancake and set the table for two, something in his chest settled. Because maybe slow was okay. Maybe slow was exactly what you needed.

---

Class had just ended, and students spilled out of the lecture hall like a slow-moving tide of tired bodies and caffeine breath. You adjusted your backpack, hoping to make a quiet escape down the side hallway—until you felt that buzz again.

The thread. Alive. Warm. And pulling in two directions at once.

You looked up and froze.

Wooyoung was leaning against one wall, arms crossed, eyes lighting up the moment he saw you.

San was on the opposite wall, perfectly still, casually scrolling through his phone like he wasn’t clearly waiting for you, too.

You blinked.

They blinked.

Then both pushed off the wall at the same time.

“Y/N! I was just about to head to the café. Wanna walk with me?” Wooyoung beamed, already taking a half-step toward you.

San cleared his throat softly, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Actually, I was going to check out that new study space in the greenhouse. Thought you might like it.”

You stared at them.

They stared at each other.

Then back at you.

It was obvious what was happening. And it was also very obvious they hadn’t coordinated this.

Wooyoung smiled a little too wide. “You can’t even study with plants, San. What is she gonna do, photosynthesize her notes?”

San, calm as ever, didn’t even blink. “Some people find greenery relaxing. Unlike… a loud café full of undercooked croissants and overconfident baristas.”

“That barista was flirting with me,” Wooyoung shot back.

“Exactly,” San said.

You raised both hands, barely hiding your laugh. “Okay, okay, please stop fighting with each other in front of the academic building like I’m the final boss.”

They both quieted instantly. Then Wooyoung scratched the back of his neck and mumbled, “We just… wanted to hang out with you. Not in a weird way. Not in a ‘soulmate pressure’ way. Just… you.”

San nodded. “We can walk you somewhere. Or nowhere. Or just… exist near you for a bit.”

You looked at them — standing there, trying so hard to not try too hard.

And it hit you again: they weren’t asking you to choose. They were just trying to be close. To be present. To be themselves around you, and hope you’d let yourself do the same.

“…Come on,” you said softly, starting to walk. “You can both walk with me. But no more competing, got it?”

Wooyoung grinned. “Define ‘competing.’”

San sighed. “He’s already losing.”

And just like that, the tension melted into something warmer, easier.

You didn’t say much as you walked between them — not yet — but you didn’t run either.

And for them, that was already a win.

The three of you walked along the tree-lined path that cut through campus, leaves crunching softly underfoot. The air smelled like autumn and coffee, and for once, the thread around your wrist wasn’t overwhelming — just a soft, steady pulse. Like background music you didn’t mind anymore.

Wooyoung was rambling about some club’s haunted house fundraiser — complete with inflatable ghosts and “jump scares that would definitely make San scream.”

You smiled, listening but not saying much. It was easy to let his voice fill the space, to let it feel normal.

Then there was a pause. Just long enough to be noticeable.

You glanced to your left. San had fallen a few steps behind, hands in his pockets, gaze distant. Thoughtful.

Wooyoung slowed too, looking back. “Hey, you good?”

San looked up and gave a small nod. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Wooyoung joked, nudging him lightly.

But San didn’t laugh. Not this time.

“I’ve been wondering,” he said softly, eyes still on the path ahead, “if maybe the reason soulmates exist… isn’t to force people together. But to remind them they can be seen.”

You stopped walking. Slowly.

So did Wooyoung.

San finally looked at you.

“Not just loved,” he added, “but… understood. The way you think no one ever will. That kind of scary, messy, real understanding.”

His voice didn’t waver, but something in it was raw. Honest.

“And I think…” He exhaled, gaze dropping for a moment. “That maybe you’re scared of the bond because it already feels like we see you. And that’s terrifying when you’ve spent so long trying to keep certain parts hidden.”

Your breath caught.

Wooyoung was unusually quiet beside you.

San didn’t step closer, didn’t reach out. He just stood there, his own thread glowing faintly against the falling dusk light, as if saying — I see you, and I’m still here.

“I’m sorry if that’s too much,” he added softly.

You shook your head, your voice low. “It’s not.”

It was everything.

And though you didn’t say another word the rest of the walk, something shifted. Not in the bond.

In you.

---

You sat on your bed, legs crossed under you, hoodie still on like a shield even though the room was warm.

Hyojin was at her desk, scribbling notes half-heartedly until she noticed you hadn’t said much since you got back. She turned in her chair, watching you over the top of her laptop with that familiar “I know something’s up” expression.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you pulled your legs in tighter and rested your chin on your knees. “San said something earlier.”

That got her full attention. “Oh?”

You nodded; eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

“He said…” You took a breath. “That maybe soulmates aren’t about forcing people together. That maybe they’re just about showing someone they can actually be seen. Not just loved but understood.”

Hyojin didn’t speak, waiting patiently like she always did when you needed time to untangle your thoughts.

“And he said he thought maybe I was scared because I already felt like they saw me.” You paused. “And he’s right.”

The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of a dorm heater.

You finally looked up at her, your voice quieter now. “I didn’t think anyone ever really could see me. I got used to keeping the real stuff hidden. Even from you sometimes.”

Hyojin didn’t flinch. She just stood up, walked over, and sat on the edge of your bed, nudging your foot with hers.

“You don’t have to be scared of being seen, Y/N. Not with them. Not with me. But it’s okay if you still are.”

You blinked fast, feeling your throat tighten.

“I didn’t run today,” you whispered.

Hyojin smiled softly. “I know.”

“And it didn’t feel like the world was ending. Just… heavy.”

She leaned over and rested her head on your shoulder. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to.

But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide from the weight of being known.

---

It was later in the week when it happened.

You had a late class that let out just after sunset, and the campus was quiet in that sleepy kind of way — golden lights flickering on, students trailing back to their dorms with earbuds in and backpacks slung low.

You didn’t expect to see him there.

Wooyoung, sitting alone on one of the benches near the fountain outside the arts building, hoodie pulled over his head, earbuds dangling around his neck. A takeout container sat next to him, mostly untouched.

He looked up when he heard your footsteps — and when he saw it was you, he smiled.

Not the usual bright Wooyoung grin. This one was softer. Tired.

You almost walked past him. Almost.

But something in you stopped. Turned. Sat beside him, even though your heart thudded a little too loudly in your chest.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Neither did you.

Just the sound of the fountain and the wind brushing through the trees.

Then, finally—

“I always thought being soulmates with someone would fix something in me,” Wooyoung said quietly, gaze fixed on the water.

You looked at him, surprised by the weight in his voice.

“But it didn’t. You showed up, and everything still felt… confusing. Unfinished. Scary, even.”

He rubbed his thumb over the glowing thread on his wrist, the light faint but constant. “And I realized, maybe soulmates don’t fix you. Maybe they just… stand next to the broken parts and say, ‘I still want you anyway.’”

You felt your breath catch.

“I don’t want you to love me because you’re meant to,” he went on, voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to love me because one day you choose to. Because you look at me and San, and you don’t see a bond — you see us. Messy, flawed, ridiculous… but real.”

He finally turned to you, eyes soft and so achingly open, like he wasn’t afraid of you seeing the cracks.

“And if that day never comes… I’ll still be glad I met you. I’ll still think you’re brave for even sitting here right now.”

His voice caught at the end, just slightly — enough to make your chest tighten.

For a heartbeat, it looked like he might cry.

But then he smiled. Just barely. A little sad, a little accepting. And when he spoke again, it was quieter, almost like it wasn’t meant for you to hear — like it was something he’d already accepted in the quietest parts of his heart.

“Even if you end up finding someone else… I will still think about this.”

You didn’t know what to say. Words felt too small for the weight of what he’d just given you — something so gentle, and yet so devastating.

You didn’t speak.

You reached out instead — hand brushing his, fingers trembling — and laced your pinky with his.

He looked down at the touch. Then back at you.

And for once, he didn’t try to fill the silence with words or jokes.

He just held on.

---

The sky was bruised with early morning light when you found yourself in the greenhouse.

You weren’t sure what pulled you there — maybe San’s voice echoing in your head from days ago, maybe the part of you that couldn’t stop thinking about the way Wooyoung had looked at you like he was letting you go just to make you feel free.

Maybe you were tired of being afraid.

The glass walls let in soft gold light, and the air smelled of damp earth and something alive. The space was quiet, warm. Peaceful.

San sat near the back, legs crossed beneath him on a bench, a book in his lap. He didn’t look surprised when you entered — like maybe he already knew you were coming.

You stood awkwardly for a moment before stepping closer.

“I didn’t come to study,” you said.

He smiled faintly, setting the book aside. “I didn’t either.”

You sat across from him, the little table between you filled with scattered pages, succulents, and a small ceramic frog someone had left there weeks ago.

For a long time, you just looked at each other.

Then you spoke.

“Wooyoung told me he’d be okay if I didn’t choose you both,” you whispered. “Said he’d still be grateful. Even if I found someone else.”

San’s brows furrowed slightly, his jaw tightening, but not with anger — with emotion.

“I think that broke my heart a little,” you admitted, voice shaking. “Because… he meant it.”

San nodded, slow and steady. “He did.”

You took a breath. It felt heavier than it should have. “I didn’t realize… how much love can look like letting go.”

San leaned forward, arms resting on the table, voice low. “That’s what makes it real. Not just the bond. Not fate. Choice.”

You looked at him, and this time, you didn’t shy away from his gaze.

“I’m scared that if I let you both in… you’ll see all the parts I’ve tried so hard to keep hidden. And you’ll love me anyway. And then I won’t know who I am without that love.”

San’s eyes softened, his expression still and grounding — like he was holding space for you without trying to fix you.

“Y/N,” he said gently, “loving someone doesn’t erase who they are. It just gives them more room to be.”

You stared at him for a moment. “How are you so calm about this?”

His lips curved into the faintest smile. “I’m not. I’ve just spent more time thinking about you than my fear.”

You looked away, overwhelmed.

But then you felt it — his hand, reaching out across the table, palm open. Not grabbing. Just waiting.

You didn’t think.

You placed your hand in his.

Warm.

Steady.

No pressure.

Just San.

And for the first time, you thought: maybe I can do this.

---

It started with a text.

San: We’re heading to get icecream in a bit. You’re welcome to join. No pressure. We’ll be at the parlor by the cafe.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a plea.

It was just… an open door.

You stared at the message longer than you needed to. Then you packed your bag and left before you could talk yourself out of it.

The icecream parlor was quiet — all hushed voices, the occasional sounds of the freezer running, and late-afternoon sun filtering in through tall windows. It cast a warm glow across the marbled tables and wooden floor, soft enough to make it feel like a different world.

Wooyoung looked up first when you approached.

He didn’t react dramatically — no wide smile, no flirty comment, just a soft blink of surprise followed by a warm, quiet grin. The kind that said you’re here without a single word.

San gave a small nod, already clearing a spot at the table between them.

You sat.

No one spoke for a while. Not in the way that felt awkward — in the way that felt comfortable.

San was already with you eating icecream as Wooyoung was ordering his.

You looked at them once Wooyoung sat down, San offered to pay for yours as a "Thank you for letting us take you here" gift.

At one point, Wooyoung offered you a bite of his icecream. San rolled his eyes thinking he was trying too hard. You glanced at both of them, your chest tightening a little — not with fear this time, but with something warmer.

There were no dramatic declarations. No glowing threads buzzing like sirens. Just the gentle presence of two people who wanted you close, even if it meant sitting in silence.

And somewhere in the middle of that quiet, you realized:

This — this space, this peace — was its own kind of love.

You didn’t say anything.

But you stayed.

And that, for now, was more than enough.

---

The walk back to your dorm was… peaceful.

Wooyoung talked about some ridiculous online quiz he took that said he was a golden retriever (he wasn’t even mad — just proud), while San chimed in occasionally with dry remarks that made both of you laugh harder than necessary. The thread around your wrist pulsed gently with their presence, but not in a demanding way — just there, like a heartbeat.

No fighting. No forcing. No fear.

Just three people walking home under the orange glow of streetlights.

When you reached your building, they didn’t linger.

“Thanks for coming today,” San said softly, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung added, leaning back on his heels. “You have no idea how much that meant to us.”

You smiled. “It meant something to me too.”

You didn’t have to say more than that.

They nodded, like they understood.

Inside the dorm, you barely had the door shut behind you before Hyojin popped up from the couch, eyes wide with anticipation.

“You’re glowing,” she said instantly, pointing at you. “Suspiciously.”

You rolled your eyes and kicked off your shoes. “I was literally just studying.” You lied. You were technically already on a first date with them eating Icecream.

“With two soulmates who are in love with you,” she sang, wiggling her eyebrows. “Don’t play coy with me. I’m emotionally invested in this fanfiction of a life you’re living.”

You laughed, a little breathless, a little tired.

“I’m serious though,” she said, walking into the kitchenette. “You need a change of scenery. Some dopamine. Some dancing. Good timing — Yunho and Yeosang are throwing a party tomorrow night. You’re coming.”

You blinked. “Yunho and Yeosang?”

“Yep.” She tossed you a granola bar. “One’s an extrovert golden retriever in human form — basically Wooyoung but louder — and the other’s a soft-spoken intellectual who wears sweaters even when it’s 90 degrees. He literally pulls Yunho away from dance circles by his collar.”

“…So, you and me, but more chaotic.”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “Yunho’s been asking if I’d bring you around anyway. Says Yeosang needs new people to judge quietly.”

You gave her a look.

“Come on,” she said, flopping onto the couch again. “You’ve spent weeks hiding. You deserve one night of music, weird drinks, and watching some guys do the worm badly on a hardwood floor.”

You hesitated.

And then… nodded.

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s go to a party.”

Hyojin beamed. “Hell yeah.”

---

The music was way louder than you expected.

As soon as you stepped into the off-campus house, the bass hit you in the chest like a second heartbeat. Lights glowed warm and golden, laughter spilled from the kitchen, and someone had already spilled something sticky on the floor by the entryway — probably juice, possibly regret.

Hyojin tugged your wrist. “Okay, rules,” she shouted over the music. “Don’t drink the neon stuff. Don’t make eye contact with anyone doing interpretive dance. And if Yunho challenges you to karaoke — run.”

You laughed, nerves dissolving into adrenaline.

That’s when he appeared.

Yunho, tall and glowing like someone physically made of sunshine and Red Bull, bounded toward you both with open arms. “HYOJIN! You brought your mysterious roommate!”

“She’s not mysterious,” Hyojin shouted back. “She’s emotionally complicated!”

You gave a weak wave. “Hi.”

Yunho spun dramatically and pointed to the guy standing stiffly behind him, sipping from a plain paper cup like he didn’t want to be perceived.

“And this is Yeosang. He hates this.”

Yeosang gave you a polite nod and a “hello” so soft it nearly got swallowed by the music.

“I don’t hate this,” he muttered. “I’m simply observing this social chaos with anthropological detachment.”

“I once caught him reading Plato in a hot tub,” Yunho said proudly, already turning away like he hadn’t just exposed Yeosang’s deepest philosophical sins.

Yeosang stared ahead, expression perfectly blank, save for the smallest twitch of his eye. “…He tells everyone that.”

You tried — tried — not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway.

Before either of you could recover, Yunho took off like a rocket across the crowded living room, yelling, “Mingi!” like it was both a greeting and a battle cry.

Your eyes followed him just in time to see him tackle a very surprised — but delighted — Mingi onto the floor. The two of them dissolved into uncontrollable laughter, limbs flailing as people parted around them like it was normal for grown men to recreate WWE in the middle of a house party.

You glanced sideways at Yeosang, who hadn’t moved an inch, his cup still delicately held in one hand as he watched his best friend roll around on the hardwood floor.

“…Is he?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

Yeosang sipped his water like it was a fine wine, voice deadpan. “Drunk? Yes.”

You snorted, covering your mouth as a laugh slipped out.

Yeosang’s lips quirked, just slightly. “He gets like this when he’s happy. Or when he’s had anything mixed with blue raspberry.”

“Both, then?”

“Undoubtedly.”

The two of you stood there, quietly united in mutual secondhand embarrassment, watching Mingi attempt to pin Yunho while yelling, “SURRENDER TO YOUR DESTINY.”

You leaned in slightly. “Should we… help?”

Yeosang took another sip. “No. They’d just drag us into it.”

You nodded. “Smart man.”

For a moment, the party seemed to blur in the background — too loud, too fast — but right there, beside Yeosang and his cup of water, everything felt still. Safe. Strangely comforting.

And then a voice called from behind you—

“Y/N! San’s about to lose at flip cup, come watch!”

Wooyoung, of course.

Yeosang sighed lightly. “Good luck.”

You smirked. “Want to come?”

He shook his head. “I’m the designated plant guardian tonight. Someone has to keep the fern alive.”

You left him to it, weaving through the chaos toward the rest of the night — but not without glancing back and seeing Yeosang gently move a party cup away from the fern like it was sacred.

You were definitely coming back to talk to him later.

You didn’t mean to start a conversation with the guy in the flannel.

He’d bumped into you near the kitchen, offered a quick apology, and then started chatting about the playlist. He was funny. Not in a flirty, overbearing way — just easy to talk to. You weren’t thinking about anything beyond the song and the shared complaint about how warm the room had gotten.

But across the room, Wooyoung saw it happen.

He’d just returned from cheering San on in an incredibly one-sided flip cup match (San was losing. With dignity.), when he spotted you near the counter, laughing softly as Flannel Guy leaned in a little closer — just a little — to say something in your ear.

Wooyoung paused mid-step, the grin on his face faltering for half a second.

He wasn’t angry.

But something in his chest tightened.

He knew — he knew — you weren’t his. Not in the possessive way. Not in the way soulmates get written in stories, where the bond means instant belonging. That wasn’t how he saw you.

But he also knew how hard you’d worked to be open. How slowly you’d let your walls down. How every glance, every conversation, every inch of closeness with him and San had been earned with time, not thread.

And now Flannel Guy was standing too close, and you were smiling in that soft, slightly shy way Wooyoung had come to treasure like a secret.

San appeared beside him, holding two drinks. He followed Wooyoung’s line of sight, instantly zeroing in.

“That him?” he asked, tone even but eyes sharp.

“Who?”

“The guy you’re absolutely not staring at like he’s a threat to your entire bloodline.”

Wooyoung blinked, then snorted. “Okay, dramatic.”

San handed him one of the drinks. “You are going over there?”

“Nope,” he said quickly, then added, “Yes.”

He didn’t storm across the room. Didn’t interrupt.

Just appeared next to you, sliding into the space beside you with practiced ease, that trademark Wooyoung smile back in place — charming, casual, just a little too bright.

“Hey,” he said, nudging your arm. “You vanished. Thought maybe you were pulled into a karaoke cult.”

You looked up, surprised. “I was just—”

“Talking about the playlist,” Flannel Guy offered, clearly catching the shift but trying to play it cool. “You’re her friend?”

Wooyoung glanced at you, then back at him. “You could say that.”

The guy nodded, but the energy had shifted. You could feel it — subtle, but unmistakable.

Flannel Guy made a polite exit a moment later, something about checking on his friends, and you turned to Wooyoung with a lifted brow.

“You, okay?”

Wooyoung shrugged, sipping his drink. “Fine. Just… don’t want you getting stuck talking to a guy who thinks ‘early Drake’ is a personality.”

You raised a brow, amused. “That’s a very specific accusation.”

“I know his kind,” he said seriously. “They carry acoustic guitars to bonfires.”

You laughed — but you didn’t move away.

And Wooyoung smiled at that.

Just a little.

The party had started to wind down.

The music was still thumping, but slower now, more background than center stage. People drifted toward couches, clustered in corners, or disappeared into late-night walks and whispered laughter.

You found Wooyoung and San on the back patio — Wooyoung perched on the arm of a bench, San leaning against the railing, both of them quiet in that familiar way they got when the world slowed down around them.

They looked up when you stepped outside, your expression unreadable.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Can I talk to you both for a second?”

Wooyoung blinked, then stood up straighter. San gave a small nod, eyes steady on you.

You walked past them, to the far end of the patio where the light didn’t quite reach — private, but not dramatic. They followed, like they would’ve gone anywhere you asked.

You turned to face them, heart hammering in your chest.

“I need to say something,” you began, voice quiet but sure. “And I don’t know if it’s going to come out perfectly, but…”

You exhaled, looking between the two of them.

“I see you. Both of you.”

They didn’t speak — didn’t move — but something in their eyes softened.

“I see the way you’ve been holding back. The way you’ve waited for me to be ready. How you’ve never pushed. How you’ve been patient and kind and just… here.”

You looked down for a second, then back up, meeting San’s gaze first.

“You listen more than you speak. You give space even when it probably hurts to. You look at me like I’m already enough, even when I’m not sure I believe it myself.”

Then to Wooyoung.

“You make everything feel lighter. You make me laugh even when I don’t want to. And even when you’re hurting, you still show up like you’re the one trying to make me feel safe.”

Wooyoung’s lips parted, a quiet breath catching in his throat.

“I know this bond is supposed to mean something,” you continued. “But you two are the ones who made it feel real. Not fate. You.”

They were both completely still now — not out of shock, but because they didn’t want to break the moment.

“I’m scared. I’m still scared,” you admitted, voice cracking just a little. “But not of you. Not anymore. I think I’ve just been scared of being loved the right way. Of being known.”

You let the silence sit for a second.

And then: “But I think I’m ready to stop running.”

Wooyoung was the first to speak — barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to jump in all at once. We’re not going anywhere.”

San stepped closer, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the steady calm of his presence. “We’ll meet you wherever you are.”

You nodded slowly; eyes misty.

And then — for the first time — you reached out, you bridged the gap.

You took both of their hands.

One in each of yours.

And when the threads pulsed between all three of you, soft and steady, no one flinched.

---

The dorm was quiet when you got back.

Hyojin had left a note on the whiteboard stuck to the door: “Crashing at a friend. Try not to emotionally combust without me. 💖”

You smiled faintly as you slipped inside, flipping on the little lamp near your desk. The overhead lights stayed off — too harsh for how full your chest already felt.

Wooyoung and San followed behind you, quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward or heavy, just… comfortable. Familiar. Like the air after a storm.

You dropped your bag and kicked off your shoes, curling up on the edge of your bed as they settled in, like they’d done it a hundred times before.

Wooyoung sat cross-legged on the floor beside your bed, chin resting on the edge of the mattress. San leaned back in your desk chair, spinning slowly, rhythmically, his gaze soft as it drifted between the two of you.

No one spoke for a while.

And it was nice.

Eventually, Wooyoung broke the silence. “I missed this,” he said, voice low, like anything louder might shatter it.

You looked at him. “We didn’t really have this yet.”

He smiled. “Still missed it.”

San added quietly, “This is the first time we’ve all felt… aligned. Together. Without fear between us.”

You nodded slowly, pulling your knees to your chest.

There was no grand gesture. No dramatic music. Just the three of you sitting in the soft haze of a new beginning.

Eventually, Wooyoung nudged your leg with his elbow. “Can I—?”

You didn’t let him finish.

You reached down and laced your fingers through his.

At the same time, San stood and walked over, crouching beside the bed on your other side. You held your free hand up, and he took it without hesitation.

And just like that — the three of you, linked quietly, hearts in sync — you sat there in the dim dorm light.

No pressure.

No fear.

Just a beginning that felt soft. Safe. Real.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to run from it.

San turned toward you gently, his hand still holding yours — grounding, warm, sure. You met his gaze, and something inside you melted at the way he was looking at you. Like you were something sacred. Like he couldn’t believe he got to be this close.

You took a breath, your heart fluttering like soft wings in your chest.

Then, without thinking — no overanalyzing, no running — you leaned in.

And San met you halfway.

The kiss was soft. Careful. Like he was afraid to break you. But underneath that caution was something deeper — a longing that made your fingers tighten just slightly around his.

You felt him breathe against you.

He kissed you again — deeper this time, like he didn’t want to stop, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And you let him.

You wanted to.

San’s heart was beating so fast you could almost feel the rhythm through his skin, like it was trying to leap out of his chest and into yours.

Then—

A very dramatic throat-clear.

“Okay, my turn,” Wooyoung announced, tapping San’s shoulder like he was cutting in at a dance.

San broke the kiss slowly, his face flushed and dazed, as he turned to look at his best friend.

“You’re seriously—”

Wooyoung was already leaning in, eyes twinkling but filled with something sincere behind the playfulness. “It’s only fair.”

You turned your head toward him, and before you could say anything, he kissed you too — but not the same.

Where San had been slow and steady, Wooyoung was soft and sweet and just a little smug about finally getting his moment. His hand gently cupped your cheek, his lips brushing yours like he’d dreamed of it but never dared to rush it.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “Worth the wait.”

You blinked, breath catching in your throat.

And then San — who still hadn’t let go of your hand — leaned his head against your shoulder with a deep sigh.

“I hate how smooth he is sometimes,” he muttered.

You laughed, tears stinging the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming warmth, the safety, the sheer realness of it all.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But right here, in the quiet warmth of your dorm, with both of them beside you — one grounded, one glowing, both yours — you knew one thing for sure:

You weren’t afraid anymore.

You leaned down in bed with them as they both held you in their arms from opposite sides.

---

The sunlight slipped through the blinds, golden and slow, warming the room just enough to make getting up feel illegal.

You were barely conscious, your face smushed into a pillow, your body tangled between limbs that weren’t entirely your own. One of San’s arms was looped around your waist, his breath soft against the back of your neck. Wooyoung’s legs were thrown over both of yours like he’d lost a battle with gravity sometime during the night and just made peace with it.

There was a quiet creak — the door opening.

“Morninggg—” Hyojin’s voice cut off mid-yawn, followed by a beat of silence.

You blinked slowly, groggily lifting your head and squinting at her like a confused meerkat peeking out of a blanket nest.

Hyojin’s lips curled into a dangerous smirk.

“Well, well, well,” she said, arms crossed. “Looks like Y/N got herself a whole cat harem.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a muffled, exhausted noise.

San groaned softly behind you, pulling the blanket higher over all of you without even opening his eyes. Wooyoung cracked one eye open, saw Hyojin, and mumbled, “This isn’t a harem. It’s a heat-efficient cuddle pod.”

Hyojin snorted. “Sure, okay. Let me know when you start charging admission.”

And with that, she shut the door with a cackle, disappearing down the hall like the menace she was.

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, caught somewhere between embarrassment and the warm, sleepy contentment of knowing you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

San hummed softly. “Did she say cat harem?”

“Don’t ask,” you mumbled.

Wooyoung shifted, nestling his face into the crook of your shoulder. “We should’ve locked the door.”

“Next time,” you sighed.

Neither of them moved.

Neither did you.

Because honestly? It was kind of the perfect morning.

The day started simple enough.

You'd suggested brunch. Wooyoung had offered to cook. San immediately declared he would supervise, which actually meant doing absolutely nothing useful. Hyojin, coffee mug in hand, sat on the counter like a queen surveying her kingdom of idiots.

“What are you making again?” you asked, tying your hair up and peeking into the fridge.

“Kimchi fried rice, soft scrambled eggs, and maybe some pancakes,” San replied, already slicing scallions with precision.

“Wow,” Hyojin said, sipping her coffee. “You’re really out here being a better partner than half the men on this campus.”

Wooyoung spun dramatically toward her. “Excuse you, I am also contributing.”

“To the chaos,” San muttered without looking up.

Wooyoung gasped. “I am the heart of this kitchen! The ambience! The charisma! The—”

“You’re the reason we’re out of clean spatulas,” you pointed out, holding up the one he used last night to “mix” instant ramen seasoning directly in the bag.

He winked. “Innovative, not destructive.”

You rolled your eyes.

Meanwhile, Wooyoung was trying to focus, but San kept stealing bites of the chopped kimchi and turning up the volume on his “Cooking with Soulmates” playlist, which currently featured 2000s boy bands and at least one anime opening.

“San,” Wooyoung said patiently, “please stop dancing while I’m using a knife.”

“You can’t stop the rhythm, bro.”

You laughed as Wooyoung gave you a look like, see what I deal with?

Then—sizzle, pop, clatter.

San had turned too fast and knocked a bowl of eggs onto the floor.

“Oops.”

Wooyoung dropped his head onto the counter.

Hyojin didn’t even blink. “There it is. I was wondering when chaos would strike.”

Wooyoung crouched down to clean it up with a dramatic sigh. “I’m too pretty for this world.”

“Too clumsy, you mean,” you said, grabbing paper towels and helping.

Despite the mess, laughter kept bubbling up. The apartment was full of it — warm, genuine, the kind that made you forget about everything else. By the time the food was finally plated (only slightly delayed by Wooyoung burning one pancake into a hockey puck), the four of you were crowded around the table, mismatched mugs and all.

San looked over at you, smile soft.

“You good?”

You nodded, already reaching for your chopsticks. “Yeah. I’m really good.”

And as you listened to Hyojin roast Wooyoung for the third time that morning while he fake-cried into his orange juice, and San calmly ignored them both while handing you the best parts of the kimchi rice—

You realized this was your new normal.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

---

It happened on a Tuesday.

The kind of Tuesday where the sky was impossibly blue, students were sprawled out on the quad like sleepy cats in the sun, and the stress of midterms hung just slightly less heavy in the air because someone was handing out free donuts by the library steps.

You’d just finished your psych lecture, notebook tucked under your arm, earbuds half-in. San had texted to say he and Wooyoung were waiting for you by the big tree near the fountain — the one you always ended up circling like a moth on days you didn’t want to head straight to class.

You spotted them instantly.

San, legs crossed in the grass, flipping through his annotated copy of something you definitely weren’t going to read unless threatened. Wooyoung, lying flat on his back beside him, sunglasses on, hoodie hiked up just enough to show the thread on his wrist glowing warm in the daylight.

When you approached, Wooyoung sat up. “There’s the smartest person in our polycule.”

“We’re not—” you started, but San just smirked and patted the spot beside him.

You sat down between them, letting your bag slide off your shoulder.

San casually reached over to tuck your hair behind your ear, fingers brushing your jaw for a beat longer than necessary.

You froze for half a second. Not because you didn’t like it — but because people were around. Out here, in the open.

San’s hand dropped, and he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

But Wooyoung saw it. Saw you.

And without saying a word, he reached out and slid his fingers through yours.

No big gesture. No loud announcement. Just a simple act of affection.

And you didn’t pull away.

You let him hold your hand, and you leaned a little into San’s side.

Someone nearby whistled. Another person did that thing where they nudge their friend like, “Look, it’s the soulmate trio.”

You didn’t run.

You didn’t hide.

You just smiled, cheeks a little warm, heart a little full.

“PDA level one unlocked,” Wooyoung whispered proudly.

“Don’t make it weird,” San murmured, but he was smiling too.

---

It was after your late lab, and the sky had dipped into that perfect indigo blue — the kind where the stars were just barely starting to show, and the streetlights cast soft halos on the brick paths winding through campus.

San and Wooyoung had waited for you outside, like always.

Wooyoung had your favorite drink in hand — slightly melted but still sweet — and San had that patient look on his face, the one that said take your time, we’re not in a rush.

You walked between them, your bag slung over one shoulder, all three of you heading toward the front gates where Wooyoung had parked his bike like a chaotic gremlin on two wheels.

It was quiet. Not awkward — just that kind of peace you’d learned to love. The kind that only came from being around people who didn’t need to fill the silence to feel close.

You passed the student center — a few people milling around, sitting on steps, laughing in small groups. Someone waved at Wooyoung. San nodded to a guy from one of his lit classes.

And then you stopped.

Not because of anything specific — no grand thought, no particular reason.

Just… because you felt it.

You turned toward Wooyoung first, reaching out to brush a bit of his hair away from his eyes where the wind had pushed it.

He blinked, lips parting slightly, like he was about to make a joke — something light, something very him.

But you didn’t let him.

You leaned in and kissed him.

Right there, in the middle of campus, under the glow of a streetlight.

Soft. Sweet. Real.

His breath caught — just for a second — and then he kissed you back, one hand resting lightly on your waist like he was afraid to hold too tight.

When you pulled away, his eyes were wide, stunned, lips still parted.

“Whoa,” he breathed. “I wasn’t— That was—”

“I know,” you said softly.

San, behind you, let out the softest exhale of a laugh — warm and fond.

“You’re not even gonna warn us anymore, huh?” he teased gently.

You turned, reaching for his hand. “It just felt right.”

And it did.

Not because of the thread.

Not because of the bond.

But because it was you. And them. And this life you were slowly building, piece by piece, kiss by kiss.

---

It was later that night, after the campus had quieted and the stars had taken over the sky completely.

San walked you back to your dorm — not because he had to, but because he always did when it was just the two of you. The quiet walks had become a thing between you. No pressure. No rush. Just matching footsteps and the occasional shoulder bump under the moonlight.

Neither of you had brought up the kiss yet.

Not the one with Wooyoung.

Not the way it had happened — publicly, openly — like your heart had just decided it was done hiding.

You unlocked the door to your dorm, letting it click behind you softly, and dropped your bag onto the floor with a tired sigh.

San leaned against the wall beside your desk, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, his head slightly downturned like he was thinking through every word before he even said it.

You turned to him, waiting.

It was quiet for a moment.

Then—

“That kiss today,” he said softly, not looking at you just yet, “it wasn’t mine. And I still felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

You blinked, heart stuttering in your chest.

“Not because I was jealous,” he added quickly, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. “But because… it was real. And I’ve never seen you look so sure before. So free.”

You stepped closer, slowly.

“I was,” you said. “I am.”

San smiled — that small, quiet smile that didn’t need to be wide to mean everything.

“I’ve been waiting for you to let yourself want us,” he whispered. “Not just accept the bond. Not just stay. But want.”

You were close enough now to touch. You reached up, brushing a stray piece of hair from his forehead, fingers lingering at his temple.

“I do,” you said, just as quietly. “Want you.”

That was all it took.

San leaned in, slow, searching your face one last time — like he needed to see you give him permission even after hearing the words.

You closed the space for him.

The kiss was soft. Warmer than the first one. Deeper. Calmer. It didn’t burn, it settled — like sinking into something safe.

When you finally pulled back, you stayed close, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.

“Feels different when it’s just us,” you whispered.

San nodded, lips brushing yours again as he spoke.

“It always does.”

It was raining when you arrived at their dorm.

Not the dramatic, thunderous kind — just a gentle, steady rain that made the windows blur and the world feel slower, quieter. San had texted you earlier: “Come over. Stay the night. Bring your comfiest hoodie.”

So you did.

Wooyoung opened the door before you could even knock, like he’d been waiting with his ear pressed to it. He was wearing pajama pants and one of San’s old t-shirts, and his smile lit up the dim hallway like sunshine in a storm.

“You’re here,” he said, and it wasn’t a question — it was a confirmation of something he’d been hoping for all day.

You stepped inside, brushing raindrops from your hoodie as San appeared behind him, hair damp from a shower, holding a mug of tea that he wordlessly handed to you.

“Chamomile,” he said. “For settling in.”

That was exactly what this night was — settling in.

No pressure. No grand gestures. Just warmth.

The dorm lights were low. A candle flickered on the windowsill — something cinnamon-sweet and comforting. The sound of rain tapping against the glass filled the quiet spaces between your words.

Wooyoung made popcorn — burned the first batch and blamed the microwave. San changed the playlist three times before settling on soft acoustic songs. You curled up on the bed between them, a blanket draped over all three of you, legs tangled and laughter easy.

At one point, Wooyoung tried to explain the plot of a movie he only half-watched last week, and San kept correcting him with actual facts until Wooyoung gave up and fake-sulked into your shoulder.

You kissed the top of his head. Just because you could now.

San was leaning against the wall behind you, fingers lazily tracing shapes on your thigh beneath the blanket. He wasn’t saying much — but his presence wrapped around you like gravity. Quiet, grounding, always there.

Eventually, the conversation faded, the rain still whispering outside, the playlist down to nothing but soft instrumentals.

You shifted, nestling closer to both of them, and whispered, “This feels like home.”

Wooyoung hummed sleepily, half-asleep already. “That’s because it is.”

San kissed your temple. “You’re not visiting anymore,” he murmured. “You’re just… with us.”

And that night — wrapped in their warmth, the bond humming quiet and content — you believed it.

---

The rain had stopped sometime in the early morning.

The world outside the dorm window was still, soaked and silver-blue in the soft pre-dawn light. Inside, it was warmer — cocooned in quiet breaths and shared blankets, the air heavy with sleep and something else.

You lay between them in the tangle of sheets, Wooyoung’s arm draped lazily over your waist, San’s fingers still linked with yours from the night before. None of you had spoken in hours. Not even in whispers. Just soft sighs, slow heartbeats, a peace so deep it didn’t need words.

And then it happened.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was a feeling — deep in your chest, blooming behind your ribs like light warming the darkest part of you.

The thread.

That red, pulsing thread you’d feared for so long.

It tightened.

Not in a choking, panicked way. Not like it was pulling you in.

More like it was settling. Finding its shape around the three of you. Completing a loop that had taken its time, been patient, never forced you — just waited.

A quiet click, almost metaphysical — like the final piece falling into place.

You felt it hum beneath your skin, and this time, instead of fear, you felt complete.

You shifted slightly, just enough to see both of them. San stirred first, eyes still half-lidded but aware. Wooyoung blinked slowly, sleep still soft around the edges of him.

“…Did you feel that?” you whispered.

San nodded, voice gravelly. “Yeah.”

Wooyoung’s smile was slow, drowsy, genuine. “Finally.”

None of you moved to sit up. None of you needed to.

You just breathed together, wrapped in each other — the bond no longer glowing, but settled.

No more tugging. No more questions.

Just quiet connection.

A single thread. Three hearts.

And everything that came next.

•

A/N: Again! I hope you enjoyed :3 It is sort of my first soulmate au story and I'm fairly new so let me know how I did ^^ (I tried ;'3)

[yenhan]

Silent Readers Club

Simon 'Ghost' Riley X Reader

Masterlist

Synopsis: After reluctantly joining a reading club for the sake of his mental health, Simon really wants to get his shit together, or so his therapist hopes.

Ghost never liked small talk. Or small spaces. Or people, if he was honest about it. It took him a year to get used to Price’s authority over him and more not to strangle Johnny and his endless yapping. Even back when he hadn’t been framed as a ruthless war criminal but a boy, scrawny and not half as brave as the main characters in the stupid comic books Tommy kept in his hidden stash. His old man had done a fantastic job of messing his head so bad that normal human interactions were now completely out of the picture. But therapy had a way of digging up things he'd long buried beneath years of bloodshed and Kevlar.

When Soap had gone down, unmoving like a puppet with cut strings, Simon had thought that was it. He’d crouched over him, calling for a medevac under Garrick’s horrified stare. The sergeant lived by sheer Scottish spite because his Ma’ would never forgive MacTavish for perishing half a continent away, but something in Simon cracked open that day.

He spiraled in a dark, dark place first thing back in England. Price found him unconscious on the floor of the shitty apartment Simon had rented for the rest of the leave. He didn’t remember what had happened before his captain barged in, nor did he remember the following days. His mind was a blur of fragmented memories he wanted to drown in a good whisky and two packs of cigarettes.

The therapist—middle-aged, didn’t flinch at the mask bless her—told him to “find spaces that feel safe.”

"Try something relaxing. A hobby, a better coping mechanism."

A hobby. Christ. The hell was he supposed to find? A fuckin’ pottery course? He scared his own fellow soldiers with his size, how could he have fun among civvies?

But he gave it a go, because even the voices in his head were tired of shouting.

He found himself in a tiny library off a back street in Manchester, sitting on a hard plastic chair in the back corner of something called the ‘Silent Readers Club’. No introductions, no chatting, just show up, read, leave. Sounded doable.

Again, it was a place where he didn’t necessarily interact with people, but being in a public space for two hours straight without crashing out was a big step towards the ‘healthy lifestyle’ his therapist wished for him.

What surprised him wasn’t the quiet. He liked the quiet. It was you.

You were already there when he first stepped inside. Curled up in the window seat with a worn paperback and headphones tucked behind your ears. When he entered, combat boots and the damn skull mask he was supposed to wash two weeks ago, you looked up. And smiled.

You didn’t tense up, didn't bolt through the door the second he appeared either. Just nodded once and went back to your book. Like he was just another bloke. Not the ghost of a man who’d never had the chance to live.

Not a jumpy one, uh. Or maybe you didn’t know what's best for you. Survival instinct seemed pretty lacking in young people these days, especially on that Tik Tak—trash Johnny was obsessed with.

Simon sat in the chair two tables away. Every Saturday after that, same spot. You’d smile, maybe wave if you were feeling chipper, and he’d stare at you a little more intensely. No words passed between you, none. But it became a thing. A habit he could accept. Habits were safe, predictable.

He read whatever he could stomach—mostly war memoirs or thrillers. Once, you left a book on the table near him before leaving. A battered copy of an old crime fiction. No note. He read it twice before giving it back.

He didn’t tell the lads about you. Not a chance in hell.

Price would raise an eyebrow, ask if you were a civilian, if he had to update Simon’s emergency contact.

Gaz would side-eye him thinking he was being slick.

And the Scotsman, if he ever got all his words back, wouldn’t let him live. “Lt. pullin’ a lass at the bloody library without me,” he’d laugh.

Oh, maybe he could tell Johnny. The younger man could use a distraction from the physiotherapy and disgusting slop they served in the hospital. But Simon kept it to himself. His little secret.

One day, you brought two cups of tea. Handed him one, sat down, and opened your book as usual. Simon's eyes twitched in subtle delight. There was a note on the lid: “What’s your name?”

[rowena-rain]

Harry/Tom/Harry sandwich?

Also:

Anonymous asked: thank you for the tag on the wip game post! endlessly curious about the harry/tom/harry sandwich wip, would love to hear more!!

@sri-verse asked: Harry/Tom/Harry sandwich if you may? Because I am always hungry for those😁

GUYS. This might be the single most unhinged thing I've ever written, and I am so excited/nervous to share it! It will be posted very soon as part of Captivous. (It's technically completed already, but I'll probably release in parts because I'm an engagement whore.)

I guess if you want a taste of how unhinged this is, I can share a sneak-peek of the tags. Although I also think it could be fun to read going in blind without reading the tags (only if you're, ya know, not easily triggered or squicked!).

Call it Stockholm Syndrome. Call it Tom Riddle’s Harry Potter Obsession. Call it Harry Potter and Tom Riddle’s Codependency. Call it whatever you want. The red string of fate stretches across decades, across timelines, Horcrux or not. All the versions of you. The versions of him. It doesn’t matter. You’re all knotted up together so badly, you can never be untangled. And maybe if you’re honest with yourself for once, you don’t really want to be.

A/N and Tags Preview below the break!

Additional Tags: Angst, Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Underage Sex (15), Dubious Consent, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Kidnapping, Captive Tom Riddle, Time Travel, Minor Harry/OMC (plot device only), Minor Major Character Death (not in the timeline that matters!), Threesome - M/M/M, Self-cest, False accusation of sexual abuse, Implied/Referenced Childhood Sexual Abuse (not between main pairing), Manipulative Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle is a Little Shit, Harry Potter is a Little Shit, Harry Potter is So Done, Harry’s Still Harry (just making some very morally questionable decisions), First Time, Age Difference, Daddy Kink, Praise Kink, Collars, Punching Yourself as Foreplay, Choking, Of both the sexual and nonsexual varieties, Double Blow Job, Come Sharing, Comeplay, Rimming, Edging, Begging, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Anal Gaping, Light Masochism, Implied Pseudo-Incest, Is it Suicidal Behavior or Attempted Self-Murder?, Codependency, Trauma, Healing, Self-Love, (It's a work in progress), freak4freak4freak, Porn with Plot and Feelings, Baby dark lords can have little a double-servings of Harry as a treat, Captivous 2025

On today’s episode of Rowena Rain writes extremely kinky porn laced with heavy plot and enough feelings to make Brené Brown proud* (maybe?? If you’re out there, Brené, I love you, I’m sorry, please don’t read this)… Yeah. This one’s a lot—of everything. Mind the tags (or just raw dog it if you’re feeling brave). The dove isn’t dead, but awful things happen to doves who meddle with time, or whatever Hermione said. Rated E for Everyone’s Making Terrible Decisions Including the Author. (Harry’s not dark in this—he’s just tired, traumatized, and a bit ethically compromised :)) Yes, it's in second person POV**. I know, I know—I used to hate it, too. BUT! I promise this is NOT a "y/n" or reader-insert thing (no judgment if that's your thing). It's just the POV the story wanted to be in. I don’t make the rules. So maybe give it a shot anyway?

*Brené Brown was not consulted in the making of this fic and likely would not endorse the therapeutic value of DP’ing a narcissist with yourself, but we thank her for her service anyway. **And! Second person is actually super useful for m/m/m threesomes, self-cest, and any kind of gay smut where you don't want to have to repeat people's names 5000 times to clarify who's who. Or worse, having to say shit like "the raven-haired man" (that wouldn't even help in this case lol). So if you're a writer, consider joining our cult movement today! We have free... smut. (I mean, so does everyone else, but we do, too.)

[kerubimcrepin]

Wakfu OVA - Book 2, Ush [PART 1]

Bonta my beloved...

From these two shots we can see the approximate location of the Crepin-Jurgen residence.

Atcham is, for some reason, the first one at the door. Maybe he's been walking a polite "I don't know those two" distance away from Kerubim and Joris. Idk.

[guy who misses liveblogging Dofus and pointing random things out voice] Here Luis says that it took Joris, Kerubim, and Atcham three months to get the Dofus. I wonder what this means.

DFHGSDFGOASIDKFJSADGKDFHAO;SFHSADJFHAOSUDFHSADJKFHJASDKFHASDJFHASJDFHUSAIDFHASJDKFSDF

Catboy Joris agenda continues to rise.

Two of the silliest things here are an unopened letter that has a chunk of it torn off (unopened for 3 months, mind you), and the lute with two broken strings.

...I really want to see that picture on the wall fully. What does it depict. Hi what does it depict. Hello.!

Judging from the legs, I think it might be Atcham in promiscuous clothes. Literally idk though.

I love you, Luis.

(Random stack of four pillows and a little stool with a bucket and a bowl on it in the corner there. They may or may not have left home midway through cleaning...., or something.)

SFDAJDKSLFJSDHASOUDFHCNSAJDKFHJKASLDFHKJASDFHJAKSDFHKAJSDFASDJFH

They ARE rude, Luis. Kill them! Kill them!

I think Atcham is the only one who is brave enough to say this out loud because Luis has a history of being scared shitless of him.

It is no longer the case after 600 years — he lives here, after all, — but he is still the least likely to get beaten by a floorboard in his sleep for running his mouth.

No comment.

This — the cookies/whatever, and tea in a kettle, — leads me to believe there's a tiny timeskip between them going to the basement, and them getting the map and the Dofus out, and that during said timeskip they had tea and cookies.

Also, I find it so funny that they have three little chairs, and the only one using a chair is Kerubim... to stand taller. While Atcham is literally just sitting on the table.

Very important lore. Truly.

This map is., 200 years out of date. And it was created before the Ogrest's Chaos.. When most of the world wasn't, y'know... flooded.

They're so grandpas... This is so fucking funny I can't.

Also, they couldn't find more than one nail to hold it down, so it seems someone (probably Atcham) just pierced it with a dagger. dfhgjsdfg.

He;s so cute.... i need him to be hit by a car.

Atcham is so glad to have finished this quest... In my opinion, he turns to Joris to say this, because Joris has been worried the entire way back. However, it doesn't help much.

You see, I am insane about this entire exchange. I'm crazy. THIS is why I love the OVAs: they allow us a brief, but very important glimpse into Joris, Kerubim and Atcham's life in Wakfu era.

Joris is weighed down by the morally questionable things he does. Even if it is a "good thing", he isn't proud of it. He's scared they'll hate him, and he's scared that it's a step out of his lane.

However, Kerubim is the one who justifies his and Joris's morally questionable actions. He justifies them through an appeal to the authority of the king, and an appeal to the morality of it.

And he does all of it the second he sees Joris hesitate or be uncomfortable in any way, shape, or form.

He's been doing this for 600 years. This is so unserious.

He just interrupts and disregards everything Joris says, as if Joris is insane for thinking these things... and in a way, he is right — Adamai and Yugo do forgive Joris, who seems to have been agonizing about them being mad at him...

I think Joris overthinks things a lot and starts to panic easily, and Kerubim knows that, and knows how to stop him from doing that.

Besides Kerubim demonstrating that here, he also demonstrates that, really, despite role-playing as their dad, Joris doesn't have the highest authority in this household.

Btw, Kerubim is so very good at chilling when things are actually catastrophically bad, that in my opinion his "this is literally so easy. this is going to be okay. papycha will protect you." may or may not be one of the main contributing factors to Joris doing war crimes in Waven, instead of going insane from panic. Family who war crimes together, stays together.

[valeisaslut]

to quote sabrina carpenter:

don’t smile because it happened, cry because it’s over.

because I am. completely ugly crying into my pillow in a dark room after finishing that epilogue.

i’ve sat on these words for a hot minute - I don’t typically say anything because I feel so extra and intrusive when I slide into authors’ inboxes, but - holy shit.

I have never read something like this that had me thinking about it at random hours of the day, speculating what would happen next, wondering what each character would do in certain situations.

you wrote a masterpiece. i’m on my knees.

you honed words like a mythical blade and stabbed it straight into my heart repeatedly and I just kept coming back for more.

I cannot coherently string together a message that properly gets across how much this story has touched my heart at this late of an hour, but just know that you’ve created something absolutely transcendental. that i’ll be rereading multiple times because evidently i’m a masochist

take care of yourself ❤️ thank you for giving us this masterpiece for free! all the love in the world

xx - elle

elle. i am on my knees.

this message??? this absolute symphony of love and heartbreak and poetic devastation??? i don’t even know how to process it. you really sat in the dark with tears in your eyes and sabrina carpenter lyrics in your head and decided now’s the time to destroy valentina’s emotional stability huh 😭

the fact that you’ve been thinking about collide at random hours. speculating. daydreaming about these characters like they live down the hall from you. that’s how i know they got under your skin — how i know they stayed. and it means the world to me that you let them. that you let me.

“you honed words like a mythical blade” — i’m sorry. WHAT did you just say?? that’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said about my writing. ever. i’m gonna print that out and staple it to my chest.

and please don’t feel extra or intrusive — you weren’t. not even a little. you were honest. and seen. and received with so much love. this story would be nothing without the people who felt brave enough to slide into my inbox at midnight with a heart full of tears and poetry and screaming emojis.

thank you for reading. thank you for feeling. thank you for ugly crying in your pillow and then showing up here with love anyway.

i’ll carry this with me forever. take care of you too, elle. and come back when you're ready to cry again. i'll be here. 🩷🩷🩷

[atopvisenyashill]

any thoughts about how could it be the dynamic between viserys-naerys- daeron ii in fire & blood 2?

okay so straight up the dynamic i’m MOST interested in learning about in f&b2 is the viserys-naerys-daeron ii dynamic. first of all, those first two are just UNGODLY DISTURBINGLY YOUNG when they have children. viserys has naerys, his YOUNGEST child when he is sixteen. naerys has daeron when she is fifteen. viserys is a grandfather before he is 32 years old. it is truly babies raising babies out here!! i mean fuck, daeron has baelor under significantly less traumatic circumstances but he’s still only 17 by the time he starts having kids! that’s all just wildly interesting and disturbing to me. like, that alone, how close in age they all are because they all married & started having kids at crazy young ages, explains so much about why this period has always felt particularly deranged to me (“this period” being post dance where we get this incredible string of deranged freaks from aegon iii to aegon iv that ebbs into this vaguely “we’re having a targ renaissance yay” era that erupts into civil war anyways! i LOVE this conceptually i’m so ready to be annoyed when f&b2 comes out and i’ve hyped this all up for some more dumb sex stories from another court fool ajsjs).

but then secondly, okay, when you look at the timeline- daeron is born in 153 and the birth nearly kills naerys 15/16 year old naerys. aegon iii is still king for four more years. that last year, aegon iv spends his time (and the next two years after that) shacked up with megette. then aegon spends a few years shacked up/probably raping casella vaith the hostage, before running off to war. then he spends more time raping naerys, wherein she has a miscarriage, and aegon is sent away so he doesn’t rape her to death. daeron marries myriah, has a child with her. but before that child is two, in quick succession, his father comes back home & immediately starts raping his mother again, his mother nearly dies having twins & now he has a sister younger than his son, and daena unveils her new bastard who everyone thinks is aegon’s, and baelor is so distraught by all this he fasts himself to death. viserys is king, and likely dead before daeron’s second son is born and before daeron turns twenty. suddenly the person responsible for making sure aegon doesn’t rape naerys to death are daeron & aemon, who have NO authority over aegon. this man has the audacity to stay alive for twelve more years.

that shit is insane. daeron’s father is only around when he’s raping his mom. the closest things daeron has to a father figure are his uncle who wants to fuck his mom, his grandfather who is probably busy constantly (and also only in his thirties 😭), and his batshit insane cousin baelor. his childhood is marked by almost constant instability until it stabilizes for the worse when his cousins all get locked in the maidenvault, then gets thrown into upheaval once again as baelor & viserys die and now his dad who is only around when he’s raping his mom is suddenly back in town and has total control.

and naerys. she’s like if aemma lived long enough to parent her kids, but worse bc you could argue there was fondness of a sort between aemma & viserys. aegon and naerys hate each other. she is constantly pregnant and on death’s door from the age of fifteen (three years older than her father!) until the day she dies, in her early 40s. it sounds like worse than hell to me. it is a lifetime where the only source of comfort you have is the son you birthed at fifteen, because maybe your life is a nightmare but if you raise him to be marginally less evil, he won’t destroy the innocent little girl you know is going to be sent to court to be his wife. everyone else is actively holding you hostage and applauding you for taking the abuse so well. your whole life is screaming for help and all you get is tears telling you you’re so dutiful and brave.

and viserys just. watches it all happen. of course he does! his kids are simply ungrateful! he had to get married at twelve and his wife wasn’t born in westeros so they had nothing in common and at least they have a living father, they have no idea how lucky they are. why should daeron and naerys blame him when he gave them everything because he had nothing? it’s a shame it wasn’t naerys that offed this man. i do think she was his favorite kid tho and i bet he’s not subtle about it at all.

[ilions-end]

uh oh i've finished THE THEBAID! time to talk about it!

disclaimer: i'm not a roman empire girlie. like with the aeneid, i'm AWARE the author is using the medium of greek myths to say things about the state of the republic and roman culture, and i'm just kinda... not interested in that. i'm here for the plot and the characters. envision i'm a child watching saturday morning cartoons with my bowl of fruit loops going "yayy did you see the character do the thing?! that was so cool!!". basically i'm enjoying these stories on the "easily entertained dumbass" level

and i LOVED it. i got FUCKED UP by this epic in the best way. HOW TO DESCRIBE THE THEBAID?

it's so deliciously engaging and funny and dark. to me it feels more closely related to the iliad than either the odyssey or the aeneid, but it's in conversation with all of them and also so unique. there are bitter ironies everywhere, troubled people making worse choices. ALL the characters are flawed, but in extremely interesting and engaging (and even endearing) ways.

there's something about how it starts out as a GREAT EPIC telling the story of BRAVE HEROES except they can't retain their integrity as the story progresses, they can't fathom their own limitations or flaws. it's like the iliad if achilles HADN'T accepted priam's plea, it's the odyssey if odysseus hadn't retained enough of himself to string that bow or remember the bed. it's a story that tells you "they failed, none of this mattered, but also all of it mattered".

i love how statius as an author is SO present, leading you by the hand through the narrative, offering his views (he has so many opinions and snide asides! and sometimes he complains about how much WORK it is to tell you this story, omg why are you forcing him to do all this work!) and it all feels so -- aw that's my buddy statius!! my funny friend statius is telling me this story and it's great!

this might be the first epic i've read where we know the author wanted it to more or less BE like that, so there are some LONG LINES being drawn from the beginning of the story to the end

i'll be honest, i didn't know much about the theban cycle when i started reading. i knew about oedipus, and antigone, and that diomedes' dad was in it, and that everybody fails spectacularly at what they're trying to achieve. and turns out that was more than enough knowledge to hit the ground running, it's surprisingly straightforward

i'd assumed diomedes' dad was just "one of the seven leaders against thebes", but no he's a MAIN main guy! tydeus is so central, at one point he is ENTIRELY to blame for everything bad that happens later, and i fell in love with that awful little murderman

like the way tydeus introduces himself in the first chapter saying he's from "calydon, the breeding ground of monsters". and you're sitting there like HOHOHO i think we're gonna discover who's the latest monster to come out of calydon!

like the iliad, it shows both sides of the conflict, and arguably our main point of view guys are WAY MORE fucked up than they guys they're fighting. like i love polynices, he's sympathetic because he's been treated so unfairly but that doesn't mean he's not kinda fucked up; i love eteocles, who's a tyrant and cheated, but he's fun to watch and equally fucked up

the wonderful thing is that it doesn't matter who you cheer for, everyone's gonna lose :D

it has everything you want from an epic: gods taking sides, glorious aristeias, tragic battlefield deaths, a trip to the underworld, funeral games, evocative descriptions of weaponry and equipment (statius is SO to the point when it comes to ekphrasis, love him for that), a sexy night raid... the contexts for some of these might surprise you!

AND. AND. IT HAS WHAT THE ILIAD LACKS. that's right: DIONYSUS, baby!! he's here, he's involved, he's getting his hands dirty! also he gets to play a very thetis-like part at one point, which i think is sexy.

statius does amazing work making all these characters distinct. i never thought i'd get a detailed sense of all SEVEN against thebes (and other characters besides ofc) but each of them has their uniquely memorable moments and oddities and they're all so different from each other. it's about PERSONALITIES and it's about those personalities gradually being INFECTED by polynices' transgressive thebe-ness. and still i'm hugging them all to my chest. my little fucked up dudes

it's fascinating that the thebaid is ultimately a tragedy, but it's not like athenian tragedy -- this isn't about how there was no other way, or that everything's already locked down heading for catastrophe; it's the opposite! the heartbreak is in how we see that the conflict could have ended HERE, or HERE, or HERE, or HERE, but they're all so set on doing this they're willing to ignore EVERY bad omen, write off EVERY loss, and convince each other OF COURSE they're gonna win (which they won't!) because they're THE HEROES, DAMMIT. it's HUBRIS, THE EPIC

my favourite moment of "this could easily have ended here" is before the war, when polynices falls out of his chariot during the funeral games, and he's in the middle of the track when all the other racing teams come thundering towards him. statius STOPS TIME at that moment to tell us how close polynices is to dying, that ALL THE PAIN AND DEATH that is sure to come would have been avoided RIGHT HERE if only he'd been trampled and killed, and what a blessing that would have been. but the story has to continue, polynices escapes without a scratch and everything bad happens as it must. THE FLAVOUR of moments like that?? GAWD

so those are some general thoughts. specific moments under the cut because i can never stop talking once i get going

a main thing is how IMMENSELY DISGUSTED zeus is with oedipus, and it never stops being funny. because, like, 1) oedipus' incest kids are adults at this point, and you're still THIS worked up about it?? 2) zeus has got it all wrong, he's like "OMG EWWW can you believe he SOUGHT OUT his own mother to fuck her?? that this PERVERT wanted to fuck his own MOTHER all along?! DISGOSTANG!!" like mate that's REALLY NOT how that happened! and 3) zeus buddy, you're having a tantrum about the concept of incest to your sister-wife........

you know what never gets old? statius describing the activities of the furies' snake hair. the snakes get thirsty! they get sleepy! they get excited! amazing.

MAN how the beginning of book 2 drew me in. we're dropped straight into the action with hermes on an important mission heading out of the underworld, we have no idea what's going on but it's SO atmospheric, it's SO intriguing, and we have to follow his tracks to see where the narrative is going with it. THIS STORYTELLING FEELS SO MODERN

there's a CURSED NECKLACE that i really thought would play more into the plot. i mean it's there to emanate bad vibes, i guess, and indirectly influence things. i'm just not used to full-on CURSED ARTIFACTS in my epics

tydeus' stint as an emissary is hilarious, i'm still not over it. when he loses his cool and basically yells at eteocles "WELL YOU'RE THE SPAWN OF INCEST!!" when he's there ON BEHALF of the other spawn of incest......... tydeus you're SO bad at this

OOOOUGH TYDEUS FIGHTING BACK THE AMBUSH AT THE SPHINX' ROCK IS SO SEXY AND HORRIFYING OMGGG. hang on i gotta go reread that now...

...fucking hell, it's so good. IT'S SO GOOD!!!! it's my new favourite aristeia in any of these epics, from the first cheap shot that almost gets him in the jugular, to the clambering up the rock, and his shield BRISTLING with enemy spears which he pulls out and uses against them, and not to mention how it shows just how fucking EXHAUSTED he gets once the initial adrenaline rush is through

man, statius is so excellent at realistic physiology. like the detailed descriptions of how the runners at the funeral games warm up, how their muscles feel doing this or that... statius obviously knows so many things firsthand

also love how from there on out tydeus lies about the ambush. honey you killed forty-nine guys, not fifty, and you know it!! it's impressive enough, you don't need to round up

i wish athena would play a bigger part as she's taking tydeus as her champion and everything. she's probably the MOST unknowable of all the gods in the thebaid, she rarely speaks directly to anyone, and is kinda only present for her core scenes in the myth. tell me what you're thinking about babe...

we get way more of that "UH OH YOU'RE A GOD'S FAVOURITE, THIS ISN'T GONNA END WELL" with apollo's love for amphiaraus, though. i appreciate that

while we're on the gods, i'm also VERY weak for how openly ares simps for aphrodite. when she jumps in front of his horses to stop him and there's this lovely passage where he rushes from the chariot to take her in his arms and comfort her... awww. and then it's kinda wild when he's like "darling you're my only respite from war"... ares babe, you LOVE war!

there are several suicides in this story, and each one is surprisingly disturbing in its own way, but maeon though??? guy went out with IMMENSE STYLE and INTEGRITY. respect

statius is really good about chronology (since the theban war happens before the iliad-aeneid-odyssey) EXCEPT at one point someone throws a big rock (hippomedon maybe? i can't remember) like polyphemus threw boulders at odysseus and i'm like NO THAT HASN'T HAPPENED YET. ODYSSEUS IS A BOY IN ITHACA AT THIS POINT

i didn't expect to love parthenopaeus so much!! he's a BOY who's snuck off to war, he's glorious but he doesn't understand the consequences! that's a still-developing brain in there!!! when he's killed, EVEN THE ENEMIES GRIEVE FOR HIM, aaaaah! and statius keeps using him as a symbol of how meaningless the war is, and he's a proto-achilles (proto-neoptolemus?) in so many ways and it just KILLS ME

the whole nemea section is sooooo weird. and i GET that it's meant to be weird, that it's part of this whole campaign's WRONGNESS but it's... it's weird. like WHY does their entire army get involved in this place's family and history and politics? why do they get DELAYED FROM WAR eagerly listening to a nurse talking about the massacre of lemnos? why would she put the baby on the ground and leave it? what's UP with that snake? why do they have these MAJOR FUNERAL GAMES OF MILITARY PROWESS for a random dead royal infant? it's so weirddddd

the funeral games in themselves are great fun actually. and that only makes it worse because the next day the battles start and EVERYONE STARTS GETTING KILLED. the vibes turn on a DIME here

there are so many references to heracles that i can't appreciate because i'm clueless about heracles. i should fix that.

i cackled SO HARD at how statius reveals tydeus' cannibalism. that perspective change?? how athena is watching his comrades trying to WREST the decapitated head from him like he's a dog chewing on plastic? oh gosh it's amazing

AND i love how eteocles USES TYDEUS' CANNIBALISM AS A POINT OF PROPAGANDA. he's SO good at painting the entire enemy force as savages because would you believe even one of their fucking LEADERS chomped on theban brains!! THEY'RE HERE TO EAT US UNLESS WE FIGHT

also. also way later when we're told tydeus' wife's love for him is SO GREAT that she even managed to forgive him for that final taboo... do you know who else forgave him for that? INSTANTLY, without a moment's doubt? who was even impressed with him for it because he's fucked up like that? POLYNICES. his love for tydeus goes unremarked but statius sure implies...

i'm not deeply invested in gore but statius is VERY good at describing gore. he's definitely more... structured about battles than homer is though (two leaders dying per chapter, chosen for maximum contrast and effect, etc), to the point where towards the end of the fighting i was getting hungry for something else

the weirdest quirk of statius is how he will reuse names all the time? if there's a random argive background character you can almost bet that there's a random theban background character with that exact name -- i guess to make a point how similar they truly are -- but in a book that shit gets CONFUSING.

the night raid is clearly based on the iliad's night raid except everyone's more twisted and making worse choices, and i appreciate that. then while the heroes are doing awful dishonorable stuff, you get the lowly squires of tydeus and parthenopaeus sneaking off to steal their corpses back and being ACTUALLY HEROIC! oh the contrast is delicious

when statius interrupts his own storytelling to beg the muses to MAKE HIM MORE MENTALLY UNHINGED for the next part he's going to tell?? this man is GIVING IT ALL to tell you this story properly. i love you statius

polynices and eteocles' final duel is the CLIMAX we've been waiting for the entire epic and it's perfect. oh they're equally horrible and they're equally interesting and ohh yummy yummy this storytelling

i would have been fine if the story ended on the battlefield. i understand the "mini epic" in the final chapter as a way to contrast the whole thing ("look at theseus being an ACTUAL epic hero!") but it is a bit of a major vibe shift in the final round

and then it ends with statius pondering if people will enjoy this story after he's dead? :'-) i'm heeeere i'm reading it love it! it's still so great don't worry!!

[alivingfire]

he'll see i'm not so tough

a @steddiebang fic

author: alivingfire artist: @knitsforthetrail betas: hibiscus & @hamiltonsteele

150k | explicit | tags: steve as kas the betrayer; secret relationship since s2 planned posting dates: november 21-december 2

When Steve gets trapped in the Upside Down, Vecna offers him a deal: become lieutenant of the monster armies and gain some of Vecna’s power, in exchange for being the bait to lure his friends back to rescue him. Steve takes the deal, believing wholeheartedly in the Party’s ability to save him and finally kill Vecna, but discovers quickly that his power to infiltrate the memories and dreams of people in the real world is very limited; in fact, he can only visit one person in his new monster form. 

Thus begins Steve’s haunting of Eddie Munson, who, coincidentally, has been in love with Steve since they started secretly hooking up after a Halloween party in 1984.

“Something wrong, Munson?” says a voice, and Eddie yelps and rolls out of bed. 

When he pops up on the other side, he sees a very alive Steve Harrington perched on his own bedroom windowsill. His face is exaggeratedly wild and sharp, and his hair is windswept. His skin is silvery-blue in the moonlight. His fingernails are dark and long and curved like claws. He’s in a Hawkins Swim t-shirt and light wash Levi’s, and there’s dried blood on his bare arms.  

He’s like the film negative of a boy Eddie knows by heart, like a cover version of his favorite song.  

And then he smiles, and his teeth are sharp.   

“Hey, babe,” Steve says. “Did you miss me?” 

Eddie, bravely, faints. 

longer excerpt under the cut:

The vine around his left wrist uncurls, and Steve lifts that arm automatically to see his palm glowing like a lantern, and more than a dozen strings of light shooting straight up at the sky. The strings are golden-hot and hard to look at, too much on Steve’s overloaded senses.

“Look at that,” Vecna says, moving that large clawed hand from Steve’s face to wrap around Steve’s free wrist. “That’s a power I never gained, try as I might. All that love and affection you have for your friends has connected you securely to them. Even as a dead man, you have ties to the world above. Eleven did not plan for that. Could not plan for that.”  

Steve stares at the lights, too, and the more he looks, he feels like he can see differences between them. One seems weaker than the others and looks like wood smoke and has a ruddy red tinge that, for some reason, Steve knows is the string tying him to Will Byers. One is pinkish and looks wrapped in lace: Nancy. Robin’s looks like water dripped with nail polish, swirls of navy blue. He can pick out Dustin’s, then Lucas, El, Max, Jon, Erica, even Mike. Eddie.

He can’t think about this. He rips his gaze away. 

“Why are you showing me this?”  

“I can teach you how to visit them. How to talk to them,” Vecna says. “Through dreams and hallucinations, yes, but you could see them, and they could see you. See that you’re alive.” 

“But trapped.” 

“Yes,” Vecna says. “The only way either of us could ever truly leave this place is if Eleven opens the gates back up, or if Max dies to finish the ritual I began. And I’m assuming you’re not willing to do that second option.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“As I thought. So, here is my deal: if I give you my powers, it would not be for free. You will act as my lieutenant here in this realm. You will control the beasts in my stead, and do as I command. If you are convincing enough, your friends will come to rescue you, and when they do I won’t make you fight them, but I will be there to welcome them, and this will finally be finished.” 

“Then why would I do this?” Steve laughs, incredulous. “Why would I draw them here, if they’re just going to die for it?” 

“Because you doubt me when I say that I would win against them,” Vecna says. He lays it out like a winning poker hand. “You believe in your friends. You believe they could beat me. And if they do, you could be saved.” 

“And if I say no?” Steve asks. 

Immediately, the pain comes pouring back, his vision going blurry, the colors fading from the world, his mouth filling once again with blood. His thoughts are slow and dripping. He groans and slumps forward, barely held up by the vines around him. 

“Then I leave you like this,” Vecna says. “It won’t take long for you to die. Your friends will never know what happened to you, and I will spend as long as I need to working to get back to the other world without you. And I’ll have help, because your friends cannot keep the government from meddling once more. Every crack they make in the barrier between worlds is one I can exploit. I will get through some day. At least this way, you have a chance to stop me. You have a chance to live again.” 

Steve breathes unsteadily and looks back down at his palm. He thinks about those tiny connections to people that he loves, and thinks about leaving them to fight this fight without him. 

It’s stupid. He isn’t the person who should be making this deal. He knows that Vecna manipulates and twists to get what he wants. But his logic makes sense, too. 

Steve doesn’t know what to do. He’s not the planner. He’s not the right one to choose this. He’s- 

Two weeks. Robin, Dustin, Eddie, Erica, Max, Lucas, Eddie, Jon, Will, Mike, Eddie, Joyce, Claudia, Wayne, Tommy, Carol, his parents, Eddie- they all think he’s gone. He remembers how he felt when Hopper died. He can’t- 

His jaw creaks when he opens his mouth. 

“Fine,” he says, pain cracking his voice into something horrible, weak, pathetic. He sucks in another breath. “It’s a deal.”

[firefly--bright]

blooming hearts.

jean kirstein x reader, reincarnation a.u.

chapter two - germination.

✿ previous ✿ series masterlist ✿ next ✿

The universe had taken a special liking to your case – something akin to a cruel author or a puppet master that decided strings to your fate despite your opinion or permission. You had to play the role that was fitting to the narration given to you, and the story started like this – two starstruck lovers, carved out of the same stone, shaped from the same dust, shaped into something that could be called beautiful.

The universe – you’d given it the power to, in all fairness – had twisted and turned your strings, playing them until they were frayed and fragile. And you're reminded about how much everything hurts after a particularly hard dream. You woke up in a sweaty panic, feeling the remnants of pain blooming over the side of your stomach and taking root till your chest and the end of your thighs. And then the tears rolled in with an even stronger tremor as the voice – its always his voice that makes you cry like this, hunched over and clutching yourself to provide comfort that will never come until the morning does -  whispering in your ear, telling you something, giving you an answer which disguises itself as a plea, telling you to hold on. His voice is the only thing you hear which you consider a good thing because youd do anything but sit with your own thoughts. His voice is more welcome to you than your own, even if it’s usually honeyed tones are filled with despair and tears.

“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he repeats. Your eyes are blurry and even if you could remember his face, you think, you wouldn’t want to because you know it’ll only bring you more pain. You try to get your fingers to reach out and hold his cheek like it’s done countless times, but theyre numb to the point where you cant even tell if theyre there or not.

His voice ceases as he sniffles, and you feel a tear rest on your cheek. “no, we’re – I was going to take you to my mom’s house, you’re- you’re here, yeah? Im here, youre here, we’re okay.” He says, and you want to nod to tell him that you are and that he is and that you will accompany him to the ends of the earth if he so much as asks you to. But you don’t realise that the end of the earth is here and now, and this dizzying vision of the person infront of you thinks that despite the world ending superficially with the ground rumbling and fiery titans charging towards it, his world has already ended. Your eyes are closed and youre bleeding so much and the world is ending in both regards.

You slept. The world ended.

There are people calling out for him. Connie’s voice is panicked and hoarse, calling out his name. it falls deafly on jean’s ears as he catches your eyebrows furrowed in pain and he wishes he could take it away from you, and your skin is so pale now and he feels himself shaking and hears you take in shallow breaths, trying to hold on. You’ve been brave, he thinks, and asking you to hold on is the most selfish act he’s committed. 

he kisses the tip of your nose, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. He cant bring himself to smile but he wants your last sight to be of him smiling – of how you’d always made him be. So he does, a little, and then he sees you smile too and the world is ending and he cannot do anything but tell it – tell you – “I love you. Goodnight, poppy.”

The strings of his being were frayed and fragile. Jean wondered if it would stay as such in whatever other life there would be. If sasha’s theories on birth and rebirth were true, then jean prayed and hoped and held on to his strings till his dying breath. Held on to the hope that you’d meet in another time, another universe, another world and would mend his strings just like you had done in this one.

And this was how it was going in the other one – two star struck lovers, their names etched on the same paper with the same ink, bled into something that could be called beautiful. It could. It would.

It had to.

Jean’s hopes were wearing thin, however, as his eyes stuck to the door Infront of him, observing the time on his phone that was ticking a little too fast. You were over fifteen minutes late to your weekly visit to the shop. He sighed, his eyes travelling from the glass doors to his phone to the daffodils he had saved for you on the counter.

Man, was he pathetic.

No he isn’t, he reasons with himself. He has good reason to be this eager to see you. Not only did he have something to give you, his shift also ended in fifteen minutes which was a fact that you knew about, after which he had plans to go to a café with Marco, Connie and Sasha that the former had been begging them to visit for a week now.

Checking his clock again – its been seventeen minutes now – he stares at the daffodils again, sighing. The petals are fresh and sprayed with water, the afternoon sun lighting them beautifully. Jean observes, reaching out to hold them, their stems perfectly cut and brightly green.

the flower on the field stands the test of time. He’s been observing it for the past ten minutes, glancing at it from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t know the name of it, just that it’s coloured red and has paper-thin petals that made filter the sunlight as it reflects on them.

“I’m here to devote myself to the cause of humankind, sir!”

Jeans eyes follow the guy. He looks like he’s going to piss himself under the watchful and quiet frankly terrifying gaze of Keith Shadis.

Poor guy, jean thinks to himself, glancing back at the flower, sighing. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he was made to stand here, lined up with kids around his age wearing the same uniform which in his opinion was counterintuitive considering the agonizing heat. Looking up from the plant, he noticed someone doing the same as him; staring holes into the flower, watching it as it moved slightly with a hot breeze. They were three people away from him, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find them pretty. Jean averted his gaze back in front of him when he saw Shadis walking down the row, asking the person jean was previously ogling, “cadet! Get your head out of your ass!”

Jean tried not to smile at his wording, and how you seemed to be shaking slightly.

Your shoulders straightened immediately, saluting as you spoke, “yes sir!”

“introduce yourself!”

Jean was only half listening, his eyes going back to the plant, wondering how it withstood the test of the blazing hot sun and the dry ground. He remembered his mother telling him something about how different types of plants required different types of soils when he was a kid, and he wondered if this flower needed less than the others. It was remarkable, he thought, how the flower grew beautifully conditions that jean wouldn’t expect it to tolerate.

Jean regained his senses and snapped himself out of his thoughts just before Shadis finished talking to the boy next to him. The man stood in front of jean and in an instant, he regretted every judgement he held towards the others as he towered before him. Jean was incredibly aware about how he held himself, noting how the sweat he didn’t bother to wipe was now dripping slowly from his temple to his cheek, how his shoulders weren’t squared and how acutely incorrect his stance was and he suddenly understood everyone that introduced themselves before him.

Jean saluted, closing his eyes and introducing himself loudly. “I’m jean Kirstein from Trost district, sir!”

“why the hell are you here?!”

Jean paused, thinking of his wording before responding. “i.. want to join the military police brigade and reside in the inner district, sir!” he could feel people looking at him as his hands started sweating. “I see. So you want to live in the inner district?”

“yes, sir!” he answered. His best bet was to be honest as he had always been. He was determined to not let his inner panic show on his demeanor, holding himself straight and not breaking eye contact with him. Before he could register it, however, he was knocked down with a searing pain in his skull. The man had headbutted him. Jean kneeled down on the ground with his hands clutching his head in vain efforts to stop the buildings of a headache.

“who gave you the permission to sit?! If you cant handle that, you’ll never make it into the military police brigade!” his voice booms, worsening jean’s pain.

Eventually, the pain faded just as Shadis’ footsteps did, moving onto his next victim. Jean stood carefully with the help of some kid next to him who either had an absurd amount of freckles, or jean was seeing things. He nodded to him as a thank you, wiping his hands on his trousers as he felt another pair of eyes on him, observing his moves. He eyes scanned his surroundings, bending forward a bit just to catch the glimpse of your eyes.

You gave him an apologetic smile with a thumbs up as if you knew each other. Jean was sure he didn’t know you, and he scowled with a nod before he leaned backwards again. Whatever was this kid’s problem?

Looking back, jean would’ve changed a lot about his story if he had the power to, but ironically, he wouldn’t change the first time he met eyes with them. He remembered how, later, they told him that the flowers he was glancing at were called poppies.

He sighed again, blinking himself back to reality, trying not to think about them. Of course, the universe had other plans because all his mind plagued him with were visions of them – a faceless, blurry vision with a distorted but warm voice who he knew he was supposed to love because of how often his mind went back to them. It has to be muscle memory, he thinks, because he’s pulled into these visions when he’s near something specific – the most prominent one being the one he just saw. With how much he surrounded himself with flowers, he expected it. Selfishly, in the beginning, he welcomed it.

He relished in the feeling that spread through his bones after he saw them again even if it was the heavily watered-down version of them and he also admitted that selfishly, he went as far as to stay back after closing time just to bask in it, in everything that seemingly made his mind remind him of this stranger.

But after he met you, he started to regret it.

Man, he was selfish. Pathetic and selfish. But could he blame himself, really? He assumed they’d present themselves as time went on, as he met more and more people who were like him. Hell, he’d even met Moblit Berner, and though he couldn’t remember much about him, he did feel the soft recognition the man held towards him from behind the library desk. And as the years without them went on, his hopes dwindled. Maybe they’d found someone new, maybe they had no interest in strange dreams and their meanings.

Jesus, the more he thought about it, the worse it made him feel. He’d thought about quitting his job just so he could get away from his mind’s assault. But then that would mean he wouldn’t get to see you, which made him feel even worse.

He glared at the door, pleading internally for you to arrive and open the doors, presenting yourself like an angel, make him momentarily forget about his inner questionings. He turned his phone on again, glancing at the time. Twenty-one minutes since when you’d usually be here, nine minutes until he clocked out.

Jean sighed again.

You sighed again.

Levi Ackerman and his damned tea shop, you thought, glaring at the ticking clock on the counter. In all honesty, this could have been easily preventable by coming up with a clever excuse to him, but you couldn’t meet your eyes to him while also having to spill out a half-baked lie about why you couldn’t cover a shift. You were just forgetful enough to not think about flower boy and how this shift would inconveniently fall on the same day and time that you would usually visit him. Besides, it was Isabel who had pleaded you to cover her shift, telling you she had an ‘important thing to attend to’, something you suspected to be a date with a girl in her class who she would describe in vivid, picturesque detail to you, who just so happened to finally ask her out on a proper date last week.

You sighed again. Yes, this was your fault. Yes, you wouldn’t have said no even if you hadn’t forgotten about visiting flower boy.

You laugh nervously, shaking your head. “nope. Just bored.”

Levi cleared his throat from behind you, wiping up an already clean mug. You turned around with an apologetic smile.

“you expecting someone?” he asked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

His eyes narrow further, and you try not to shrink under his gaze. “I’ve known you for half a lifetime, kid, you can’t lie to me.”

Shaking your head vigorously, “really, I’m not. I just… had to cancel plans to cover the shift.” After a brief pause, you continue with panic. “not that I wouldn’t! i was just thinking about, you know, if-“

Levi shakes his head dismissively. “just pay attention. Don’t need another angry customer.” He says, turning around and working on the next order, reading off of the cup with a scowl. He had very specific and pretentious tastes, often silently judging customers for their complicated orders. Youd be caught dead voicing that, though. You turned back around, facing the door, waiting for customers to walk into the store, observing if anyone sitting down at one of the tables needed anything.

From your carefully gathered perception towards the universe and its twisted, confusing strings, you had to be told a name to remember faces from your… past life? At least, that’s how your ex-captain had explained to you after you had almost fainted while giving your interview for the café.

you remember it without any hinderance.

you had come across the café countless of times; it being one of the best ones in campus with an affordable array of caffeinated beverages, you came across the open position for a barista, a piece of neon orange paper stuck on the front of the store against the glass. You dressed for the part, walking into the shop with a wavering confidence and a deep breath to calm your nerves.

It was Isabel who had greeted you with a bright smile. You had smiled back, told her you were here for the open position, and her eyes and smile widened with excitement, nodding and calling out levi’s name.

only, you knew that name.

you didn’t know how, considering the fact that you’d never seen him work the front of the house in the month you’d visited this store, but it felt familiar in the sense that you had heard yourself call his name out in determination. You could hear your own voice laced with anticipation and a deep, settling dread and had to touch your heart to get it to stop beating so much.

noticing your now pale features and a look of far-away wonderment that Isabel herself had felt, she led you to the back of the shop with a gentle arm around your shoulders. You’d been apologetic, telling her you didn’t know where this was coming from and trying to remember if you had had enough water before entering, if you had eaten something new the past week, only to come up blank, the only thing your mind kept picturing was those god-awful creatures, along with a feeling of hope that had been long snuffed out, only to be kept lit over and over again. You remembered thinking that you had somehow simultaneously never felt this feeling before – unwavering hope accompanied with the dread that came before her – but also felt like you had always felt it.

The next thing you knew, you were sitting in front of Levi himself, and Isabel pushed a glass of water towards you with a kind smile, and you remembered introducing yourself to him. You remembered how he’d then closed his eyes, and his shoulders relaxed. He opened his eyes and looked at you warmly and with a familiarity that shook you.

“why are you up so late, kid?” his voice called out, startling you. your failed attempt at sneaking around to find some warm milk to calm your nerves enough to fall asleep now came into light as Captain Levi and his stone cold gaze scrutinized you from head to toe in your striped, scouts-issued pajamas, looking up from a pile of paperwork in front of him, organized in neat sections on the table. You inhaled with widened eyes, finding your wording to explain yourself, only to mumble out a weak, “couldn’t sleep.” With a shrug.

You swore you didn’t know him but it felt like you did. Before you could think too much about it, he held his hand out for a professional handshake, only that the words that followed weren’t as professional. “Levi Ackerman. Welcome back, kid.” And then almost everything just made sense.

He all but nods, turning back to his work without another word.

his eyebrows lifted just a bit, wordlessly asking you to explain more. You cleared your throat, now aware of how disgruntled your appearance must’ve looked with mussed hair and crumpled clothes and bleary eyes that blinked slowly – wanting to catch some rest but being unable to.

“just wanted to make some warm milk so I could sleep.”

You scurry past him and rummage through the cabinets to find a mug. This cabin was a new change in scenery to you and the rest of the squad, and you still found yourself being confused at where the bathrooms were. As you heated up your milk on the stove, you turned around, leaning your back on the counter, observing the captain and his workspace – hunched over, squinting at the text, his right hand holding a pen that hovered atop the parchment. A cup of tea in front of him, going untouched, and if there was anything you knew about your captain, it was that he drank tea while it was still hot, refusing to let it sit out for more than a minute at a time.

You cleared your throat again, catching the man’s attention. “would you like another cup of tea, captain?” you asked.

There was a pause for a moment, and you observed Captain Levi as he blinked and looked not at you, but as if you weren’t even there. You glanced at the table and then up at him again, “captain?” you asked, enough to snap him out of whatever he was thinking about.

he inhaled, sitting up a little straighter than he was before, nodding, his hand motioning you towards him cup.

There was comfort in the silence and warmth that spread throughout the small kitchen as the stove crackled softly, and you removed the milk from the stove, pouring it into your mug, sipping slowly as you watched the water to boil. You searched for a jar of cardamom that you had found in the supplies Section Commander Hange had snuck into the cabin, cracking it open and adding it into the tea sieve along with the leaves. You let the leaves bloom into the water before adding a splash of milk that you had saved from your cup. It was an all-too-familiar task that brought you back to your childhood with living in the inner corner of Shinganshina. You were rarely home, often going to your aunt’s place in Jinae, but whenever you came back, your father would tell you to make him tea as he worked. It became a routine, and you’d often add something extra on special occasions or if he looked rather stressed.

you were in Jinae when the titans first entered, safe and sound and far away from your family. You got wind of the news through rushed whispers and loud men that either complained about the military or rejoiced in the fact that they resided in the safer parts in the walls.

you blinked away the tears that threatened to claim your eyes, opting to push captain’s cup towards him with a small smile. He threw you a glance, nodding in thanks. You turned around to wash the dishes that you were sure he’d reprimand you to not keep in the sink overnight, missing the way the captain’s shoulders relaxed and eyes softened after he tasted your tea.

The same expression that you didn’t fail to miss as you shook his hand feverishly. You smiled back at him, relief sitting on your shoulders, finally feeling a little less alone. Captain Levi – although he told you not to call him that – filled in the gaps for you over a cup of tea, the taste of which you recognized instantly to be your own, told you how this…situation worked. He didn’t understand much of it himself, he informed, but how him and his partner decided to view it instead as some sort of reincarnation, the kind that was adjacent to the ones the religions preached about, just more of an obvious interpretations. The dreams you had were moments you had seen and lived through in your past life – the creatures, he told you, were called titans. The only way you could properly remember every detail and access all of your memories with the proper faces and remember their laughter clearly was after you’d heard their name in full.

It took you a long time to get your head wrapped around this whole idea of there being a past life and you being a part of that world just as much as you wished to be a part of this one. It all left you feeling infinitely more out of place, more than you had felt before and you wondered if the people that you kept dreaming about still wanted to know your name. if their curiosity grew larger by the day or if they were sick of not knowing you or if they were sick of the exact opposite.

Selfishly, you also thought about flower boy. You thought about him not telling you his name, you thought about him hiding it from you specifically so that he wouldn’t have to hear yours, but those were only silly musings you shook away before you could think too much about them. It was just like the universe to do something so beautiful yet turn it into a puzzle, into yet another equation for you to solve.

Who knew if these other people that you used to be so fond of would even want to meet you? Or if you’d be friends without the context of this cosmic contract, if they’d find you enjoyable without them feeling indebted to owing you a friendship just because you were close in some other life under wildly different circumstances.

And why was it, then, that when you repeated your own name in front of the mirror that night, you couldn’t recognize the person you used to be? The person you supposedly were? The one that was loved and knew how to love tenfold? Why was it that even knowing your own name and saying it made you feel only more alien to yourself? It felt like a joke. You were given the answers now, but not the satisfaction that should’ve easily come with it.

You sighed again, a sound that was caught by Furlan, who turned towards you after having just stepped behind the counter, taking Levi’s place. “what’s up?” he asked, tying his apron around his waist.

“nothing, I forgot I had to meet…someone today, and then I took up the shift and now im kind of sort of regretting it,” you said, whispering the last part. Even if Levi wasn’t within earshot from what you could tell, you didn’t want to take the risk. It was stupid and silly of you to still be a little intimidated by him, considering everything, but it was a thing that hadn’t changed. Hell, you embraced it. It meant you were doing something right, feeling the same way you had been feeling across another life.

Furlan smirks knowingly, “oh, flower boy?” he asks.

You shrug, rolling your eyes, turning your back towards him to hide your lie. “no,”

You could hear his smile through his hum even with your back facing him. The shop was pretty empty, which allowed you to simply just be for a few moments without having to professionally interact with customers. You leaned on the counter, glancing at the small vase placed next to you, filled with an arrangement of flowers – baby’s breaths accompanied with orchids coloured brilliantly purple as if the earth was saying something important. Some leaves spilled from the edges of the vase and your finger gently pinched one of them between your index and thumb, feeling its veins under your touch.

“be careful out there,” he says, speaking your name with a smirk on his face. “don’t wanna get distracted by my charms.”

You elbowed him in his ribs, wiping that smile off his face. “sure. As long as youre careful too. Don’t wanna die before me, do you, flower boy?” you said, smiling at him with the same soft teasing he had held before.

He kept his promise, as did you. You walked with him and another stranger you couldn’t quiet place, talking about how this war was far from over and had even more complications than before, but all you could think about was that you’d fight any battle as long as it was for them – your friends. When the other one went silent, and when the weight of his words deemed too heavy,, you spoke up again. “how’s your head?”

He touched his bandaged forehead, smiling softly, “feeling better. How are your ribs?”

You shrugged, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “perfectly fine.” You lied, not wanting to worry the two of them. Turning to him, however, you asked your question softer than before. “how’s your arm?”

He seemed to study your face before answering. “why? Wanna hold it?”

You could hear your other friend sigh in disbelief. “you’ll never change, huh?” you ask, shaking your head softly, your eyes never leaving his.

He shrugged. “and you wouldn’t want me to, poppy.”

And you remember thinking how yes, you wouldn’t want him to, but you’d also love him if he did. If he became someone unrecognizable, you’d be able to hold his hand and trace every little wrinkle on them without even having to open your eyes, and you’d be able to find yourself through them. Youd be able to find the world and by extension, your love, through them, and then close his fist with your heart still in it.

But you don’t say any of that. You simply shake your head and mutter out a “whatever,” as the three of you continue walking, all bruised and scarred with proof of what was and what will be.

And then, in a flash, you remember the first time he called you that nickname. In the packed dining hall that would become like home to you in the next few months, the one that smelled of old wood and warm but flavourless soup. You had sit opposite from him, and after his eyes flashed recognition, he leaned in a little bit closer to you for his voice to reach across the table with all the commotion around you.

“youre the one that was staring at that plant, right?” he asked with a smirk, ready to call you an insult, but all of that dissipated when you leaned in a little too, smiling before giving him an answer. “yeah. Theyre called poppies, by the way. I saw you looking at them too,” you said with an unwavering brightness in your eye, excited to finally be able to talk to someone about all the things you had learnt during your stays with your aunt. He nods slowly, leaning back a little again, as you tell him what soil poppies need to grow, what weather was a perfect condition for them, and after you were done with your ramble, he leaned back in again.

“you’re kinda nerdy about this,” he remarks. You don’t take offense and jean thinks about how the kids in trost would laugh at him not being as discreet as they thought they were being for the things jean liked to do, and everything he ever had – every hobby, every inkling of talent or care towards his family or open affection – was knocked down before it had the chance to be built. But yours was already towering with no intentions of coming down. you just nod with the same smile.

“its an interesting topic, flower boy.”

His face turns red almost immediately, as red as the poppies from that morning. “never said it wasn’t.” he mumbles, his hand in his cheek as he glances down at his food. “whats your name?”

“were you not paying attention during introductions?”

“in case you forgot, I was looking at those damned flowers too.”

“so you’re also kinda nerdy about this.” You said matter-of-factly. He scoffed. “no. you don’t even know me.”

“well, whats your name, then?” you ask, tilting your head and narrowing your eyes with an unserious smile.

“im not just gonna give it to you. Whats your name?”

You breathe out a laugh. “what makes you think im gonna give mine to you, then? You get what you give.”

“so you’re just going to call me flower boy?”

You shrug. “at least I have something to call you.”

“I have something to call you too.” He says, crossing his arms over his chest, his face scrunched up. You were enjoying this and he hated it.

“hm? Like what?”

There was a pause. He blinked as he watched your smile grow the more the silence stretched. His mind grasped the one thing that made sense to him. “poppy.”

That seemed to get you. You looked at him, surprised with your brows slightly raised and lips slightly parted, nodding slowly. “good. So that’s what we’ll call eachother.”

He shifted in his seat, looking at anywhere but you. “whatever.”

You took that as a win.

The bell chimes, alerting  you of new customers entering the store. You stand up straight, plastering a polite smile on your face as you waited for them to decide what they wanted. From what you could tell, they were a group of friends – talking casually with one another.

“im telling you guys, this place is amazing.” The one in the front said, turning behind himself before turning back to you. He flashed you an apologetic smile for the noise that he carried with him. Two people behind him were talking amongst themselves, seemingly unaware of the public space. One of them donned an orange knitted beanie, folded on the bottom while the other had her hair in a ponytail with long bangs framing her face, wearing a short yellow sweater coupled with a white skirt. There was another one behind them, but they were looking down which made it difficult to view their face.

“oh my god they have tea cakes-“ the one with the ponytail said.

“of course they have tea cakes, this is a tea shop.” Orange beanie answered with his eyes glued to the large menu behind you.

“jelly… isn’t jasmine a flower? How is it a tea?”

“maybe they do it like they make wine.”

“well how do they make wine?” after which there was a pause.

The one in front – with freckles dotted on his face – leaned in a little, “im so sorry, we’ll need a minute.” You shook your head with the same smile, finding amusement in their back and forth. “it alright,”

“they don’t step on jasmine petals to make tea, guys.”

The one that was behind all of them answered, still not looking up. He was looking at his phone, you noted with a glance at him. his voice sounded a little familiar, but with the dull chatter around you through the store, you couldn’t be certain. you nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you. “jasmine tea is made from dried jasmine flowers. We infuse the tea leaves with them while brewing,” you note with a smile.

The one with the ponytail looks at you, her head whipping around at the sound of your voice. She steps a little closer, “that’s insane-“

“so you’re saying, technically, tea is like weed?” orange beanie asks, his eyes wide.

You nod. “yep. Technically.” You say, your smile widening at his expression. Freckles breathes out a laugh. The one at the back finally lifts his head up.

Oh.

So you’d end up seeing him today anyway. The universe was strange.

His eyes met yours and time stopped, if only for a bit, if only until the other three talked amongst themselves to discuss what they wanted. A small smile graced his features, the corners of his eyes crinkled as he bowed his head a little, telling you an answer you already knew – he saw you.

You shook your head, your smile turning softer, more genuine.

“so, what would you guys like to order?”

✿ fic visuals ✿ fic playlist ✿ main masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿ also on ao3 and wattpad! ✿

taglist ; @mrsnobodynobody , @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @hopeless-anti-romantic , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana .

lmk if you want to be added or removed!

line dividers by @strangergraphics

[cadet-aviator]

Discipline Choices (2)

So, off I went. I called the Army Cadet HQ for an appointment. I could see them two days later, after school (the barracks were close to the school). I made sure I looked extra sharp. I assumed I was going in for ‘just a briefing’ about the Camp, nothing set in stone, but I realised this was not without strings attached. 

Of course they kept me waiting.

I stood outside the office for the better part of an hour.

They did know I was coming, because two or three different officers with a little folder with my name on it came by to inspect my appearance.

That was nothing new – very much like what happened at those ‘informal social events’.  It was also nothing new that they made notes, and I suspected that they found some minute detail below par which meant that on parade, the next day, I would be informed that I had got a few demerits, with punishments attached.

When I was finally told to enter the office I was relieved to see that the Admiral was not there, just an aide, and one regular officer. I stood at attention througout. This was proper army, so there was no hint of informality, no ‘have a seat, son’. 

And it also wasn’t a friendly briefing. For the young officer doing the paperwork my participation in the camp was already a given. When I mentioned politely that neither I nor my parents had formally consented, he said curtly, that since it was the Admiral’s expressed wish that I should attend camp, the consent of my parents was immaterial. Of course they could lodge a complaint, but he advised against that. He also made clear that since I had entered the cadet program at school, I was officially beholden to the military authorities in the country. The fact that I was not a national was also not important. I was expected to obey. 

So I stood there and realised that I was trapped.

The officer did brief me. I was told I had been signed up for a three week basic course, starting mid-December. This would take up a my entire midterm break, including Christmas, and he indicated that this was a friendly gesture on their part – it would mean I would miss only one week of school. Furthermore, as this was an Army Cadet Camp, I would officially be enrolled in Army Cadets, but as long as I was in school, I could continue my drill training there. However, there would be additional supervision, more inspections, and additional tasks and drills. I could be called upon to ‘serve’ regularly in an Army Cadet context. Performance for the Army Cadets would also be factored in my school results – so failure was not an option.

It all took my breath away. The only option I was given was whether or not to consent to corporal punishment in the camp (35 years ago this was still common in some cadet groups – you could get caned the old-fashioned way. I knew some cadets who got that regularly, and they were very brave about it, saying they preferred it to sitting down all Sunday copying out the cadet manual). I said that I would not consent. The officer informed me that it was often not possible to ‘work off’ demerits during the Camp, so if I got any, they would be transferred to either the school cadet program or the army cadet program. 'You'll be spending quite a bit of time here, then.'

Did I understand all that? 

‘Yes Sir’.

‘Any questions, cadet?’

‘No Sir.’

‘Sign here, cadet.’

‘Yes Sir.’

‘Proceed to the end of the hallway, down the stairs, where you’ll be issued cadet uniform items. Report to the transport on such and such a date at 5 AM. Dismissed.’

‘Yes Sir.’

Cadet uniform items? A stack of light green shirts. I hated them immediately.

[myrsinemezzo]

Writing Interview Tag Game!

Thank you so much @klynnvakarian for the tag!

About Me:

When did you start writing?

I've written academic stuff for years, but I didn't start writing fiction until I was ...37 ?!? I didn't think I had it in me but now it's just flooding out.

Are there different genres or themes you enjoy reading other than the ones you write?

Yes indeed. I honestly love a good dose of dead dove and tension in general, but my god I cannot write it for the life of me. I try and I just can't write truly horrific psychological or physical things. Some of my fics have skirted the edges, but that's the best I can do. I leave that to amazing writers like @bad-surprise who wrote one of my favorite ever fics, the complex "the shark in your water" and vuas whose fics are just scrumptiously disturbing or @thecoziestbean with "meet me at the edge" with its tense atmosphere.

Is there an author you want to emulate, or are compared to often?

I would love to emulate Robin McKinley whose intimacy and description and interiority really influenced me growing up. I don't think I'm there yet, but I like to experiment with fic style, so maybe someday.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I love to write anywhere and everywhere in my house and outside at work. I write and edit both on my phone on the Dabble writing platform (which I highly recommend) and on my laptop since seeing the words in different layouts helps me catch things I might have missed.

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Gotta be music. I put on a single track for an hour or two (or three) and get plunged into a state with all that repetition that lets me be incredibly focused. Hozier is so good for that as well as boygenius, Florence + the Machine, and Taylor Swift for me. Poor Mr. Mezzo, basically. I run songs into the ground!

Are there any reoccurring themes in your writing? If so do they surprise you?

I don't think I have enough self-awareness to pick them out myself haha although I do have to watch out for phrases I tend to repeat like "no small amount of X" or things like that. I also lean into smut. A lot. Maybe too much? Maybe just right? Who can say.

Characters:

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character?

I love writing Elrond. I never expected it, but he's such a canny character that I'm really enjoying my current chapter of my Rings of Power canon fic now that he's turned up to have battles of words with Sauron.

Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?

Arondir and Bronwyn would be my besties, I think.

Which characters would you dislike the most if you met them?

I don't honestly know! Probably the way I've written Galadriel's mother Eärwen in past fics. I worked out a lot of parental traumas in those where she's just... awful.

Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?

My main characters never look where they leap in my fics. Sometimes that's because they're brave and sometimes that's because they run headlong "like a colt in full gallop" in Galadriel's case ;) I also can't stay away from Enemiese to Lovers. Ever.

How do you picture your characters?

I can visualize clothes and physical traits and thought patterns in my characters more than facial features. There's just vague actor-ish facial features, but mostly just hair color to distinguish them.

My Writing:

What’s your reason for writing?

I've always loved to fall into different worlds with reading. It's not so different with writing. There's a real joy in stepping out of my own life to have adventures and grand love affairs.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment from readers that you find particularly motivating?

I love getting the phrase "Second kudos" and just a string of hearts. It always makes me smile. Long comments deconstructing and analyzing what happens are lovely too, of course. Comments are wonderful, but they also don't motivate me as much as the sheer love of seeing characters talk to each other in my head in some ways, though.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

I'd love to be an escape outlet for my readers as much as my fellow writer friends are to me and all the other reading I do.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

I think it's (maybe) the stubbornness in coming back to writing every time I fall off the horse and feel like I'll never write again when it's been a week or two. I know so many of us writers feel that feeling.

Have you been told what is your greatest strength as a writer is by others?

I'm not sure, and I should keep track with gathering up kind comments to go back to look at, but maybe smut? lol. Or modern AU cute vibes in my farmers market and musician fics. My beloved Mr. Mezzo read one of my fics recently for the first time and said "It was like I could hear you reading it to me" so maybe a storytelling quality.

How do you feel about your own writing?

I am always pleasantly surprised when I go back and reread my own work. Even back in the beginning, I had tones of voice for characters that were what I wanted to get across.

When you write are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, do you write purely for yourself, or is it a mix of both?

Not really influenced by others except when I'm feeling unsure like when I started Across That Fine Line and felt insecure about lore and such. I took requests in some ways then, although it turned out alright in the end and I don't do that as much now with letting reader comments shape things. Still, @stitchingatthecircuitboard made a comment on that fic recently and it changed the vibe of a few chapters a Ton, so maybe I'm a liar haha. But seriously, sometimes readers wondering where it will go can spark a new idea, and that's lovely.

Thanks again for the tag @klynnvakarian and I'm going to tag @thecoziestbean, @bad-surprise, @stitchingatthecircuitboard, @softlighter, and @thrillofhope because I would love to hear your thoughts on writing. No pressure at all, though, since writing is such an intimate act!

[imaginespazzi]

chapter 7🚨

It’s been a long night. 

it’s been a long week actually

Instead they’d chosen to sit in an awkward silence that was suffocated by the lingering tensions of the last few weeks. 

i’m also feeling the awkward tension

And that familiar urge -one that had once been so simple and easy to give into- had crept up Azzi’s spine; the urge to reach over and tangle their fingers together, to still the blonde.

do it i double dog dare you 🙂

Paige had continued to move restlessly, like she was waiting for something -somebody- to be her anchor.

let’s use words? 😭

But it didn’t feel like the right moment to talk about the injury and it sure as hell didn’t feel like the right time to talk about them- or at least what’s left of them.

what’s left of them? uhhhhhh😦

God, she really fucking misses Paige. Her Paige. 

need this fixed NOW

Paige hums mockingly, “it’s okay Az. I’d be scared too if every time I backed out, I ended up crashing into something.”

okay one backing in is a skill and two a friendly banter???👀

“Baby you’ve done it at least six-” Paige pauses, her eyes widening as her brain catches up with the word -or really the word- that had just slipped involuntarily from her lips.

she said what now😮😮

Azzi doesn’t look away immediately, her eyelids blinking as she lets the term of endearment wash over her, seep into her veins and flood into her heart in a way that almost feels cathartic.

we’re making progress 🙂↕️

“Paige-” Azzi’s not quite sure exactly what else she wants to say -thinks say it again might not be the most appropriate thing to say right now- but it doesn’t matter because Paige doesn’t wait around to listen. 

she said nope not today

And they’re so close together now -Paige’s lips right against the base of Azzi’s neck- that the younger girl can feel the blonde’s breath fanning against her skin.  It causes an achingly familiar little shiver to run down her spine. Azzi gulps, blinking her eyes rapidly as she tries to focus on anything but the blue of Paige’s eyes and the reddish hue tingeing her cheeks. 

i’m not falling for it. all this tension and it’s gonna end with an angst 😒

I wanna kiss you so fucking bad she thinks

UGGGGGGHHHHH

She wishes they were both brave enough to do something about that. 

i also wish it too but the authors love to play around with people’s heart strings

Paige appreciates everything their teammates have done, it’s not what she needs right now. Still, the older girl -always the people pleaser- contort her features into a smile as she hobbles on crutches into the apartment, Azzi following warily behind, ready to catch her if she stumbles. 

paige wanted that alone time and i don’t blame her

Paige hates -absolutely detests- being told that things are going to be fine when it feels like her whole world is crashing around her. 

i wanna hug her🥺

And Azzi knows these things, because no matter what, Azzi knows Paige. 

🥺🥺🥺🥺

“Do I need help dressing myself?,” Paige says, her voice dangerously low as the tension in the room thickens palpably, “No Evina. No I don’t fucking need help,” she curses and Azzi flinches, “I’m injured, not incompetent Evina. I can get fucking dressed by myself.”

oh no 😣

Azzi bites her lip, her fingers fidgeting with each other but when she speaks, there’s conviction in her voice, “I’m gonna stay.”

was it really ever a question mama E?

Every corner of this room is tainted with memories of what they had been, and what they’d never been able to become. 

it will soon change don’t worry the authors aren’t that cruel

“I can’t do this without you,” she confesses in a whisper, her voice etched with uncharacteristic vulnerability as the teardrops begin to cascade down her rosy cheeks, “I can’t lose both. I can’t not have basketball and not have you. I need you Az. I really, really fucking need you.”

and my tears have started to fall

“You have me,” Azzi says slowly, as she turns her own body towards Paige’s, one of her hands instinctively reaching out to caress away the blonde’s tears, as her other hand finds Paige’s, finally tangling their together, “I’m right here P. You have me.”

oh thank goodness it ended on a good note. i’m happy that they’re slowly getting there

- - -

as always lovely writing and of course worth the wait. hope you have a great week and huskies in the final four wooo!

-🗑️

Do you know how much I appreciate you??

let’s use words? 😭 - now why would they do that? That's soooo boring.

i’m not falling for it. all this tension and it’s gonna end with an angst 😒 - okay but it technically did not!

i also wish it too but the authors love to play around with people’s heart strings - it's just so fun!!

it will soon change don’t worry the authors aren’t that cruel - oh aren't we?

[whistl-stahp]

ok i think this might actually be my favorite 8000 i read yet... (spoilers inbound)

like i'm a bit biased obvi given i love robots and ESPECIALLY aiad. and im also biased because alex's story has been NINE YEARS in the making and it's come out so so slowly. a lot of the articles that use her don't bring up her internal conflict with her feeling trapped. that omission isn't a bad thing, she acts as a good character to bring in when you need general computer stuff, but it just means i've been deficient of deep alex content and honestly thought for a while that her plot line was never gonna get resolved. but i just needed to learn to never lose hope!!

the nod to limited memory had me really happy. it's very clear the author did their aiad homework. i was surprised that none of the hello world bots were mentioned but i was not sure how they'd fit in, and looking at the comments the author felt the same way, so i cant complain

this article really captures alexandra's drive to help others and her reluctance to help herself, both of which are compounded by her being an ai. in original aiad it highlights how she's bound by duty in a really unique way that a human wouldn't be; she was programmed to follow the foundation, she was created by the foundation, it is hardwired into her identity to help the foundation. but despite it all she still wants to be free. and she isn't brave enough to run away, because that would be choosing to throw away her entire purpose. but she is still so determined to be the kindest person she can be with what she has. i love this articles blend of that, where her drive to help humanity is intertwined with her duty to the foundation. she sees her entire existence as helping humanity, like, thats what she was build to do, she cant just turn against the foundation!! but she has people there to tell her that it's ok to want to be free, and she can still be kind to people when she leaves her duty behind.

she will still be kind. her kindness has never been shaken and this article shows that even at the extreme she is still at her core kind and will always be so.

it also shows a side of her i wouldn't have thought of, where she feels like people don't really care about her. some of that probably stems from the foundation moving forward and creating new and more advanced ai, but the main reason here is a result of alex's memory module failing and how she literally can't function anymore. she thinks she's useless, unable to complete her mission, and should be left behind. but her unrelenting kindness to everyone comes back around and crom and lurk are there to help her <3 and they value her <3

but the ending is really interesting slash confusing to me.. it had a "and it was all a dream" feel but also kinda wasnt? and alex still isn tfree? shes still working for the foundation just with more self-confidence? unless the end was supposed to be her telling lurk goodbye and then leaving forever... but i didnt see that if so.

i guess the "more self confidence" isnt giving her much credit i mean the article literally says 'ya shes not fake shes straight up a person.' but i dont know where the ending led... im just confused. was this the resolution of her story or not? but OK I LIKED IT A LOT OK. the prose and css mixed together was something id never have expected on an aiad article, or an scp article at all! it was awesome! it creates such strong emotion its literally my favorite 8kcon entry!!!

also shoutout to it being totally mobile compatible. the screen jittered a bit but it was flawless outside of that which was surprising bc css heavy scps usually break on phones

IIUUGH AND RHE ENDING BEING A CALL BACK TO NULL TERMINATING STRING... ok im done now. [/end]

FICTIONAL AI.... I LOVE U SO MUUUCH...

[cornerstoreclown]

His Blessing

Summary: This is a short one-shot ( 3454 words approx. ) where the reader has convinced Art to roleplay a hostage situation with them where they get to be one of his victims. Don’t worry, the reader comes out of this fic fine! I genuinely promise, I would tell y’all if otherwise. The reader is gender neutral and has a vulva. The reader is not specifically mentioned to have breasts either, so that’s up for the reader to decide what their chest looks like. 

Content and Warnings: Consensual rough sexual activities, some light BDSM, vaginal fingering, biting, marking, some slight blood, hair pulling, knife play mention, mention of guns and the standard Art paraphernalia, corruption of the reader’s mind, slight transformation (?) that’s more along the line of new abilities of the reader during their descent to whatever Art is making of them. Art’s gift, as it were. Being his ‘favorite’ comes with benefits, after all! 

Author’s notes: This was VERY hard for me to write but extremely indulgent. I struggled a lot, HAHA. I’ve written smut plenty a time, but doing it in a canon x reader fic is something I’ve done rarely. This one took so much time because of that. Anyway, I hope that those who are into this sort of thing, enjoy it! For those that are looking for more domestic stuff, stay tuned--I got you. 

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

“Safe word is red,” You tell Art, looking over your shoulder at the man who has just tied you up with metal chains to a chair. You don’t get a response, but you know he’s listening. Your hands are bound to the armrests, your ankles tied to the legs of the chair, thighs parted for him. He finishes the job with a gentle boop to your nose, and you feel butterflies in your stomach, before you feel a little bit of chills down your spine. The room was cold, and being in nothing but a tank top and shorts didn’t do you a whole lot of favors. 

However, given the circumstance, you anticipate that you’ll be warmed up in no time. 

Art barged his way into your life, and you willingly let him in. He kept you safe, and you gave him a home. You were his, and he was yours. You’re not sure at what point when you were together that you began to feel less and less like the you that you knew before the Miles County Clown, but whatever influence he’s placed upon you without your initial knowing, you like it. 

You were once shy, reserved. Now, he’s made you brave. He’s made you proud. You fear very little now. And for better or for worse, you’ve even found your mind a little twisted in the process, the thought of danger a thrill to you, and the very concept of others getting hurt a little… funny. People now notice how you look so much healthier, you seem happier, and that you’re far more charismatic than what you’d ever been. As of late, however, you’ve found yourself having a penchant for violence. The craving itches under your skin like a parasite, and hasn’t stopped since you first noticed it. It’s been driving your nuts, feeling like if you don’t act on it soon enough, you’ll go mad. 

You remember telling him about your feelings and those urges, and Art only looked surprised, but your familiarity with him allowed you to see past that response–he was pretending like he didn’t know what you were referring to. Whatever he was doing to you, he was aware of it, and you were too. And yet, you didn’t bother to slip away from it. The red string of fate that is wrapped around your soul is attached to his too, but he’s not ensnared in it like you are–no, he’s the one keeping you restrained in it and has the string between you both wrapped solely around his arm, pulling you along with him like it were a leash. 

The room is full of stained blood splatters at various locations that range anywhere from the ceiling, to the floors, and the walls. The chair you’re sitting on is also stained, and you’re not at all bothered by any of it. You’re not sure if Art had actually killed someone in here, if it was like this before he got here, or if the blood was his own–it was hard to say. He was pretty notorious for bleeding out and taking damage from time to time when wrangling someone. You’ve even tended to some of his wounds before in the past. What you do know is that the place smells a little musty, and there’s one light source, which is the single swaying lamp from the ceiling at the center of the room. Art has a workbench here full of improvised weapons behind you that you saw when you walked in. Things such as forks, glass bottles, scissors, screwdrivers, a hacksaw, an ice ax, pliers, some dental tools–it’s really a mix all out on the table and you didn’t have the slightest negative reaction when you saw it. In fact, you felt a little tickle.

So many things to torment you with if he wanted, and you’re exposing yourself to him trusting him to not kill you with any of it. He’s inflicted pain on you before because you’ve asked for it, and even then, you knew he was showing self restraint during those times, waiting to see if you’d beg for him to stop, and you never did. He’d cut you, choke you, slap you, yank you by your hair, but all of it was wanted. It was something he was even happy to oblige you on.

Something along the way of all those times, there was a change to your body. Your wounds healed fast in the way that his would, and the sensation of pain in your brain transformed to pleasure. It had to be because of him, you reasoned. There was no other way, there couldn’t be. He was changing you, not just mentally, but physically. You don’t know how, but you do know you don’t care to know anymore, because it is what it is at this point. He’s molded you into the perfect toy, built you up from the ground up in such a way that any sensation of pain only fires off reward signals in your brain. You’ve been completely rewired.

Being tied up and at his mercy is what you wanted. You told him yourself that you wanted to be in his victims shoes, that you wanted to feel the way that they felt. This wasn’t something that you ever initially wanted and even once would be horrified to humor. But people were allowed to change, you told yourself. You were allowed to change. What’s wrong with a little consensual roleplay with a killer clown? Nothing like feeling like you’re walking on a tightrope at all times.

Art runs a hand across the side of your face as he lingers behind you and the chair you sit in. You lean into his touch, feeling yourself melt a little. For someone who could kill and maim so effortlessly, those same hands were capable of much kindness, but only reserved for you. Hands that could rip your jaw clean off the hinged joints, don’t. They only caress. 

With his other hand, you feel his fingers massage your scalp before they sharply ensnare your hair and yank your head back to look up at him. It’s then that you are forced to see him looking down at you and towering over you, and you admit—he looks a little intimidating and there’s not a glimmer of kindness on his face to be found for the role he’s playing. The tug hurts a little and draws a light huff of air out of you, but you’re fine. You’re great, actually! You feel the way that your lips are beginning to turn upwards, the muscles on your face aching with just how wide your smile is. He’s smiling at you in turn, and when your eyes meet in understanding, you feel a glow erupt from your core, enveloping you like a warm blanket. He was aware of his position to play, but to see that flicker of awareness only solidifies your trust. He’s gone this far to put this much work into you, why stop now? 

Anticipation has your heart beginning to race and you sigh, desperate to get more air into your lungs to keep up with your body’s demand for oxygen.

Despite all these tools he has around him, you noticed earlier that he has none in hand. He could have used the knife on you again, he could have made you fellatiate a gun like last time. He could have pulled out a saw like that one night when he tried to frighten you. It’s during this smile of his that you realize that the choice of weapon tonight is not anything handheld, but instead part of him–his mouth. He bares his teeth behind those curled up lips like a hungry lion, and how fitting when you’re easy prey, having nowhere to run as you’re bound up like a little present for his consumption. His jaw is strong, capable of tearing through bone and sinew, and yet it only further riles you up. 

“I love you,” You tell him, and you mean it. You do. He knows you mean it, too. He enjoys the way that you adore him, and the way that your will bends so easily to him and your submission to him. You were at his mercy at all times. You’re alive because he decided to keep you alive. Every breath you took, it was because he let you. Even when the both of you were far apart, you felt him in you. His presence. His essence, implanted in the deepest depths of your being, growing and flourishing like an invasive vine feasting on the endless affection you held for him, strangling out any potential of who you could be without him. It’s gotten to the point where the thought of a life without him doesn’t even occur to you anymore. 

Art lets go of your hair and makes his way near your side now, bending down as he seizes your face by your jaw, meeting you at your level. It happens too fast, and you don’t have much time to react when he comes close. You barely have time to register that his lips are pressing to yours, but when you do, your stomach flips. You feel his tongue trying to pry its way in your mouth, and you let it happen, eyes screwing shut tightly and exhaling heavily through your nostrils as the familiar taste of his bitterness registers upon your tastebuds. It’s not terrible, surprisingly, and you’ve learned to crave it. To crave him.

His kisses are always intoxicating, and with each one, you feel as if a part of you is being sucked away. And maybe it is. He’s forceful against you during, pushing against you so hard that your head goes back a bit. You taste iron before you feel it—pain doesn’t have time to settle as pleasure takes over and you realize that the clown bit your tongue. It’s not a lot of blood, but enough that it floods the space between your kisses together and flavors the exchange. He’s sloppy when he kisses, and each time you try to pull back, he follows in such a passionate way that you think he’s almost trying to eat you. When he does finally back away, you innately know that your lips are stained red with your own blood. 

Your eyes meet his again when he pulls back, and there’s no sign of anything that indicates that he’s got much thought behind them beyond the calls of carnal desire, ravenous hunger, or brutal violence. 

You think it’s all three right now. At least, until he went for your neck.

“Art–!!” You only manage to get out his name, gasping as he drags the top row of his teeth across your throat, yanking your head back by your hair again, this time to expose your jugular to him proper. He gives a nip, then a suck and a kiss. Your hands ball into fists as you stare at the ceiling and the various blood spatters. It’s the only thing you COULD do. 

He’s marking you, and you can’t do a single damn thing about it. You can feel that where he’s doing it, that cheeky bastard is kissing and licking and sucking the spaces on your neck that’ll be hard to cover up if you don’t use something like a scarf or a turtleneck. Your eyes shut tightly again as you feel his other hand traveling down your bare shoulder, leaving a trail of fire that has your body temperature rising. You’re a whining and pathetic, whimpering mess, and you can’t do a damn thing. 

It didn’t take much to stimulate you, not when it came to Art. He had a way with you, a familiarity with your body that made you ache and yearn for him. He knew what you liked, what you didn’t, knew how to unravel you from the inside out like it was a game, because it was. This was a game, for now, until he decided it wouldn’t be. And you’d hope he’d never have a second thought otherwise. 

The way that his nails drag across your chest, where he could rip out your rapidly beating heart from your chest cavity and devour it whole, it bothers you not. It doesn’t bother you at the notion of how his hand is sliding down to your stomach, that he can rip and yank out your intestines to spill across the floor in front of you. Your eyes shoot open amid the kisses and nips at your neck when you recognize that his hand is slipping into your pants. He’s gone past your undergarments and settled that hand of his right between your thighs, with his middle finger teasingly tapping at your clit. 

You inhale sharply, face twisting as you lurch back in your seat, squirming as he keeps your head in place by your hair. His kisses are trailing down from your neck to your collarbone. Art bites there too, and it stings before it feels awash with the buzz of pleasure that endorphins provide you. He’s dragging it out, testing your patience while he’s sliding his fingers up and down between your thighs when you just want him to get straight to the point and fill you with him, whether it be his dick or his fingers. You ache, you feel empty without him, and he’s got you gritting your teeth, nails digging crescent shapes into your palm from your clenched fists.  

The clown drags his tongue back up your neck, causing you to shiver as the hair on your arms and the back of your neck stand up. Your face twists into something ugly when that hand of his between your thighs presses against you, palm against your clit and his fingers dangerously close to penetrating you. Instead of following through on that, he forces you to grind into his hand, and you do, desperately. 

The heat between your legs only grows, his touch stoking the fire. You know you’re soaking his fingers–you can feel it. When he lets go of your hair once more and you have control again, you move your neck to get a look at him. 

The moment you make eye contact is the moment that he inserts a finger in you. Your jaw drops and you gasp loudly. 

He wanted to see your face the instant that he slipped in, and he’s not disappointed, going so far as to part his lips in the way that you are now, a reflection for you to see of how your own expression appears, like a mirror. Only, he eventually gives you an amused and twisted smile.

“Art…” You get his name out a second time, but once he’s got you set, he’s back at your neck again like some sort of goddamn vampire. This time you expose your throat to him in devoted submission, offering him the opportunity to rip your trachea straight out of you between his teeth if he wanted. Instead, he bites and sucks again. Your neck is going to be so bruised up after all this, you think. He wanted people to know you were his, and his alone. He’s made that quite clear, and that’s not a fact he’s shied away from in the past with you. Hickeys are nothing compared to literal murder he’s done for you as a means of showing those feelings. 

One finger turns to two after a few thrusts, and he stretches you out so good with both fingers. He makes a scissoring motion with his index and middle, taking the time to prepare you for the third one. 

You can only moan.

He’s even taking his time with the pacing, putting his whole hand into it as his fingers move in and out in such a way that, while still satisfying, you wish he’d go faster. You’re not chasing your release–he’s bringing it to you, building you up in such a sickeningly sweet and leisurely way that’s torture, and it’s plain to see on your face. No amount of improvised weapons could make you look as agonized as you are when the eventual third finger goes in and he’s got you whimpering and shaking. The only noise that’s heard in this otherwise silent space is you, the rattling of your metal chains keeping you stuck to this chair, and the sounds of Art’s fingers sliding in and out of you. 

His easy pace begins to transition into a faster one, and you feel the shift that would otherwise have your legs shut if they weren’t forcibly chained open. 

“Fuck…” You whimper. 

The sound of his hand smacking into your thighs is loud, to the point where it’s eventually the only thing in your ears you can really register, and you’re sure it’s the same for him too. 

Your climax is close, and you feel it rising inside you like an ocean tide. Art’s kissing your shoulder again, but you're too lost in the tingling between your legs. It’s hard to think right now—he’s since gone from pulling you up the mountain to pushing you right to the ledge, and now he fully intends on shoving you off.  

You feel your muscles tighten and your toes curl, your breaths becoming sharp as your lips part, jaw slack. He can feel it coming, he can feel the way that your thighs and muscles clench and your body begins to tense up.

You feel as if your soul is about to separate from your body, until there’s a slight jolt of pain, right in the middle space between your shoulder and neck. Warmth and endorphins flood to the source as your eyes open and your head turns, where you see that Art is biting you. 

It’s too late, not even those jaws could seize your soul to put it back into your body as your orgasm wracks throughout you, the initial pain that’s since transformed into pleasure working in tandem with his fingers between your thighs. He did it on purpose, waiting for the perfect moment, and it worked.

Your eyes shut again and behind your lids are fireworks, a collage of colors all at once, and then there’s nothing. You feel light as a feather, and then the steady decline as you feel yourself weighed down by gravity again. It’s enough all at once for your head to slump. 

You need a minute or two to recover. And Art gives it to you. He’s at least that merciful.

As you regain yourself again, you feel his fingers slip out of you, leaving you empty, but satisfied, and when you finally lift your head, he’s licking his fingers, tongue curling around his digits, reveling in the taste of you. He’s looking rather shameless about it too, sucking his fingers like he’s just handled the best dessert. You even see that your blood is on his lips, smeared down his white chin. The muscle between your shoulder and neck has a distinct marking of where his teeth were, along with the unmistakable crimson smudges that you know is your drying blood. The wound is already clotted, impressively enough, your skin is well on its way to knitting itself back to pristine condition as if nothing had ever happened to begin with. In three days tops, it’ll be gone. Pretty impressive, actually.

You can tell he’s smug, even though it might not be direct. It’s there. You know it is. It makes you huff another laugh. You’re not in any pain. You’re fine, fit as a fiddle. 

You have his blessing, after all. 

“Shit,” You mumble, just above a whisper. “That was good. Can you free me?” 

When you expect that he’d oblige your request, Art has a glint in his eye, with a smile to follow through. You thought you were done, but it’s clear you’re not. Your stomach flips again in delight.

He instead heads somewhere out of view behind you, presumably to his bench, but you don’t really know. Was he finally getting the knife out? Was he going to try and scare you? You’re not sure, but you’re ready for anything. He’s trained you well. 

No need to worry about strapping yourself in for the ride, you’re pretty secure as is right now, aren’t you? 

“Remember, the safe word is red,” You remind him, glancing over your shoulder. 

His back is to you when you look behind you. He’s fiddling with something purposefully hidden from your view, but he does give you a glance, and an understanding nod. He knows. 

You look forward again, face turned away from him, and smile to yourself.

The fun was just getting started.