#and then it came back to me and i almost passed out

[aizawas-upper-left-wisdom-tooth]

Alright, story time.(Abbreviated)

My first college professor. Older lady came with glowing reviews from my literal friends, family, and highschool classmates.

I was doing dual credit (for anyone not in the know, that's when you take college classes while still in highschool) and while I wasn't top of my class, I was loved by almost all my teachers and well liked by the others. Needless to say, I had never had any problems with teachers in the past.

About 2 weeks into my Intro to English class in college, my teacher (we'll call her Mrs.B) goes off on a rabbit trail of conversation that leads into her rant of (and no, I'm not making this up) "The founding fathers we're all a part of some mass cult-like organization similar to the illuminati and founded the country on the grounds of brainwashing and controlling the public"......

So needless to say, the class was literally stunned. Like, no one had any idea what to say in this situation. So, since my dad didn't raise no idiot, I raised my hand and said.

"Mrs.B. I've never heard of this before."

And because I'm a Slytherin who tries to go for deniability, I VERY SPECIFICALLY add

"I was taught that they were christians who immigrated here seeking religious freedom from the British government. May I ask where you heard this from?"

BOI HOWDY! DID SHE NOT LIKE THAT!

She then proceeded to:

1.) lecture me in a very harsh hissing tone (that raised up to a yell!) in front of the whole class about not questioning her because she was "older and wiser than me."

2.) barred me from speaking in the class, and angrily cut me off every time I tried to apologize. (I was terrible with confrontation from authority figures since up until this point my teachers and bosses had been almost nothing but pleasant people)

3.) when I later emailed her an apology stating that I had not meant to question her authority in front of the class. I had only been genuinely confused at the information. But she also owed me an apology for banning me from speaking and almost full on yelling at me in front of the class.

She replied with something along the lines of "this is not an apology since you're not admitting full fault for the situation."

4.) for the rest of the semester I was in her class, she routinely gave me failing, or just barely passing, grades on my assignments. This is despite the fact that I had made 2 different As before the incident and I was a better writer than my best friend who had taken the class before me and passed with flying colors.

And 5.) the final the paper was simple. Write an essay on your favorite movie beforehand (following a bunch of rules), bring it to class, trade with your partner, you both correct each other's papers, HAND IT BACK TO EACH OTHER, THEN FIX ANY MISTAKES MARKED, and then you turn it in at the end of class.

I had missed the rule where it said the paper could only be 2 pages long. I had written 4.

My partner was an Egyptian young man who should have been in the other, easier class, "English as a second language."

He started writing his paper IN CLASS... His English was terrible and he barely spoke the language, much less could write it well. (No offense meant to him, but he should have been in the other class and this is relevant to the story)

I rolled my eyes and got to editing my own paper while he wrote his. I was down to 2 and a half pages. While also practically writing my partner's paper for him. We had 30 min left before the end of class and we were some of the last people in class.

She asks what's taking so long.

I calmly say that I had over written my paper and was editing it down while helping my partner with-

She cuts me off by YELLING at me saying that I was an idiot for not following the guidelines beforehand and ect. Ect.

But what really got me was when she yelled out "you're dragging down your partner! His papers are always so much better than yours and you're only going to ruin his paper!"

Then she demanded I turn on my paper right then and there... Despite still having 30 min left to finish it.

It was like a switch flipped.

Up until that point I had been in denial, thinking that I just had to work harder. But then she told me that this man was getting better grades than I was.

He was literally incapable of forming a complete sentence in English.

I simply turned in my paper and walked away.

I didn't rat out my partner for not having written his essay beforehand, because I ain't no snitch.

And, unfortunately, I didn't report her or go to the dean. I was a doormat when it came to authority figures and had previous bad experiences reporting harassment in other areas of my life.

Not doing anything when I had the chance to report her is still one of my biggest regrets. Last I heard, she died of some cancer or something like 8 years later?

I'm still pissed. My only solace is knowing that I don't take that kind of shit from people now.

does everyone have a teacher that they still have beef with/ hold a grudge against today??

[kumikuzushi-kun]

HIS NOCTUARY𓆝 𓆟

Telemachus x Fem! reader 𓆞

WARNING(S) : Harassment, Disturbing acts performed by the suitors, Reader is hinted to have mommy issues, a few inaccuracies to the Odyssey, slight intimacy

Word count : 14k (forgive me, i got carried away)

a/n: part 2 coming soon!

ART CREDITS GOES TO GIGI IN YOUTUBE ( @gigizetz in Tumblr! )

𐔌 When Telemachus turned thirteen, that was when his father’s absence start to weigh. The Trojan War had long ended, yet Odysseus had not returned. Around the same time, the number of workers in the palace began to dwindle—some retiring, others quietly leaving as the palace began to shift.

That was when you and your mother arrived at the palace. The queen was in need of a personal handmaid, and your mother, having served as a handmaid in a neighboring kingdom, was sent to Ithaca. She was a trusted woman—regarded as one of the most loyal workers in her homeland—so it didn’t take long before Queen Penelope came to see her the same way.

Along side your mother—was you, you looked around the same age as Telemachus though he never officially met you. It was quite a turn for Telemachus to have another person his age in the palace walls however it only ever remained as that. Just another presence that worked for his family.

In rare events, Telemachus would ran into you while you're helping your mother or the other handmaidens. You stood professional despite you being the same age, it was clear that you were more mentally mature than the prince, heck probably more sensible than any other teen in Ithaca.

𐔌 One time, Telemachus was walking back to his room when he passed by you. Though you were looking out through the open window at the view, you immediately sensed his presence and turned to acknowledge him.

"Good day, your highness. The sky seems to be in a good mood today, isn't it?" That was the first time you'd ever spoken to him beyond simply greeting him by title.

The young prince wasn’t exactly used to speaking with girls his age, so an awkward chuckle escaped his lips as he stepped a little closer to you. “It quite is,” Telemachus replied, his voice slightly uncertain.

You looked out towards the sky "The sky has been gloomy nowadays.. It's nice to see the sun shining more often" You said, he glanced up at the sky then back at you. "Yeah.. It has been awhile since the weather was this calm" He said. "It's quite beautiful, if you look into it"

You visually agreed as you gave a soft smile, "..Do you prefer it like this?" Telemachus asked almost too awkwardly.

“I do,” you answered honestly. “The garden’s easier to work in when it’s not soaked with rain. Besides, the sunlight brings the colors out. It makes things feel a little more alive… even if just for a while.”

He raised a brow, a little surprised. “You tend the queen’s garden?”

“Sometimes,” you said. “Other times, I’m just the one who passes through it delivering things. But I know it better than most—it’s beautiful there, especially with this weather”

Telemachus looked at you curiously, you noticed and only let out a chuckle.

A few seconds of silence were occupied between you two—as he followed your gaze and landed on the palace's garden, and you did not lie—the garden was indeed beautiful with the sun's grasp.

He thought you were about to say something more, your lips just beginning to move, but your eyes flicked to the corner, catching sight of something—or someone.

Before you could continue, you stopped yourself and quickly excused yourself with a slight bow. Curious, Telemachus turned in the direction you left and saw your mother standing a short distance away, wearing an unreadable expression. The two of you greeted the prince one last time before walking off together in silence.

That was probably the last time you made small talk with Telemachus—you didn’t completely brush him off, still greeting him with a soft smile whenever he was around, but there was a quiet distance that formed between the two of you. One he couldn’t quite name, as there was no word in the dictionary existed for it. Still, he noticed. He noticed how you always looked like you had something to say, but held your composure. He didn’t do anything about it—maybe because he barely knew you, or maybe because he assumed you prioritize your duties over forming any friendship.

However he would be lying, if he says it didn't bother him completely.

𐔌 When Telemachus was sixteen, murmurs of concern began to stir among the people of Ithaca. Even though Queen Penelope managed the kingdom just fine, the prolonged absence of a king was becoming harder to ignore. That was when a few suitors began to appear at the palace—coming not out of loyalty, but in hopes of claiming the throne through Penelope’s hand.

Telemachus could smell their dirty intentions from a mile away, and more than anything, he wanted them gone. He hated how easily they assumed his father was dead, as if his memory could be buried so simply. Thankfully, his mother was no fool—Penelope remained clever, holding off every suitor with such grace and patience.

Time passed, and the number of suitors grew—eventually even gaining a leader among them, as if they ever needed one, when all they did was abuse the hospitality of their home. They demanded a new king, insisted the queen to choose a new husband already. Telemachus begged his mother not to lose hope. Fortunately, she was just as cunning as his father and came up with a plan to keep the suitors at bay.

"Today I will begin to weave a shroud for my lost husband, if he is not seen in Ithaca before I finish, I will choose one of you to take his place beside me"

"I will send for maidens to help you" One of the suitors pointed out.

𐔌 A year passed and the presence of the suitors affected not only the queen and Telemachus, but also everyone who served in the palace. You were no exception. Despite holding no grace in your blood, your features carried them all, your presence was warm that drew eyes—an unspoken beauty that didn’t beg for attention, It was the kind of presence that carried itself with dignity, not vanity. Unfortunately, that was enough to catch the notice of the suitors themselves.

"Girl," You could feel their eyes land on you as you tried your best not to take notice, focusing instead on your chores. Unfortunately, you had been tasked with sending something to the kitchen—and that path meant passing by the suitors. You mentally prepared yourself as you stepped forward, keeping your chin up, doing all you could to ignore the lingering stares that followed your every step.

Your attempt to ignore the call quickly backfired when suddenly your arm was harshly tugged by force—it caused you to let out a yelp—immediately stepping back when you saw one of them drawing closer. "Are you deaf in one ear or are we playing pretend?" A mischievous tone of voice rang in the crowd.

You immediately knew who's voice it was—as your face immediately turned sickened.

Eurymachus stood infront of you, his taller figure casting a shadow into you however your glare was no invisible.

"Why are you such in a rush? hmm? you don't have to act like you don't like the attention" Cheers and chuckles of men followed.

"You're interrupting my work, Eurymachus. If you have a shred of decency, you and and the others will move and let me do my job." You spat back—keeping your composure straight, a grin plastering on the man's face causing a churn in your stomach. "Aww, so dedicated, aren’t we? Of course you are—you’re the daughter of the queen’s precious head handmaiden, right? Always so eager" He mocks—stepping closer.

Instead of backing away or showing even a hint of fear, you stepped closer, narrowing your glare at the man. “Instead of insulting my mother, I suggest you to keep your mouth shut. The queen wouldn’t be too pleased to hear such a foul tongue from one of her guests.” Though your words dripped with venom, your eyes held only boredom, and your posture remained calm, unshaken. The way you looked at Eurymachus—as if he was no one to fear—only made his ego swell, stung by the quiet defiance.

The room fell silent at your remark. You turned your back on him, taking a step—only for Eurymachus to seize a fistful of your hair, yanking you back towards him with brutal force. A sharp cry escaped your lips as pain arched through your scalp. You clawed at his hand, but his grip only tightened, making it worse.

“Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?!” he snarled. “Don’t forget—you’re just a maid here! the youngest!, you little tramp!" He yelled at your face.

"Since you talk shit with that pretty mouth of yours, why don't we use it for more useful things, yeah?" Eurymachus looked around, asking for validation as the men all around nodded—disgustingly agreeing.

He tugged your hair more as you fought the tears of pain. Eurymachus grin widen.

"Let go of her, in this instant!" Another voice had joined in the chine, everyone in the room Including you, turned to its direction seeing no other than the young wolf himself. An awkward silence followed but then Eurymachus let out a chuckle and his men of pigs pathetically followed.

His laughter rang as he released your hair with a harsh shove. The force of his grip—and the sudden release—disrupted your once-neat bun, sending strands down in disarray. You stumbled back, but quickly regained your footing, eyes locked on Eurymachus as he turned his attention towards the eighteen year old prince

He walked toward Telemachus, who stood in the doorway. Though fear might’ve churned in his chest, his face held firm—brave. Telemachus had happened to pass by when the suitors' unusually loud cheers reached his ears—tones too rowdy, too mocking. Curious, he paused by the door. But it wasn’t until he heard your voice, strained and unmistakable, followed by Eurymachus’s cruel mockery, that something in him snapped. He didn’t think—he moved.

His eyes immediately found you. Disheveled. Hurt. And his face changed.

“Is the young prince trying to cosplay a hero now? Run along back to your mommy’s chambers while we borrow one of your precious maids. Can’t blame us, can we? Your mother’s been taking her sweet time choosing.”

Telemachus jaw clenched but did not flinch as he glared back. “This is my father’s hall,” he said. “And until he returns, my mother rules it. You forget yourselves. No one here—maid or not—is yours to touch, command, or mock." He spat back—his eyes meeting yours.

"Touch (name) again and you will regret it" He said, stepping closer.

You in the other hand, was quite in shock, you sensed more troubles if you simply just stand there.

Eurymachus fell silent for a moment, though the flicker of a thought passed through his eyes. “In case you haven’t noticed…” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough to be heard—before suddenly grabbing Telemachus by the collar of his chiton and yanking him forward. The room tensed. Not with fear or shame but with a smile.

“Eurymachus, stop this at once! He’s the prince—you have no right to lay a hand on him!” you shouted, your voice cutting through the heavy air. Without hesitation, you shoved past the suitors, forcing your way toward them,

“Your father isn’t here, boy—he’s nowhere. Dead!" He shouts, Telemachus clenched his fists tighly. Eurymachus whispered, "You don't have to be so greedy.. we can always take turns with her"

Before anyone could react, the prince stepped forward and drove his fist into Eurymachus’s jaw. The force sent the man stumbling back, stunned. Silence followed.

It was the first time Telemachus had ever thrown a punch—and succeeded. His eyes widened in disbelief.

Eurymachus recovered with a snarl and lunged, but before the blow could land, you threw yourself in front of Telemachus, gripping his arm and pulling him back. A ring of shouts exploded from the suitors, feeding off the tension like a pack wolves.

Then the doors slammed open.

“That is enough!” a voice commanded. All eyes turned to the entrance—Penelope stood tall, flanked by guards and, trailing behind, your mother. The queen’s gaze flicked to you, then to her son.

You bowed. “Your Highness, forgive the disturbance. I was only fulfilling my duties. The guests chose to interfere.”

Penelope’s stare hardened, especially as Eurymachus stepped forward, smirking. “Don’t scold the boy, my lady. Maybe he’s just trying to learn how a real man rules a house in his father’s absence.”

Few dared to laugh. Penelope ignored him. “Why are you here, son?” she asked.

Telemachus finally lifted his head. “They were mistreating (name).”

He glanced your way—quick, but meaningful. Eurymachus scoffed and walked off, dragging some of the suitors with him.

A quiet hand landed on your shoulder. Your mother. Her eyes avoided yours.

“I apologize for the inconvenience (name) may have caused, my queen,” she said. Inconvenience. The word stung more than you expected. You bit the inside of your cheek—hard enough that you nearly tasted blood. You could feel it. The way her fingers tensed ever so slightly on your shoulder, the way she refused to meet your eyes. You really should’ve taken laundry duty today, at least clothes don't glare.

"It’s not her fault, by any means. I’m glad both of you stood up for yourselves," Penelope said, glancing between you and Telemachus with a faint, approving smile.

But you barely heard. You only bowed, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. Telemachus noticed—how tightly your lips pressed, how closed off you looked.

He hadn’t realized he was still watching until you turned to leave. Your eyes met, just for a second, before the door closed behind you.

“Thank you, my prince,” you said—and then you were gone. The words lingered, quiet as the slam of a heart too full.

The moment you closed the door, your eyes settled on your mother’s back—posture straight, chin held high, hands placed on either sides of her chiton. You couldn’t see her eyes, but you imagined them blank, yet somehow heavy with sentiment. She paused. "I told you to stay out of trouble, the prince will think of you as a hassle with this." she said, her voice flat and distant. Hassle? You didn’t answer. You’d learned by now that it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t really listen.

𐔌 Word had spread among the servants, and many took it upon themselves to spare you from any chores that meant crossing paths with the suitors—you couldn’t have been more grateful. As for the young prince, he too kept his distance from the suitors more than ever, trying to push the whole ordeal to the back of his mind. But no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t quite forget about you. It had all happened so quickly, yet his thoughts lingered—on your voice, your bravery, the way you stood your ground. That moment clung to him more than he expected.

So much so that Telemachus snapped out of his thoughts, suddenly realizing what he was supposed to be doing. His eyes landed on the scroll sitting untouched on his desk—the one he was meant to deliver to his mother. Panic hit him as he noticed the fading sunlight; the deadline had passed hours ago. He shot up from his seat, hastily rolling the scrolls and rushing out of his room. As he moved quickly through the halls, he mentally scolded himself—he'd been so caught up thinking about you that he hadn’t even realized he collided with someone’s shoulder.

"I'm sorry—" His words cut off as he realized it was you. Telemachus’ eyes widened, a small smile forming on his lips without him noticing. Recognizing the voice before the face—your eyes widened too, but not in the same way as his. "(Name)! Hello—" he started, a bit breathless.

"Excuse me for bumping into you, sire. I need to deliver this urgently," you interrupted with a quick bow. His smile faded into a thin line, blinking at the sudden change in tone. "Oh… yes, you’re excused," he said. You gave a short nod before walking off, leaving the young prince in the hall, scrolls in hand.

He quietly watches you disappear, as he reluctantly walks away himself—reasoning your skeptical hurry as important.

𐔌 "Good morning, (name)," Telemachus greeted one early morning as he entered the kitchen. The suitors were still asleep, and for once, both of your worries felt lighter. Still, you flinched at the sound of his voice, your hands pausing mid-task as you looked over at the prince.

"Your Highness! Uh—good day also. What are you doing—"

"Can I help with anything?" he asked, stepping closer to the counter you were working on. You gripped the edges a little tighter as he neared, your mother words reminding you. "Uh—no! It's no problem, sir, uhm..." you trailed off, clearly avoiding his gaze. "Actually, I think I'm needed in the courtyard this time. Please excuse me."

With a quick bow and a wipe of your hands on your chiton, you hurried off. Telemachus opened his mouth to say something more, but you were already gone. Your rushed steps still in the air.

Did he say something wrong? He wondered—maybe you were just busy. Still, the way your voice tightened and your hands clenched the counter… it left a quiet thought in his chest, though he said nothing and moved on with his day.

𐔌 While walking the palace halls, Penelope and Telemachus paused at an open window. Below, the garden bloomed—olive trees winding along the walls, vines heavy with green. The two spoke softly, their conversation slow and warm, until Telemachus’s gaze drifted downward.

You were there, moving quietly beside your mother, watering can in hand. He watched as you poured water carefully over each plant, steady and focused. “Telemachus?” Penelope’s voice brought him back. She followed his line of sight.

You felt eyes on you. Glancing up, your breath caught—there they were, the prince and queen above. You quickly looked away, heart thudding. “Too much water,” your mother said dryly. You mumbled an apology, hands trembling slightly as you resumed your work.

Still, you kept glancing upward. From above, Penelope’s attention shifted between her son and the scene below. You caught Telemachus looking again. This time, your eyes met—brief, fleeting.

Your mother noticed. She gave your arm a light tap, drawing your attention. Then, with a composed smile, she lifted a hand in greeting. Penelope nodded in return. You followed suit, smiling too—but something about it was off. Too polished. Too faint.

It wasn’t the usual smile he often caught on you. This one looked tired, almost practiced, as you placed the watering can gently on the ground. Maybe it was the contrast—your mother’s expression beaming while yours seemed to just go along with it. You… you looked distant. And you still hadn’t met his gaze again.

His chest tightened. Had he done something? Since the incident, you’d kept your distance—never cold, but never quite open either. Every time he tried to speak, you found a reason to leave. Not angry. Just… guarded. Holding something in.

And somehow, that quiet hurt more than anything else. And for the first time, the young prince began to wonder… did he do something wrong?

𐔌 Telemachus could not sleep that night, the stars and moon hovering the sky—he sighs for the fifth time that night as he pulled himself out his sheets, rubbing his eyes and grabbing a light lantern. He couldn't sleep—so might as well do something productive.

The prince travelled to the palace's library, careful not to make any noise on the way, this part of the palace during the day would often have workers in it as the queen's attendant and scribes would often work their scripts or reports in there.

Telemachus expected the room to be empty and dim—silent, as it usually was at this hour. So imagine the surprise on his face when he sees a source of light glowing from behind one of the tall bookshelves. The prince quietly shut the door behind him, careful not to make a sound, his steps slowing until he was nearly tiptoeing. Who else would be awake so late?

He crept closer, weaving between shelves until he could peer around the corner. And there you were. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, a small pile of books and scrolls at your side, completely absorbed in the parchment in your hands. The soft light of a lone lantern and the moon’s glow through the high windows illuminated your face. Something about the sight—your quiet focus, the shadows gently swaying on your features—stirred a strange pull in his chest.

"Room for one more?" Your head snapped up at the voice, eyes wide in surprise. The paper in your hand trembled slightly, your fingers loosening their grip. Telemachus stood a few paces away, hands behind his back as he made his presence known. "Prince Telemachus! What are you doing here so late-?" You asked trying to cover up the building tension in your hands.

"I could ask you the same thing" He says, you did not answer. "Do you mind?" He asks again with a small smile.

Your eyes start at him as you look away slowly—gripping the paper. It took a few seconds before you deliberately nodded, shifting slightly, making space among the scrolls without saying a word. That was all the invitation he needed.

His eyes drifted to the scrolls and books spread before you. “Do you always stay up this late?” he asked, voice quiet. "Sometimes" You murmured, keeping your gaze to yourself.

An awkward silence followed, you weren't even reading anything at this point as you were still as a rock. Telemachus turned to you—you tensed, he noticed.

"I didn't expect to see you here" he said softly. "You've been.. hard to find recently" The sound of fire from both of your lanterns crackle.

"I was starting to worry that if I did something to offend you" at that, your attention was piqued.

"You seemed to be distant and tensed lately, you were always calm and open most of the time so I wondered if I was the problem" Your head turning to meet his eyes.

"Your highness-"

"Telemachus, we're practically the same age" He corrects.

You blink, "Prin— Telemachus"

He hummed, "I keep thinking back. If I said something wrong or made you uncomfortable last time, if I did then I'm probably stupid for not noticing" He laughs.

Silence followed.

"Who am I kidding, we were never friends.. this shouldn't bother me so much, I'm sorry" He humors with a laugh that seemed forced.

You didn't say anything about his statement for a moment, your continuing silence caused the prince to turn away—debating if he should just excuse himself.

"..You didn't do anything wrong" You finally said, causing the prince to focus on you.

"In fact, I should be the one saying sorry" You started, "You went out on your way to protect me and I did nothing but to brush you off so harshly" you looked down at your palms.

You let out a heavy sigh, your voice soft with concern. "You even punched Eurymachus… dear gods." Palming your face.

Telemachus only laughs "It was a stupid move but i would do it again, he deserves it" He says leaning down the shelf.

...

"I'm sorry for ignoring you, the truth is..." You hesitantly spoke, "I was told to avoid you"

"What?" The prince furrowed his brows. "By who?" He followed

"Not in the way you think! It’s just… my mother believes she was sent here to Ithaca because her service back home wasn’t good enough. She’s afraid that if we make any wrong move, the queen might do the same thing to us." You trailed,

"She told me from the start not to cause any trouble here in the palace. Then one day, she saw me talking to you and completely flipped—said you might take it the wrong way. So, to be safe, she told me not to interact with you at all."

Telemachus stayed quiet for a moment, processing your words, his gaze softening. He hears you continue "It actually bothered me, because I knew you weren't the one to think like that" the prince continued to listen.

"And.. also because a part of me just wanted to talk, which is silly—you’re a prince after all, but most people around here are either much older or… well, a threat. I just wanted someone my own age."

You pulled your knees to your chest, leaning into the motion as your arms wrapped around them—an action you find comfort in. "But I love my mother," you murmured, voice muffled behind your knees. "Even if she can be a handful sometimes… she’s all I have left. So, I just obliged."

"Is that why.. whenever your mother is around you look extra tense?"

You chuckled, “You notice?” you said, turning to the prince. Telemachus turned his head too—now you were both eye to eye.

“Since I was around thirteen,” he said. “You were kind from the start—always composed, more mature than I ever was. And when the suitors came, you stood your ground for you and your mother… I really admired that.”

"Really?" You tilted your head at the prince.

"I never knew my father, but I’ve always heard he was a great man. That’s why it hurts—seeing how easily the suitors dismiss him and disrespect my family. I want nothing more than to put them in their place... if only I were as strong as he was. But you..you’re brave. You stand up for the people you care about. I wish I could do that, too." Telemachus said, turning his head away

“Who says you aren’t brave, my prince?” you said, your voice cutting through the quiet. He turned to look at you, and you met him with a soft, reassuring smile. “You risk getting beaten every other day just by standing your ground. You’ve held yourself together despite your father’s absence. You’ve been there for your mother, defended her name—and your own, even mine… you stepped in when no one else would.”

Your gaze lingered on him a moment longer. “Maybe you haven’t reached yet the place your father once stood… but I think, if he saw you now, he’d be proud. Proud of the way you carry yourself, of how brave and strong you are—every single day."

Telemachus eyes searched yours, as if trying to find something he couldn’t quite name. His lips parted slightly, then closed again. Your words had sink in.

Both of you continued to stare into each other’s irises as a quiet breeze brushed against you. Neither of you noticed how, with every word shared, you had both unknowingly scooted closer—like it was the most natural thing in the world. Now, you sat in silence, closer than you had ever been, with no more words left to fill the space.

"That's..." Telemachus searched for the words, "That's really kind of you to say" He worded out.

You laughed, covering your chuckle with your fingers in a soft, graceful way. Telemachus followed with a quiet laugh of his own, the tension between you both slowly melting away. Just a while ago, neither of you could look into each others eyes—now, you were talking like old friends catching up. The two of you shared stories, small memories, thoughts you had never voiced before, as if making up for all the quiet years spent under the same roof.

Telemachus listened closely, learning things he never knew about you. You spoke of how you taught yourself to draw, how creating art gave you peace, how expressing feelings through sketches felt like breathing—and that beauty was your favorite word. He watched you with growing interest, his pupils quietly widening every time you laughed at something he said—whether it was a passing comment or a joke. There was something in that sound that made him want to hear more.

"You want to be a painter?" He asked curiously. You nodded happily, "Mhm! It's been my dream since I was a kid, that's why I'm here at night, to study color theory, and also i can't do it in the morning"

Telemachus raised his brow at this, "Why so?"

"My mother. As always" You started, "She's training me to become a good handmaiden after she retires, which is a long time by the way!" You playfully rolled your eyes.

"Don't get me wrong, I do love helping people and I definitely love tending-"

"The garden, especially on sunny days," he finished your sentence.

You turned to him, your smile widening into a grin. "You remembered?"

He gave a small shrug, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Maybe."

"But yes," you said, a warmth in your voice, "I love the garden… but I love painting a portrait of it even more."

Without warning, you shifted slightly and reached into the pile beside you, rummaging through your books. Telemachus watched curiously as you pulled out a small stack of parchment—each one softly inked with delicate lines and shapes. Drawings. Sketches of flowers, leaves, moments caught in beauty.

He even caught a glimpse of sketches of faces, though you quickly shuffled them to the bottom of the stack. He swore one of the portraits looked familiar.

You cleared your throat softly, holding up a sheet. "Here's one of the garden," you said, revealing a colored portrait. Telemachus leaned in, his mouth parting slightly in awe as he took in the way the colors blended together, how alive the scene felt.

"This is so good—what the hell?!" he blurted, genuine admiration in his voice. You chuckled at his reaction, watching as he carefully began to look through the rest of your work. With each piece, his awe seemed to grow.

"Is this one unfinished?" he asked, pointing to a painting where only a quarter of the paper had been colored.

"Oh yeah, I ran out of pigment," you admitted with a soft laugh. "And getting new ones here isn’t exactly cheap… plus, I haven’t had the time to go out to the market."

Telemachus watched as you started to fix your stuff, "It's getting late, I should probably go" you announced.

He helped you with some of the scrolls, and soon you both were face to face—the two of you looked at each other sheeply before you cleared your throat.

"It was nice getting to know you.. Telemachus" You said, with a bit of hesitation in saying his name bare.

"It's nice to also get to know, (name)" He replied, with a low breath—he brought his hand in front of you. "Friends?" He said with his lips kissing his teeth.

You stared at his hand for a second then back at him—immediately taking his invitation in yours. "Friends!" You grasped.

The two of you exchanged giggles that night.

Being friends with the prince was something you didn’t expect—especially because it was an order by your mother. However, you learned that this small disobedience—was worth it. You noticed how colors seemed more vivid ever since that day.

Your friendship with Telemachus wasn’t loud, at first it only consisted of shared glances, whispering of each other's name and exchanging constant waving like kids in the park.

Then he started to stop by the garden with obvious excuses, "The queen sent me," "I'm checking the vines," "I'm just passing through"—but you both knew better. When you're the only one working in the garden—he’d offer to carry the watering can or sit beside you, tossing small olives at the wall and missing on purpose, just to hear you laugh.

You recently told him how your nose always get itchy whenever you gathered wildflowers, but that you bore through it anyway. The next morning, you found him waiting by the hill, basket already in hand, ready to help you pick them. A small tug pulled at your heart that day.

You started to notice how Telemachus began doing his scrolls in the palace library more often. He used to prefer the privacy of his own room, but lately, he seemed to want to cross paths with you. There were moments when he’d peek around the shelves, tap the top of your head with a scroll, and whisper, “I win,” before settling beside you to read.

He has a habit of randomly scaring from behind, yelling "Boo!" and laughing at himself.

He tried drawing once, because you asked. The sketch was... awful. But you laughed until your stomach hurt, and he looked so proud of it that you kept it tucked between your books.

Though the friendship became something deeper one late night, the two of you were in your usual spot in the library. It was already dark, and only your lanterns cast a glow over the two of you. You tended to ramble about the details of your sketches, and Telemachus listened, his eyes half-lidded but still focused on you.

Then, in the middle of your words, you felt the weight of his head gently fall to your shoulder.

You paused, startled at first, but when you turned slightly, he was already asleep. His breath was steady, calm. The closeness made your heart thump—but you stayed still, careful not to wake him. You didn’t want to wake him, partly because you were embarrassed… and partly because you kind of liked it.

Your heart stopped when you heard him mumble your name in his sleep, did you hear that right?

Then came your 18th birthday.

Birthdays weren’t exactly something you grew up celebrating. At most, your mother and a few kind handmaidens would quietly greet you when the day came, a soft smile, a gentle hug—and that was enough. You were always grateful they remembered at all.

So imagine your surprise when, early one morning, you stepped out of your room to find a small bundle of color pigments carefully placed by your door. Each one wrapped in cloth, tied with a simple bow.

At first, you assumed the bundle was misplaced—perhaps something meant for someone else—until you noticed a small, neatly folded piece of paper tucked beneath the string. You opened it, and the handwriting was instantly familiar. You’d come to recognize it easily.

Dear (𝒩𝒶𝓂𝑒),

You didn’t mention it was your birthday—figured you wouldn’t. But someone in the staff said a handmaiden turns eighteen today, and I just knew it had to be you.

It’s nothing too grand, but when I saw these, I thought of you immediately. I hope they come in handy... and maybe you’ll let me see what you make with them?

Anyway—happy birthday.

~𝒯𝑒𝓁𝑒𝓂𝒶𝒸𝒽𝓊𝓈

You stood still for a moment, holding the letter. A small smile crept onto your face. The pigments were ones you hadn’t had in a while—some expensive, some hard to find. He remembered.

You and Telemachus had grown used to meeting in the library, and one late evening—weeks after your birthday—was no different. The moment he stepped inside, his eyes scanned the room, already knowing where to find you. Your back was turned, but without a doubt, he knew it was you. Quietly sneaking up behind, he grabbed your shoulders and “Boo!” with a laugh.

You turned and gave him a look—unfazed, a clear “Hahah, very funny” written across your face.

He grinned as he took a seat beside you.

"I tried looking for you earlier," you added, hands busy with something he hadn’t noticed yet, "but you were nowhere to be found."

"Oh! Sorry about that—I was out for a bit," he said.

You nodded, turning slightly away to focus on what you were doing. Telemachus didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered. He watched the way your hair had loosened, strands falling around your face. Your cheeks were faintly flushed, and something about that made him bite the inside of his lip.

Then, without thinking, his hand moved to tuck a strand behind your ear. You turned your eyes to him just as he blinked, caught in the moment.

"Uh—it was in the way," he mumbled, quickly finishing the gesture. "Sorry."

You only stare at him for a second before cracking a chuckle, Telemachus looks at you as his embarrassment washes away. "I was looking for you earlier because I wanted to give you something" You revealed making him tilt his head.

Then you shift so you can face him properly—your hands behind your back.

"As a thank you"

"Huh? For what?"

"For my birthday last time"

Telemachus' blinks. "You didn't have to"

"Yes but I want too"

"Close your eyes!" You said, "and give me your hand" You added—Telemachus looked at you confused but followed.

He closed his eyes and felt something placed on his palm—for a moment he felt your finger tips touched his.

"You can open them now" You said,

Telemachus peeked open one eye, then blinked fully awake when you brought forward a small clay figure—messy around the edges, a bit lumpy, but unmistakably him. Down to the blue sash, his tousled hair, and the faintest little pout painted on his lips.

He stared. Then blinked again.

"Wait—what—" he stammered, reaching out like it might shatter if he touched it too fast. "Is this… me?"

You nodded proudly. "I used the paints you gave me. Thought it was fitting."

He took it, carefully, like he was receiving some sacred relic from the gods. His ears turned pink. "Why am I… is this how you see me?" He commented

You tilted your head. “Tiny and pouty? Sometimes.”

He let out a loud laugh. “Gods, I love it. He looks like he’s about to cause trouble."

“I was going for princely charm, but that works too.”

Telemachus looked at the doll again, then back at you—his grin stretched wide, but his voice a little softer this time. “This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten.” He paused, then gently set the figure beside him. “Except maybe you.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

He coughed, suddenly red. “—you because you made the doll!"

You laughed as he buried his face in his hands. "I experimented with clay the other day, this is my first attempt to do something that isn't flower pots" You told him.

"Well you did a great job for a beginner" He joked—earning a slight slap from you, "Excuse you! I've been doing pottery since I was 12!" You hollered.

Telemachus only giggled as he clenched his stomach.

Your shared laughter lingered in those quiet corners of the library that day, soft and light, drifting between the shelves and settling like dust on the edges of old scrolls. It became easy to lose track of time when it was just the two of you—moments folding into each other so naturally that the rest of the world seemed far away. Sometimes you swore the palace looked different. Livelier. Colors warmer. Even the way the wind blew through the halls felt lighter.

But, like most sunny days, it wasn’t meant to stay forever.

It was late morning when you returned from the market, you were asked to fetch some ingredients by your mother, arms filled with your basket and a soft cloth over. You hummed quietly to yourself until you entered the palace.

Before you could even take a step past the main corridor, a pair of handmaidens hurried past, whispering frantically. You stopped them out of instinct, brows furrowing.

“What’s going on?”

One of them glanced at the other, hesitating, then leaned a little closer.

“They say Antonius provoked the young prince during this morning... And he fought back... I don't think it went well.."

The words didn’t register at first—not entirely. You stood there, blinking, as your arms suddenly felt a little heavier.

The halls were quieter. Never in peace—but in tension.

You hurried through the halls, each step making the corridors feel longer, heavier, as you reached the dining hall. The first thing you noticed was the broken table, splintered as if something had been thrown against it—blood staining the wood and dripping onto the floor, enough to make your chest tighten.

Then, in the distance, you saw Antinous and his men laughing. He turned, nose bloodied, wiping it off with the back of his hand. He caught your stare. Your eyes widened. He smirked—slowly licking the blood from his lip in an almost disturbing way.

Your heart dropped. You searched around the room, searching for Telemachus, but he was nowhere in sight. Without a second thought, you turned and hurried through the palace again.

Your heart was pounding through your chest, gripping your fist until your knuckles went white. It was difficult to breathe properly—not when you have no idea where he is—or what had happened. Thoughts kept spinning messily as you almost missed the prince door.

You shouldn’t be in this hallway, especially in broad daylight. You knew staff could pass by any second, their whispers quick to turn into assumptions—worst case, your mother herself might be the one to catch you. But in that moment of distress, none of it mattered. You raised your fist and knocked on the prince’s chamber door—three times.

“Telemachus?!” you called, voice hushed, just loud enough to be heard, not enough to draw attention. You knocked again, faster this time.

The silence after that was sharp, you were about to knock for the last time until, "(name)...?" You could hear him say, so gentle.

“Oh Zeus. Telemachus, are you okay?! I—I heard what happened—are you hurt?!” you stammered, choking on your words, your hand gripping the doorknob. It was unlocked. But still, you waited.

Softly, you heard footsteps approaching from the other side. You bit your bottom lip to steady your shaking breath.

The door creaked open, and there he was—Telemachus. His nose was bloodied, streaks of dried blood smeared across his face and chiton. It wasn’t too bad… but it was enough to almost break you.

Telemachus opened the door wider—quietly inviting you in. You stepped forward, unable to hold yourself back, your movements unsure. Your hands careful to reach for him, He noticed, but before you could pull away, he gently took them in his, steadying you.

"What happened…" you whispered, pulling out a handkerchief you had prepared and bringing it softly to his face. "Antinous" was all he said, sitting on the edge of his bed.

You stood in front of him—noticing the way he kept touching the back of his head. You gently ran your finger through his hair as you touched the back. Eyes widening when you feel a puddle of liquid. "Did you hit your head?!" You asked panicked.

"Yes- but" He stated before taking your forearm away gently— "But please don't panic, It's okay now! I promise, it's dried up blood so technically it doesn't hurt-"

"What do you mean it doesn't hurt?! You're bleeding, you idiot!"

"I know! I know! But seriously! I've met—"

A gust of wind pushed through the balcony curtains. He paused, catching sight of the owl perched just out of reach—watching. But he didn’t say anything about it.

"..I've just been thinking a lot lately," he said instead, voice softer now, more grounded. "About who I am. About who I want to be."

You stayed quiet, listening carefully.

"I want to be more than just… the boy who waits. The boy who watches everything happen around him. I want to be strong. Not for the sake of war or glory—but so that I can protect My mother… you."

The words hung there, gentle but heavy. You blinked, caught off guard.

He laughed softly to himself, shaking his head. "I don’t know. Sometimes I think about him—my father. People have all these stories. All this legend. But for me, he’s just… missing. And maybe that’s why I feel like I have to become something better. Not to replace him, but to at least live up to the name. To become someone that matters."

You saw the flicker in his eyes then.

"Because if he really is out there," he added, more to himself than to you, "I want him to come back and see that I became someone more worthy being proud of."

You didn’t say anything—but your eyes, still furrowed and shining with worry, said enough. Telemachus stiffened, afraid for a moment that he’d overstepped, that maybe he sounded foolish spilling his thoughts like that.

But then you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

His breath hitched. His hands found your waist without thinking, holding you close, cautious but sure. You tucked your face into his shoulder—and that’s when he felt it. The soft shake of your breath. The quiet sob you didn’t try to hide.

The boy was stunned—his heart loud in his chest—but he didn’t move away. He couldn’t. This was the first time he’d held you like this. Just how he caught himself wondering what it might feel like to pull you close like this, but he always brushed it away, convincing himself he had no right. But now, it felt like a lucid dream.

"You're such an idiot," you murmured, voice thick. "How many times are you going to throw yourself into trouble before you finally learn? I'm glad you're growing, I really am—but that doesn't mean you get to risk your own blood like this!" Your words cracked near the end, raw and trembling.

He starts to hear you cry, and he couldn’t help but hold you tighter. He had never heard you cry before—not truly. The closest was that one time you had an allergic reaction to a wildflower; your eyes were watery and red, yet you were still laughing through the discomfort. But this… this was different. This time, you were crying because of him. Because he got hurt. Because you were scared. Because you cared.

"Don’t ever get yourself in a fight with the suitors no more! And don't ever scare me that ever again!" you scolded, voice trembling as you clung to him.

“I— I will,” he said, only for your grip to tighten with a sharp pinch to his arm.

“Promise!”

“Yes, yes! Promise!” he chuckled softly, wincing playfully as he lifted one hand in surrender. His smile, though bruised, was real—warm for you.

...

When Telemachus was around nineteen, that’s when Athena began training him. It was unfamiliar at first—awkward—but he adjusted quickly, picking up with every training—rather expected knowing he was the son of Odysseus himself.

Around the same time, his bond with you deepened, especially after the incident. Still, he never told you about his secret mentor as per request from the goddess of wisdom herself.

Mornings were reserved for training, afternoons taken by princely duties, and in the quiet of evening, that’s when he’d see you most. You spent your mornings with your chores, so your moments in the day together were often brief, scattered but the type he'd look forward too. Sometimes he'd help you out with your chores, definitely not cause he wants to spend time with you.

The young prince had just finished sparring with the goddess, day by day he felt more and more motivated—despite his limbs would go sore from training, the taste of improvement was enough to get him up, he can now at least defend himself properly against the suitors! Everyday as he becomes stronger and older, the men too get more impatient, wilder and unsafe.

If he wasn’t so smart, he might’ve picked a fight first this time—just to prove something. But he knew better now. He knew he had a long road ahead before he could win like that, and more than anything, he knew you wouldn’t be pleased if he got himself bruised for pride alone. The thought of you made his lips tug into a quiet smile.

“You did well today, young wolf,” Athena said with a proud smile.

“Thank you, Athena,” Telemachus huffed, catching his breath.

“I suggest you run your bruise under cold water before it darkens. I fear your lover might worry, seeing you all battered again,” she added, almost too casually.

At that, Telemachus perked up, his head snapping toward the goddess with wide eyes. "What..?" he echoed, a faint flush rising. Athena looked back at the prince, her face turning flat.

"Your bruise, ran it into cold water."

"No! The thing after that!"

"Your lover?"

"That!"

"Is she not..?" She asked, her tone leaning into a question.

"(Name)?" He choked, "She's— She's my Friend— Did you think we were lovers?!"

Athena lips were a flat line as he looked down at the flustered prince with a look that says "really?"

"My mistake" Was all she said before she morph into her owl form, setting on a near by branch all while Telemachus continued to look at her with red cheeks. "Wait no! You thought of us of lovers- why?" He asked the goddess of wisdom.

Athena only glared at him in her owl eyes, if she wasn't so nice she would have flown away but unfortunately they see each other everyday so she'd had to deal with it sooner again anyways, "You wear your feelings like a garland, young prince. It’s endearing... and painfully obvious."

Telemachus opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Feelings? I don’t— I don’t have feelings for her— I mean, I can see why someone would have. (Name)’s sweet, she’s kind and talented and—” He froze mid-sentence, eyes widening slightly. “Oh gods… do I have feelings for her?”

Athena, still perched as an owl, let out a long, tired blink. “You’re so tristful,” she muttered, feathers puffing slightly in exasperation.

"If you're questioning if you have feelings, then more likely you do."

"But what makes you think I do have them?!"

"Telemachus, you held the girl last time with such care, you immediately fell when she cried out your name. You long to see her every day, and unlike other mortals, instead of making your heart race, she makes it steady. At peace. I think it would be reasonable for anyone to assume…”

She paused "Well, that you already know how you feel."

Telemachus tried to carry on with the day, but the realization sat heavy in his chest—warm. He hadn’t accepted it, not fully, but it kept brushing the edges of his thoughts like a tide refusing to recede. His gaze stayed low as he wandered the hallways, hoping movement would loosen the knot in his chest.

Then he passed by the dining hall.

The door was cracked open, just slightly, and he paused without knowing why. The suitors were never up this early—it was the hour when the servers began preparing for the day’s meals. Quietly, curiously, he glanced through the gap.

You were there.

You hadn’t noticed him. You were speaking with another maiden, laughing softly at something she said, the corners of your eyes creased. And somehow, in the calm of morning, with the sunlight filtering in just right, Telemachus forgot how to breathe.

Your eyes shimmered even from afar, reflecting the dawn like polished amber. Your hair caught the golden rays as if the sun had chosen you as its canvas, and your smile—

Gods, that smile.

You looked so alive in that moment. So real. So effortlessly full of light.

In a way you made the ordinary look sacred.

Had you always been this beautiful?

He didn’t move. He only watched for a few more heartbeats, standing still as the morning slipped past him—and with it, any denial that might have still lingered.

Maybe he did like the way you made the palace feel like a home.

He recalled the moments your presence calmed him, the way your fingertips brushed his skin so gently, The nights spent talking until the stars faded, the laughter, the quiet glances—how it all felt like home. He thought of how often he smiled just being beside you, how the world softened when you were near.

This feeling—this need to be near you, to protect you, to simply hear your voice—it wasn’t fleeting. It was steady, sure. Like the way he smiled whenever you were around. Like the way he cherished every second, every glance, every word exchanged between you.

He admired how you gave kindness freely, yet knew when to draw the line. How you protected those you loved. How you always seemed to know what to say, or when to simply sit beside him in silence.

And as those thoughts wove together, one by one, the answer came to him—gentle but certain.

It wasn’t just fondness. It wasn’t just comfort.

He was in love with you.

Gosh he was in love with you

When Telemachus finally came to accept his feelings for you, the prince tried not to make it obvious—key word "tried" he was a little worried because Athena herself stated that it was painfully obvious. Telemachus could not focus, he kept losing focus and drifting his mind to the thought of you. But this time with his feelings aware.

A blush can't be fought back to his face as he tried to eat his lunch with his mother who took notice of his behavior.

"Telemachus?" Penelope called softly, eyeing her son across the table.

He blinked out of his daydream, his spoon hovering above his bowl. "Yes—mother?"

"You've barely touched your lunch," she noted, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. "And you're smiling into your soup."

Great, now his mother herself is starting to get suspicious, Athena was right—he's so obvious that it actually hurts him.

He quickly straightened, reaching for his cup in a clumsy attempt to ground himself. "Just… thinking."

Penelope watched him over the rim of her cup, a knowing glint in her eyes.

"You know," she began, "when you’re quiet like this, thinking of something you won’t say out loud... you look just like him."

Telemachus looked up, startled. "Father?"

She nodded, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"Your father used to sit right there, drifting off in thought halfway through a meal." She trailed, with her smile turning sly.

"Though I’m not quite sure he ever blushed the way you are now."

He quickly looked down at his plate. "I'm not blushing."

"Of course not." Penelope set her cup down gently. "But you do carry him in your face, in your silences, your stubborness."

There was a pause. Then, more softly, she added, "You’ve grown so much. I often forget you were just a child when he left."

Telemachus’ smile faded into thoughtfulness.

"How are you, nowadays mother?" He asked, the queen exhaled a heavy breath, "Still weaving the shroud, unweaving on night.." She confessed.

"And the suitors?"

Penelope almost laughs, "Still here. Still getting louder. Bolder. I don’t know how much longer I can keep them at bay. However I'm still hopeful for your father" She tried to keep her tone even - hopeful but her eyes didn’t lie. His mother was tired and Telemachus knew that.

He had always worn it like a shadow—this echo of a man he barely knew. Everyone had stories: how clever he was, how brave, how fierce. But stories weren’t answers. Stories didn’t explain his absence.

Telemachus looked down, hands clenched against the table.

"I can’t keep sitting here, doing nothing." The words escaped before he could stop them.

Penelope’s eyes snapped back to him. "What do you mean?"

"I need to do something" he said, "seek answers"

"where?"

"Anywhere! To Pylos or to Sparta, Menalaus may have news or Nestor too. Someone out there must know if he still lives—or where he fell." He said, eyes filling hope.

She stared at him, her face pale with worry. "Telemachus, no. Please. The seas are no safer than these halls. You don't need to be lost at it too"

"I’ve lived under his name my entire life," Telemachus said. "But I don't know what kind of man he was. Please mother. To find answers, closure."

"I’ve waited long enough," he said. "If I sit still, I’ll rot here just like they want."

Penelope fell quiet.

"You're all I have left, son" she whispered. "The only piece of him I still wake up to. If you go—"

"I’ll come back," Telemachus said quickly, though the words didn’t feel as certain as he wanted them to. He knew the risks, the danger and the uncertainty. Even so he murmured. "I promise."

At that, the queen embraced her son dearly, arms wrapped around him with a quiet desperation she rarely allowed herself to show.

Telemachus stood stiff at first, He hadn't been embraced like this since he was a child—before he understood what absence meant, before the hall grew loud with uninvited voices and the scent of home was soured by strangers. He held her back, carefully, protectively.

He felt like a child again, embracing his mother for love.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he whispered. "It hurts... But I have to know."

Penelope didn't answer—not with words. Her grip tightened for a moment, then loosened with an aching slowness, as she faced her soon again—her eyes water, letting a choked laugh see how grown and determined her son is. How he looks so much like his father.

Telemachus and his mother shared a quiet moment as he attempted to soothe her worry. Though he would be lying if he said it didn't scare him too.

And in that embrace, Telemachus remembered the last time he'd held someone that closely.

You.

The time you threw your arms around him after the skirmish with the suitors, trembling from worry, your forehead tucked to his shoulder. Your hands, warm. Your voice—shaky, angry, gentle—scolding, and yet he had held you back without hesitation, as if that moment had always belonged to you both, as if you two belonged to each other's arms.

He hadn’t realized, then, how precious that would become. How soon he’d be leaving you behind. Just when he had just realized his feelings for you.

Your laugh. Your smile. Your voice—The way you made his name sound softer, The feelings he had only just begun to accept now felt like something he was being forced to walk away from.

He looks up to his mother. Who he'd be also leaving behind. No one to watch over her, no one to stand for her protection. his chest ached—not from fear of the journey ahead, but from the shadow of leaving. He fears what will happen to both his mother and you.

...

"Telemachus?"

You called out, making the said prince snap back to reality. After his talk with his mother, Telemachus had wandered the palace halls, his mind weighed down with the burden of his decision—until he heard your voice. The voice he now realized he never wanted to leave behind.

He turned, breath catching. "(Name)," he said, almost in a whisper. You had just stepped into the hall, but the moment your eyes met his, a smile lit up your face.

"Are you okay? You seem a little down," you asked, your voice laced with quiet concern.

And gods, how he adored that—you always noticed. Always cared.

Telemachus smiled, a little dazed, a little dumbstruck—like someone falling, no, fallen in love. "I'm fine. Just stuck in thought," he said, shrugging it off.

You nodded, though your eyes drifted lower, catching the edge of his exposed shoulder. A faint purple bruise was beginning to bloom along the muscle.

"Is that... a bruise?" You squinted your eyes, "Huh?" The prince asked confusedly looking at his own shoulder. And indeed there was noticeable bruise forming, a few cuts from probably this morning's training. He mentally slapped himself—completely forgetting his mentor's advice.

"May I?" You asked for permission, well there was no point in denying it now so he simply lets you. You carefully traced your hand to his arm—examining the wound. "Oh dear gods...Telemachus, did you get into another fight with those men?" You asked, shooting an eye to him.

"No! It's just from training this morning! You know... sparing.. with myself..?" He explained a little too unsure. You sighed as you let go of his arm. "You need to be more careful, Telemachus. Are you sure you weren't sparing with an animal?" You voiced laced with suspicion.

Yeah, I was sparing with a literal god..

He nodded as you trail back to his wounds. "Well, I can't have you walk around looking beat up, weren't you in lunch with your mother? Surely the queen noticed your form."

"I think, it wasn't as visible earlier.." He replied, "I'm fine (name), this isn't the first time, you know that" His joke gained a look from you as he only laughs.

"I'll tend your wounds in a second, why don't you wait somewhere so I can prepare"

Telemachus nodded—this wasn’t the first time you tended to his bruises, so neither of you thought much of it. "Is it alright if I head to my room first? I need to change," he said, offering a faint smile. You nodded, returning the gesture with a small one of your own before heading off in the opposite direction, assuming that’s where you’d treat his bruises, like usual.

Unfortunately, neither of you clarified. You assumed he'd be waiting in his chambers, while in his mind, he planned to head back after changing. So, when you pushed open the door to his room—unannounced, as you’d done so many times before—you stopped dead in your tracks.

There he was, chiton half-tossed over, back turned to you, sun catching the gold along his skin. His muscles tensed at the sound of the door creaking open.

"Sorry—I thought you'd be here already dressed."

Telemachus turned, equally startled. "Oh—no, no, it's alright! I just—I'll be done in a moment."

You quickly averted your eyes, biting the inside of your cheek to focus. He was your friend. Your prince. You were here to treat a bruise. Not have your thoughts spiral.

Still, it didn’t stop your heart from thudding louder than it should have.

"Actually… maybe you should keep your top exposed—since I’ll be tending to it," you managed, keeping your voice as steady as possible. A part of you was undeniably flustered; it wasn't every day you saw your closest friend like this. But you reminded yourself—this was routine. You'd tended to his wounds before. It wasn’t supposed to feel different. Just except the fact he's half naked.

Telemachus bit his lips, before clearing your throat, "Right. Of course" He said, trying to be calm cause you were too. Unaware how you're practically dying from being embarrassed.

Sitting at the edge of his bed, shoulder turned toward you, the bruise blooming darker now under the light. Upon seeing his mark, you shook away to begin.

Approaching carefully, you set down the tray beside him, its contents clinking softly. You reached first for the clean, damp cloth, the coolness biting slightly against your fingertips. Without a word, you knelt beside where he sat, your eyes scanning the bruise—a deep, purpling bloom across his shoulder.

You pressed the cloth against it with precision. The moment the cold touched his skin, he tensed just slightly, muscles twitching under your touch.

"Sorry," you said softly, adjusting your pressure, more gentle this time.

Telemachus only hummed, barely reacting, though you could feel his eyes on you. You kept yours trained on the task, determined not to let your fluster show.

"You're being very serious today," he finally murmured, voice low, almost teasing.

You kept your focus. "I'm always serious when you're hurt."

You tried to focus; however, your work did not allow you to, as your eyes wandered. Without his chiton covering him, the young prince was lean, but due to his training and growing years, his body had started to take a more defined shape.

There were subtle lines along his torso, the hints of muscle shaped by sparring and sword work. His skin was tanned, with a few faint bruises and older marks—nothing serious, but they stood out. You looked away quickly, pressing the cloth a little too hard before catching yourself.

"gods, get a hold of yourself!"

You're a professional, you reminded yourself. Even if he is a friend... you're still a professional.

"You've been training too hard lately" You said, as you put away the cloth and started to prepare a salve for his wounds. "It's better than getting bruised from a fight" He said.

"Getting hurt itself is not better" you stated. "You worry too much (name)" Telemachus replied. "Of course I will," You paused briefly. "You may be a prince, but you're also just....you to me. And I care about you" You said, turning to him with the ointment for his wounds.

That was enough to shut the young prince up, as you slowly applied the salve to the various cuts and wounds. This time, your bare hands touched his skin, and Telemachus couldn’t help but shiver slightly. He swallowed hard, eyes quietly watching as you continued, careful and gentle with him.

It didn’t help that he was reminded—this was the same woman he admired. As your fingers moved, a blush crept onto his skin, blooming faintly across his cheeks. He swore he could feel his body grow warmer, though he didn’t know if it was from the salve or simply from you being this close.

"And I think that's it," You concluded, "Please be more careful next time, Telemachus." You told the prince as you whipped your hands through a clean cloth.

He didn’t respond.

You looked up—expecting a nod, maybe a quiet thanks—but instead, he was just staring at you. Eyes soft, a little lost.

You let out a small laugh, trying to break the silence. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" he blinked, caught.

"Like you have something to say." You smiled, tilting your head.

You didn't pay as much mind as you cleaned off the tray, you could hear him laugh however Telemachus laughed in worry—reminding of his diplomatic mission.

He didn’t know if he should tell you—considering even his mother was against it. The weight of it sat heavy on his chest, but not heavier than the thought of leaving without saying a word. Of walking away while you were still smiling, unaware, waiting for him?. He wondered if it was better this way—if knowing would only make it harder for you, for him.

His fingers fidgeted against the fabric of his bed. His eyes never left yours. "(Name)," he said finally, voice low, uncertain.

You straightened slightly, sensing the shift in his tone. "Hmm?" You hummed.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then gave a small, lopsided smile. "Thank you. For always patching me up."

A pause. Not a confession. Not yet. But maybe a beginning.

A grin plastered on your lips, "You're always welcome, Telemachus" You beemed.

Yeah. He can't bring himself to tell you

"Athena, what should I doooo..." Telemachus whined the next morning, his feet dragging along the grass as he followed the goddess into the olive grove behind the palace. The sun was shining off the drenched leaves, but Telemachus’ heart felt too heavy to notice the beauty around him. "You’re the only one who agrees with this decision… and you're also aware of the cost of it," he trailed off, his hand raking through his hair.

"My mother… and…" he mumbled.

Athena, still in her human form, walked ahead—then shot him a sharp look over her shoulder.

"You speak as if you have the choice to stay, Telemachus. This isn’t about comfort—it’s about truth. It’s about preparing for what is coming."

He stopped in his tracks, eyes lifting toward the goddess.

"My mother… she’s afraid—afraid I won’t come back. And I fear she may be right. And (name)... gods, (name)... she has no idea. I just figured out what I feel for her, and now I have to leave her—and my mother—here?"

Athena stepped closer, her arms folding as her voice slowly softened, but remained firm.

"You know deep down you must go. You must know what happened to your father—not just for yourself, but for your mother and for Ithaca. The time is coming when luck will no longer protect you."

Telemachus’ lips pressed into a thin line. He knew she was right.

"You said it yourself," she continued, "this place is growing dangerous. Those suitors won’t wait forever. What will you do when they snap—and you’re not ready?"

The goddess’s words landed heavier than he expected. Telemachus felt the ache of them settle in his chest.

"This journey," Athena said, softer now, "will make you ready. I’ll help you. You’ll seek the answers you’ve longed for."

And slowly, Telemachus began to understand. This wasn’t only a search for his father. It was preparation. A storm was brewing in his home—and he needed to be ready before it broke.

"And if they realize I’ve left?" he asked quietly, scared.

"Then let them," Athena said without hesitation. "They’ll see soon enough that you’re no longer a child hiding behind your mother’s grief. You are your father’s son. You just need the chance to become him in your own way."

Telemachus took a slow breath, but the ache in his chest didn’t ease.

"And what about (name)…?" he asked in a whisper, his head bowed.

Athena didn’t answer right away. When she finally spoke, there was a trace of sympathy in her voice.

"If she’s truly who you believe she is, she will understand. And she’ll wait."

The wind passed silently through the olive trees. Then Athena added, almost gently,

"Or… if you find the words too difficult to say—perhaps it’s better not to say anything at all."

Telemachus turned to her, startled. "You mean—leave without telling her?"

"You said it yourself. Your mother is against this. You fear what will happen if she finds out. I understand that. But if you linger too long, doubt will start to drown out your resolve. And if this must be done… delaying it will only make everything harder."

Telemachus opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He wanted to argue. He wanted to call it cruel. But even as his heart fought it, something in him knew Athena was right. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was wisdom. Or maybe it was the quiet, selfish hope that this would all be over soon.

The sooner he left, the sooner he could return. And maybe—just maybe—when he did, he’d finally have the courage to say what he couldn’t now.

"I guess..." He made up a decision. "We sail as soon as possible."

...

It was a quiet evening—a little too quiet for your liking. The palace was never truly silent, not with 108 men lounging about. Yet tonight, the usual noise were strangely absent.

Curious, you peeked into the main hall. A few men were still awake, but most were drooping in their seats, heads nodding, goblets slipping from loose fingers. Some had already passed out where they sat.

“Odd...” you thought, tilting your head slightly. Still, it wasn’t unheard of. Wine often dulled the edge of their unruly energy.

You turned away, feet light as you walked through the corridor toward Telemachus’ room. Maybe he should know about this—just in case.

A few knocks on his door echoed softly. No answer.

You frowned slightly. “Maybe he’s already asleep?” you murmured to yourself. But... that wasn’t quite like him. Not lately. Now that you thought about it, you hadn’t seen him around much at all these past few days. He wasn’t avoiding you—at least, you didn’t think so. Just... missing.

It hadn’t bothered you before. You were busy. He probably was too. But now, standing outside his quiet door, a small nudge of confusion crept in.

After a short pause, you turned and made your way to the library.

Maybe he was there already.

He often found comfort in quiet spaces.

You were hopeful.

Though a wave of despondency quickly humbles you when the eerie silence of the place meets you. You still tried to look around—maybe to soothe yourself, though like you expected, there wasn't any trace of the prince.

A long sigh escaped your mouth as your back rested against the library door. "Maybe tomorrow," you told yourself, deciding to just head to bed early today. You didn't really find any motivation to do anything right now—maybe because your inspiration was nowhere to be seen.

You weren’t really paying attention to your surroundings. For one, you were too deep in your thoughts, and two, you didn’t expect anyone to be around at this time. So you were a bit startled when you bumped into someone.

"My apology—" you quickly said, then blinked in confusion. "Nurse Eurycleia! Good evening," you greeted.

Nurse Eurycleia was the palace nurse. You were in good terms with the old madam, often offering your hand whenever you could, especially as you were also learning the art of healing.

"Nurse Eurycleia?" You called out again when the older woman did not answer.

Brows furrowed, the older woman was not facing you—which you found odd.

You shifted slightly, eyes drifting to where she had come from—the main exit of the palace. Your brows furrowed at the sight. "Nurse Eurycleia, did you go out around this late? That isn’t really safe for you to be outside. May I ask what you were doing there?" you asked softly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

As you stepped closer, something under the folds of her peplos caught your eye—a small bundle, oddly shaped, like it had been tucked away in haste. You recognized it as a bag. Your confusion deepened.

The old nurse gave a weak chuckle. "Ah, just gathering something I left earlier. Nothing important, dear."

You narrowed your eyes just slightly, trying not to sound accusing. "Do you happen to know where the young prince is? You had a conversation with him earlier, yes?," you said casually, watching for her reaction.

Eurycleia froze and you immediately knew. Her body still.

"Nurse..?" You blinked.

She didn't speak. Your heart gave a light thud. “You know where he is,” you said, almost in disbelief. “Don’t you?”

Still, she said nothing—but her silence was all the answer you needed. "Where is he?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper. "What's wrong?"

Eurycleia looked at you then, her face lined with worry. "He… didn’t want you to worry," she said quietly, her voice trembling with guilt.

You stepped back, your breath catching in your throat.

"The young prince went to sail" she finally admitted. "On a diplomatic mission. To Pylos. Then to Sparta."

Your eyes widening as realization struck you harder than lightning. "What..?" You murmured, you couldn't find the words, you had a million questions yet none escaped from your lips.

"The young prince... ordered not to tell anyone but..."

Suddenly, Eurycleia reached out and held your hand, gently, urging you to meet her eyes, while yours were still wide with confusion and dread.

"He may still be out there, (name). I don’t know exactly what you and the young prince share, but I do know this—he did not want to leave without saying anything. I saw it in his eyes, he was torn"

You froze. The weight of her words hit you like a wave—confusion, shock, a swell of emotion you couldn't place. But there was no time to sit in it.

"Go. While there may still be time," she urged.

You didn’t waste a second. With a silent breath of thanks to Eurycleia, you took off—racing out of the palace as your heart pounded faster than your legs could carry you.

Your thoughts were a whirlwind. Why is he going? Does he not understand how dangerous this is? Why didn’t he tell me? A flood of questions tangled in your mind, but none of them slowed your steps.

You didn’t know exactly where he would be—but your instincts pulled you toward the shore.

You prayed—to the gods, to fate, to anyone listening—he couldn't leave. Not like this. You had almost gone to bed tonight never knowing he’d already left the island of Ithaca.

The wind bit cold against your skin, but you didn’t care. You had to find Telemachus.

Then you saw him.

His back was to you at first, feet planted on the shoreline where a single ship was moored. The waves lapped quietly at the sand, and the few men aboard moved like shadows—final preparations nearly done.

He didn’t see you right away. His eyes stared off into the horizon, somewhere far, far away. He looked dazed, torn. A deep frown settled on his lips, like the weight of everything he carried was pressing him down.

You saw him.

"Telemachus," you whispered—too soft, as if your voice might shatter something.

Then louder—your breath catching before it came out.

"Telemachus!"

His body stiffened. Slowly, he turned. His wide eyes met yours. Shock to see you.

"(Name)." He mouthed your name.

Your chest heaved, lungs burning, not just from the run but from the ache building beneath your ribs.

Both of you did not move at first, the distance between you too was filled with tension that if one were to go past it they would feel it.

You two stood facing each other, eyes locked, with the moon high above—glowing behind the other's light, as if the sky bent itself to reflect a single moon for two souls.

You couldn’t hold it. What started as a step turned into a run—unthinking. Telemachus watched, frozen, as you closed the distance. He knew he should have gone sooner to spare you both the pain, it was the safer option.. Right..?

But he didn’t move away.

In fact, he stepped forward too—slowly, deliberately. His fingers reaching out for you, and until he finally caught you.

Though he didn't quite prepare himself, as he fell backwards with you—landing on the soft sand.

His arms were around you now, steady even as his heart pounded. The scent of salt and night air clung to both of you, but neither of you move yet.

Your hands clutched the fabric of his cloak, your brows knit together.

You two slowly rise to sit up on the sand, eyes still into each other. You didn't know what gave you the right to launch yourself to the prince but at that moment, you knew him as your Telemachus.

“Why are you leaving?” you finally asked, your voice breaking halfway through. It wasn’t loud, but it hurt to say. Telemachus looked away, the guilt on his face showing.

“I knew you were on to something…” you murmured, "But I didn’t think that it was a diplomatic mission from across the sea."

He hesitated. “You don’t get it, (name).” You blinked, pain flaring in your chest. “It’s complicated,” he added, his voice quieter, as if trying not to lose you further. “You wouldn’t get it.”

You stared at him. “Well of course I wouldn’t get it,” you snapped, the edge in your tone cutting sharper than you intended. “You never said anything.”

"I'm sorry.."

"Sorry isn't going to answer this, Telemachus."

Telemachus flinched, eyes darting to meet yours, startled. You rarely ever raised your voice—only when something truly hurt.

It's kind of an irony, because the only time you ever raised your voice was all because of him. When you defended him and now.

"I had to go. I had to." Telemachus inhaled shakily. "Ithaca won't wait forever. The suitors—they're becoming bolder. My mother can only do so much. And my father… If he’s out there, I have to try."

"I tried to tell you" he said, finally, voice soft, raw. "I really wanted to tell you."

"But how could I? Every time I tried to look at you, I wanted to stay. But I knew I couldn't. I kept thinking maybe… maybe if I just left, it’d be easier." He broke, gripping your fingers gently.

Silence fell again. You felt it in your throat, in your chest, in the way your body refused to pull away from his.

“I would’ve tried to understood, you know,” you said, quieter now. “If you told me. If you trusted me.”

Telemachus grew closer, his voice low. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.“

You kept your eyes at him, your hand still intertwined. Your heart was beating, eyes starting to water.

"I was afraid," Telemachus finally said, his voice trembling like a string pulled too tight.

You blinked.

"I was afraid that if I tell you what I really felt for you... it would've made it harder—for both of us."

Your breath caught in your throat. "Tell me what?"

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, a broken whimper escaped him. His shoulders shook as his head dropped low, forehead pressing to your shoulder, his hands gripping the fabric of your sleeves and your hands like he was afraid you'd vanish.

"That I am in love with you, (Name)."

Your heart stopped. The world fell still—except for the quiet, ragged breaths of the boy in your arms.

"I love you, (name). Maybe I’ve only just come to understand it fully, but the gods know—from the moment we first spoke, I was meant to fall for you."

For the first time, you didn’t know what to say. Your mind went completely blank. Words slipped from your grasp like water through trembling fingers. You were never like this—never speechless, never unsure. But maybe that was because you had never let yourself be this close to something so raw… so real.

You stared at him.

Telemachus, with his tear-streaked face pressed gently against your shoulder, hands clinging to your sides. His confession still echoed in your chest, stirring something terrifying and warm all at once.

You breathed in, slowly.

"If what you said was true, then why leave without saying goodbye?"

"...I thought it would hurt less," he admitted, voice breaking. "For both of us."

You looked at him, truly looked—and then, without thinking, your hand reached up and brushed a thumb across his cheek. "It hurts more," you said quietly, "not knowing."

The space between you felt fragile. Yet somehow, even now, there was comfort in it.

You then started to stroke his head almost pulling him closer, Telemachus hesitantly looked up to you. A chuckle escaped your lips. The same laugh he loves.

"Remember when I told you my mother was worried that talking to you might make you think the wrong thing?" you began, your voice soft. The prince tilted his head, slightly puzzled, but nodded.

"Well... the truth is, long before that, I already liked you," you admitted, eyes dropping for a moment. "Talking to you wasn’t just a coincidence—it was my way of trying to get to know you."

Telemachus' eyes widened, stunned.

"My mother said feelings like that would lead me nowhere. She said, 'Who are you compared to him?' That you'd probably find it strange... or laughable. So I grew up thinking I’d never mean anything to you."

He opened his mouth to speak, but you gently cut in before he could.

"I started to believe, by default, that love just wasn’t meant for me. So imagine how surprised I was... when you said you wanted to be friends."

Telemachus stepped closer, the moonlight catching the hurt and wonder in his expression. His voice broke gently through the silence.

"When I said I wanted to be friends," he said, voice low, "it wasn’t because that was all I wanted. It was because I knew, i wanted to begin somewhere with you."

Your breath caught again,

"From the time we’ve spent together.." He trailed off "You were nothing but more than I ever thought I was allowed to want. And maybe I don’t know exactly what I’m doing—gods know I’m still figuring it all out—but I do know one thing."

He reached for your cheeks, gentle.

"I want whatever this is. Even if it’s uncertain. Even if it’s slow. I want it… with you." He said.

You couldn't help but lean into the warmth of his hand, your heart thudding louder with every inch that closed between you. His touch was tender. Your faces hovered close, breaths mingling in the quiet. Telemachus’ thumb brushed your cheek, then paused as his gaze flicked down—hesitating on your lips.

"May I?" he asked, barely above a whisper, like he was afraid to break the moment.

As you gave a quiet nod, he leaned in—and when your lips met, it was like the world stopped.

His lips were soft, warm, hesitant at first, then a little more certain as you didn’t pull away. You could feel the faint hitch in his breath, the way he carefully pressed in closer, and you welcomed it.

It wasn’t overwhelming. But it was enough to have you melt.

His hand traced the line of your jaw, then settled lightly at your waist, fingers trembling slightly. Your own hands moved instinctively, one curling over his shoulder, the other slipping slowly to the back of his neck.

He pulled away for only a moment, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. Then, without a word, he kissed you again—deliberate this time.

You were getting kind of jazzy by the second, but your body refused to pull away as the kiss deepened.

Telemachus finally broke the kiss, both of you breathing heavily. His arms remained around you as he buried his face in your shoulder—hiding, maybe, from how deeply he was blushing.

“Did that just happen…?” you said aloud.

The way he held you tighter made it real. He kissed you. And you kissed him back. A quiet settled between you as your fingers gently combed through his hair.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he murmured, making you glance down at him. “You have no idea.”

A soft chuckle escaped you. “I don’t want you to leave either,” you admitted. “But we both know how important this is.” He stilled. Slowly, he pulled back—though his hands still lingered on you.

A part of you wanted to be selfish, to beg him to stay. The sea was no safer than the palace. But you knew better. And you hated how much you understood.

“Don’t make this a goodbye,” you whispered. His eyes lifted to yours, glossy with emotion. “Make it a promise. Promise me you’ll come back safe.” He didn’t speak right away, only nodded—your smile softening as you held onto that small piece of hope.

“I promise to come back to you,” he said. “I'll come to pursue you.” You blinked, heart skipping. “Pursue me?” you echoed, voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a shy nod "I want to come back when I can be officially yours. Right now, I’m not the person I want to be yet… but maybe, by then, I’ll be closer to the man I should be—with you."

The confession hung gently in the air between you. You stared at him for a long moment, then smiled—not the polite kind, not the practiced one—but something small and real, like a promise unspoken.

“Then I’ll be right here,” you said, “when that time comes.” Telemachus leaned in again—not for another kiss, but to rest his forehead against yours. You stayed like that, wrapped in the hush of something tender, as the world around you blurred into silence.

Just for this moment, the future didn’t scare you. Because he would carry your words across the sea. And you carry his promise in your chest until the tides brought him home.

You could only pray the gods of Olympus would guide him safely across the sea. Unbeknownst to you, Telemachus offered his own prayer—that you, and his mother, would remain safe within those palace walls.

Neither of you knew what the days ahead would hold. And all that stood between was faith—and hope. But those two aren’t known for handing out happy endings. Not without a price. Not every time.

here is the 14k fic!! part two coming :DDD this was a pain to publish beacuse of how long it is, i had to transfer to my old laptop but im glad its finally done!!

thank you for reading everyone! interactions are greatly appreciated!!

[mashtatosworld]

the end of the beginning

summary: it's Diva's first day of school. and this time, it's not Jiyong being the problem - but the menace herself.

The house had never felt so full and so quiet at the same time.

You were sitting on the floor of Diva’s room, her tiny legs swung over your lap as you sectioned off her hair with practiced hands. She handed you clips one by one, carefully choosing them from the pink box in front of her.

A perfectionist in the making.

“Rainbow,” she said solemnly, passing it over.

“Of course, rainbow,” you said, smiling as you clipped it in place.

Behind you, Jiyong was methodically packing her bag - checking the list for the third time, making sure her snack box was in the cooler pouch, her change of clothes were neatly folded in the side pocket, and the little stitched label with her name - Kwon Jia - was facing out.

His fingers hovered over the letters, tracing them almost absentmindedly.

She was really going. He sucked in his lips.

No. No more crying. He thought he had got it all out last night, lying in your arms as he came to terms with the fact that his baby was now four and would be starting big girl school.

Jiyong sighed. He just had to keep reminding himself that she'd have fun there. She'd play all day and come back with drawings for him.

Breathe. Breathe. Oh god, his eyes were watering again.

Angel stirring from sleep cracked through the baby monitor.

You looked up, already rising. “I’ll get her. Can you do socks and shoes?”

Jiyong nodded, dropping the sparkly pencil case back into the bag with a soft sigh. “Come on, princess,” he said, scooping up a pair of pink socks and her tiny white sneakers. “Let’s get your feet dressed.”

She sat, obliging at first, one sock nearly on before she asked sweetly, “Appa, what are you and Eomma gone do today?”

“Well,” he said, grinning as he adjusted the sock, “we’ll be home with Jemi. Maybe go for a walk. Clean up a bit.”

Diva froze.

Her face twisted into instant, fiery betrayal. “Without me?!”

Jiyong blinked. “Well... yes. Because you’ll be at school.”

“No,” she said flatly.

And then - with the speed of someone scorned - her foot yanked out of his hands and the sock was peeled off. Before he could even react, she whipped it across the room.

It hit the laundry basket with a dramatic thwap.

Jiyong stared. “W-what-”

“No go,” Diva declared, standing and stomping over to the bed. She climbed on top, grabbed her pink iPad, and flopped down like this was a perfectly normal Monday routine.

Jiyong scrambled to collect the socks. “Jia-yah, come on. Don’t you want to learn about shapes? You love shapes!”

“NO SHAPES,” came the sharp reply, muffled by the blanket she'd now thrown over her head.

He crept toward her, holding the shoes like offerings. “Jia, please, before Eomma tells me off.”

She started kicking when he got too close.

You walked in, Angel on your hip, blinking at the scene.

“What is happening in here? We're going to be late.”

“She’s can't go to school,” Jiyong said immediately, holding up the abandoned sock like it was evidence in a crime. “She’s not ready.”

Diva threw the blanket off, staring at you with big eyes. "I not ready."

You raised a brow. “You were so excited about using your Hello Kitty lunchbox fifteen minutes ago.”

Then Diva started crying - big, dramatic wails that were louder than necessary and accompanied by precisely zero actual tears.

You narrowed your eyes. She rarely cried. Not like this.

You crouched beside the bed, bouncing Angel gently. “Jia. Tell Eomma what’s wrong.”

She huffed, looked right at Angel, then did a full-body roll away from you, turning her back.

That’s when you knew.

This wasn’t sadness.

This was a tantrum.

You shot Jiyong a look.

He whispered, “I think she’s jealous. About Jemi. About us staying home.”

You turned back to Diva, stroking her hair gently. “Sweetheart, going to school doesn’t mean we won’t miss you. And you know Jemi can barely even talk yet, right? She just drools and kicks and looks surprised at ceiling fans.”

From behind, you heard Jiyong quietly agree, “We'll think of you the whole time."

Diva peeked over her shoulder, just a little. Still grumpy. But listening.

“And we’ll be waiting right here for you when you’re done,” you added softly. “We can get ice cream after.”

She was silent for a moment, staring, before her eyes narrowed at the three of you. "No. Go."

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Diva had not forgiven anyone.

She was in the backseat in full protest mode - sandals strapped on only after Jiyong gave up on the socks entirely. The silver buckles were slightly too fiddly for her to take off on her own, which you suspected was the only reason she hadn’t chucked them out the window yet.

“She’s not ready,” Jiyong muttered under his breath as he pulled out of the driveway.

You side-eyed him. “We’re five minutes in.”

“Exactly, we can still turn back.”

“Appa,” came the syrupy voice from the backseat, her earlier wails now miraculously softened. “I love you so much.”

You turned your head. “That's very sweet, but that trick only works once.”

She'd done it before when you had taken her to the doctors office: butter up the weakest link, Appa.

“I do,” she added, voice climbing in sweetness. “I’m your baby. Don’t send me away. I be so sad.”

Jiyong bit his lip.

“Eyes on the road,” you said sharply. “Don’t fall for it.”

“I don’t fall for things.”

You sighed, choosing peace over war, turning back toward the window as Diva softly began humming - a made-up tune that sounded suspiciously like the words nooo schooolll over and over.

By the time you pulled into the school’s car park, Jiyong was pale.

“Let’s just take her on tour again,” he tried. “We can release a shared album.”

“She’s been on tour three times. Get out of the car."

You turned in your seat and gave Diva your firmest Eomma look. “Let’s go. Now.”

But she was suddenly limp.

“Jia - ”

“No. I not going.”

“Princess,” Jiyong said, opening the back door. "This is just as hard for me, as it is for you."

She screamed like she was being handed over to a villain.

“HELP ME!” she bellowed as Jiyong pulled her out, arms windmilling, sandals kicking wildly.

A concerned woman at the front gate turned, startled. Jiyong winced and smiled.

“It's fine, she’s mine,” he said quickly. “We have the same nose." He held her up next to his face.

You walked a few steps ahead, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

Diva’s arms were now locked around Jiyong’s neck like a boa constrictor. Her face was buried into his shoulder, wailing faintly, muffled by his jacket.

As the building got closer, her grip tightened. When he went to gently lower her to the ground, her legs stayed clamped around his waist.

“Princess,” he whispered, “you have to let go.”

“No!”

You tried to help, gripping her back, tugging gently. “Come on, baby. You’re going to have so much fun - ”

She immediately switched targets, flinging herself into your arms mid-transfer. You stumbled back, Angel still strapped in the carrier against your chest.

She let out an excited 'ah' at being so close to her sister.

“Okay,” you grunted. “Now I’ve got two clingy babies.”

“She’s really not ready,” Jiyong said again, adjusting the little back pack on his shoulder. “Maybe next term. Maybe uni.”

You glared at him. “You’re not helping.”

You looked down at the little tangle of arms and hair and pouty faces clinging to your torso like koalas.

“I not want you to have fun without me,” she sniffed.

You softened just a little. “We don’t have fun without you. It’s boring. And we’ll miss you so, so much.”

She looked up at you, big eyes shimmering.

You felt yourself wavering. Then -

“Don't let Jemi play with my toys."

You blinked. “What?”

“No toys Jemi!” she turned to her sister with stern eyes.

And just like that, you were back in tantrum territory.

You sighed and looked at Jiyong helplessly.

He looked at you, equally defeated.

Then you both looked down at Diva, still firmly attached.

It was going to be a long first day.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

When it came to school pick up, you both decided it was best Jiyong go alone.

Diva was already upset Angel was getting to spend the day with her parents, without her, and had blown a loud raspberry at her sister over Jiyong's shoulder as he carried her in.

You started pacing a little by the front door when they were almost an hour late.

Angel was in her bouncer, cooing happily to herself, entirely unaware that her older sister had apparently dropped off the face of the Earth along with your husband.

Maybe he took her for ice cream, you’d told yourself.

Maybe the park. Or the bookstore. Or that overpriced toy shop she loves that smells like plastic and sugar.

Still - you checked your phone again.

And that’s when the front door slammed.

You flinched.

In stomped Jiyong, his jaw tight and stormy as he threw his keys into the dish and his jacket somewhere near the coat rack.

Following close behind him was Diva - thunderous, stompy, backpack crashing to the floor in one dramatic hurl before she stormed down the hallway.

She didn’t even look at you.

You blinked.

“…Hi?” you called weakly after them.

Jiyong made a beeline for the kitchen. You watched as he grabbed a wine glass and filled it to the brim.

He took a long gulp, leaned on the counter, and let out a sharp sigh.

“She told her teacher I wasn’t her Appa.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“At pickup,” he bit, eyes narrowed. “I went to get her - just me - and she stood there and said, ‘He’s not my Appa.’ Just like that. And I didn't have my ID on me! Thank god we look alike.”

You stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Jagi, I wish I was. She’s lucky she’s cute.”

You tried to hide your smile, though it was difficult.

“She’s hurt, Ji,” you said gently, shifting closer and wrapping an arm around his waist. “Jealous. And probably hangry.”

“She got McDonald’s on the way back. I didn’t get McDonald’s. I couldn't even eat, I have emotional trauma.”

You kissed his cheek. “I’ll talk to her.”

He just nodded, taking his wine like it was medicine.

You made your way down the hall, stopping in front of her door, which was open just enough for you to peek in.

Diva was curled on her bed, her uniform torn off - vest still on, but no cardigan or shirt, and her little bowtie discarded somewhere on the floor. Her pink iPad was propped on her lap, playing some overly enthusiastic toy unboxing. She side-eyed you when she heard your steps but said nothing.

You smiled softly. “Hey, baby.”

No answer.

You crossed the room, crouched down beside her little bed, and gently swept her hair back from her face. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean in either.

“How was school?” you tried.

“Fine.”

“Make any friends?”

“Don’t ‘member.”

You nodded, used to toddler stonewalling. “Appa said you told your teacher he wasn’t your Appa.”

She blinked, still watching her screen. You waited.

Then her head dipped, lips forming into a sad, shameful pout.

You were about to ask again - gently - when Angel’s cry suddenly rang out from the front room. You instinctively turned your head, just for a second, even though you knew Jiyong would get her.

But Diva noticed.

And she huffed, loud and deliberate, rolling over and pulling her iPad closer.

“Go back to your new baby.”

Oof.

You stilled. The ache in her voice was unmistakable, even if her words were sassy. The truth was written all over her little furrowed brows and pursed lips.

You eased onto the bed beside her, nudging her gently with your hip. “No way,” you said. “I’m staying right here.”

Your legs curled around her, fitting yourself into the tiny space like you used to when she was a baby. You peeked at her screen. “So… are they going to open that sparkly egg or what?”

She looked at you from over her shoulder.

Then, silently, she moved the iPad so you could see better.

You smiled.

You rubbed her back slowly as the video played. Her breathing started to even out. Her little body softened, the tension draining away with each swipe of your hand.

Eventually, she turned over, rested her head on your chest, and within ten minutes she was snoring softly - just like Jiyong always did after a sulk.

You laughed under your breath.

“He's definitely your Appa,” you whispered, even though only the walls could hear it.

You pulled the blanket up and wrapped it around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Your first baby. Still your baby.

Always.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

That evening you and Jiyong quietly padded into the living room.

He settled next to you on the couch, one leg bouncing slightly as he scrolled through photos of her from earlier that afternoon, pausing on a blurry one where she was wearing her backpack sideways and scowling at a pigeon. You leaned into him, watching the screen.

“She told me earlier... when Jemi cried… she said to go back to my new baby.”

Jiyong winced, his thumb pausing on the screen. “She's a tad dramatic."

“Hmm, I wonder where she gets that..." You then sighed loudly, resting your forehead on his shoulder. "Ji, she’s not mad at just one of us. She’s mad at both of us. We keep taking turns with her, like she’s a task.”

Ever since Angel was born, of course you and Jiyong had spent time with Diva one-on-one, whether that was shopping trips or pamper days - but never the both of you, together.

“We were just trying to make sure she got time with each of us…”

“Yeah, but not us. Like it used to be.”

He nodded slowly, then turned to you, determined. “Okay. So… tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

He reached over and tapped your cheek. “Jia Day.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The next morning’s school drop-off was as dramatic as ever.

It was already twenty minutes past the time you’d hoped to be in the car.

“Jiaaaa,” Jiyong called, walking down the hall with her shoes in hand, patience worn thin. “You said you were just grabbing your bag!”

No answer.

He pushed open the door to her room cautiously. Her curtains were drawn again, casting the space in sleepy shadow. And there she was - tucked neatly in bed, covers pulled up to her chin, staring at him from the pillow small and silent.

He squinted, flicking on the lights. “Why are you back in bed?”

She sniffled dramatically and he immediately hurried closer, kneeling beside her bed, smoothing a concerned hand over her hair.

"What's wrong my Princess?"

“I sick,” she said gravely, then without warning, leaned forward and with a loud, exaggerated, "ah-choo", fake-sneezed directly into his face.

He blinked. Slowly. Very slowly.

“…Okay,” he said flatly, wiping his nose with this sleeve. “Now Appa is sick too."

You appeared behind him with a suspicious look. “What now?”

“She’s suddenly got a mystery illness,” he replied with a helpless shrug.

"Oh really."

This was also another regularly used ploy from the Diva playbook.

Just a few weeks ago she hadn't wanted to go to Uncle Dae's birthday party after he accidentally broke Tabi - the latest of her electric toy cars. She had claimed she was 'sick', coughing all over the two of you until the word 'cake' was mentioned. And suddenly she'd been healed.

You glanced at Jiyong. He exhaled, rolling up his sleeves. “Okay. Time for plan B.”

“Wrestling her into her uniform again?” you asked with a wince.

“Unfortunately.”

Ten minutes later, and little progress had been made.

Jiyong was on his knees in her room, hair messed up, hoodie now discarded, gripping one of her sleeves while Diva shrieked dramatically and attempted to escape out the other side of her bed.

“I don’t like it!” she wailed, yanking her hair in frustration, catching him in the eye with a flailing elbow.

You hid in the hallway as Angel sucked her thumb on your hip, eyes wide.

“I don't like it either!” he huffed, struggling to get her into her cardigan as she flopped in protest.

Finally, somehow, she was in the uniform - her tiny bowtie was crooked, and her expression was a mix between deep betrayal and anguish - but she was dressed.

Then came the car seat.

You stayed inside for that part. You had limits.

But it hadn't been as disastrous as dressing her.

Only because Jiyong, wide-eyed and flushed with battle, had caved and handed her a grape lollipop just to get her into the car.

Now she sat in the back, legs swinging, sticky mouth, quiet only because her entire soul was consumed by that one sugar orb.

You gave him a look as he leaned out the window to kiss you goodbye. "She's going to have a sugar rush,"

“That’s gonna be the teacher’s problem,” he mumbled, drawing you in again for another kiss as if he was leaving for war.

You leaned in for a final embrace, and gently peeled off the glitter sticker that was still stuck to his temple. “You did good, Gdaddy.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Then, later that day, you returned to her school gates - together. No Angel in tow. Just the two of you.

Diva spotted you immediately, approaching with a cautious shuffle. Her brows furrowed.

“Where Jemi?” she demanded immediately, still not quite trusting the situation.

“With Halmeoni,” you told her.

She looked between the two of you, analysing. Deciding. Then, without another word, she slipped one of her hands into yours, and the other into Jiyong’s.

You felt her tiny fingers squeeze yours tighter when you said, “We’re having a special day today. Just the three of us.”

She gasped. “Like… like a no Jemi day?”

“Well, we'll see her later, but right now...” Jiyong grinned, lifting her into his arms. “Is Jia Day.”

You’d packed a change of clothes so she wouldn’t be photographed in her uniform, and soon enough you were all seated at McDonald’s, watching her attempt to drink a milkshake with a straw she kept accidentally snorting.

She was delighted.

Then came the toy store.

Diva marched in like she owned the place, you and Jiyong trailing behind her.

“Oh no,” you said quietly, as she beelined toward a shelf of neon goo.

“She’s seen the slime,” Jiyong whispered back, hands resting on your shoulders.

She picked out a pot the size of her head and turned to you with a hopeful smile. “Eomma. Can I?”

You stared at it. “That… will end up in someone’s hair.”

“Jagiya,” Jiyong said softly, squeezing you with a grin. “We said whatever she wanted.”

Diva saw her opening and immediately launched a full-body hug attack on your leg. “Pweeease Eomma?”

You sighed. “Fine. But it stays in the kitchen. And nowhere near Jemi’s hair. Or my shoes.”

She did a little jump of victory. Diva continued round the store, sweeping the shelves of any toys.

And then, to your surprise, she picked out a weird, lopsided goblin doll and added it to the basket. “For Jemi.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“It look like her.”

"Oh," Jiyong nodded slowly, eyeing the creepy thing. "Well, that's very thoughtful to think of your sister."

"She need a toy too." Diva explained, tossing another bouncy ball in the basket for herself.

You and Jiyong locked eyes over her head and exchanged a silent, stunned high five.

Success.

Parenting success.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

When you and Jiyong arrived home, the house was quiet in that suspicious way that meant something was either deeply wrong or peaceful.

You rounded the corner into the living room and found Angel cradled in his mother’s arms, dressed in what could only be described as a... costume.

She was wearing a ruffled onesie with a tutu attached and at least four bows pinned into her hair, one on top of the other like decorative cherries. She blinked up at you both.

“She didn’t cry once,” his mother said proudly, bouncing her a little.

Jiyong sighed in relief. Although Angel rarely cried, she was very clingy. But it seemed that Halmeoni was enough to keep the chubby baby happy.

You grinned, kissing Angel’s plump cheek as you thanked Jiyong's mother and walked her out, promising next time you'd leave both grandkids with her.

Once she left, Diva settled herself in the living room, surrounded by her new toys. Angel was in her playpen, blissfully chewing on the horrifying goblin plush.

You stood in the kitchen with Jiyong, finally catching your breath, sipping tea and leaning against the counter.

"They're playing with their new toys..."

"Yep." You nodded, taking a slow sip as you stared at him with curious eyes. Your husband continued to slink closer, a mischievous grin on his face.

"So, do you think we have enough time to slip away?" He ran a hand from the nape of your neck all the way to your backside, lingering there with a firm grip. "It will only take us five minutes."

"For me, or for you?" You laughed with a scoff.

"Both," He shrugged, confident in his bedroom skills.

Then Zoa padded by, tail high.

With slime stuck in her fur.

Bright green, glittery slime.

You and Jiyong froze, slowly turning to look at each other.

“Oh no.”

You both broke into a sprint.

The living room looked like it had lost a fight with an alien lifeform.

Diva stood beside the sofa, expression unreadable, her entire front glistening with slime. Her bangs were matted straight to her forehead like a greasy helmet. The armrest of the couch had a neon glow.

Angel was now somehow out of her playpen, gurgling and chewing on Goblin Baby. Both green and gooey.

Your eldest stared back at you both. Not guilty. Not smug. Just accepting her fate.

You let out a long, soul-worn sigh. “I’ll start running the bath.”

Jiyong nodded, deadpan. “I’ll try to save the sofa.”

You pointed at him. “And that is the last time slime enters this house.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Bath time was a mission.

Diva went in first, leaving a greasy ring of green goo in the water. Then Angel, who actually enjoyed it, with her hair spiked into a soapy spike. Zoa was wiped down with a damp cloth - she was not pleased.

And now it was Iye’s turn - the cat, standing ankle-deep in the sink, yowling like she was being sacrificed.

Jiyong stood over her, scratched and soaked, attempting to hold her in place with a kitchen towel. “I am going to bleed out here!"

“We have band-aids,” you muttered from your position beside him at the counter, where Diva sat on it, wrapped in a towel.

You were trying - desperately - to comb through her bangs. The slime had set like cement.

“Ow,” Diva whined, squirming.

"Stop moving or you'll really look like Appa." You said as her hair seemed to be getting shorter and shorter with each cut.

You gently snipped at the clumps of matted hair, trying to salvage something vaguely respectable. It was not going well.

Angel was on the floor on a towel, watching the chaos unfold with wide, amused eyes, kicking her little legs like she was at a front-row show.

“We shouldn't have bought that slime,” Jiyong muttered, struggling with the soaked, hissing cat. “How are you always right?”

You shrugged. "I'm raising three Jiyong's. I've learnt a lot."

You then paused in your trimming and looked at your daughter’s very, very uneven fringe.

“...Maybe hats. You'll need hats for a few weeks.”

Diva looked at herself in the mirror and shrugged. “I like it.”

You caught your husband's eyes in the reflection - wet, scratched, exhausted - and just started laughing. Because somehow, despite the mess and madness, this was still the sweetest kind of chaos.

Your chaos.

And slime or not - you wouldn’t change a thing.

Well. Maybe the sofa.

And Iye was never forgiving any of you.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

You gently pull the blanket up over Diva’s chest, tucking it beneath her arms as she blinks sleepily at you both. Her bangs - uneven, but absolutely charming - stick slightly to her forehead as she gives you a slow, satisfied smile.

“Did you have a good day, sweetheart?” you ask softly.

She nods, already half in dreamland. “Mmhmm… I wanna show my school friends my new hair.”

Before either of you can say anything else, she’s fully out - mouth slightly open, eyelashes long and damp from the bath, fingers still curled around the edge of her blanket.

You switch on her night light and tiptoe out together, quietly pulling the door closed behind you.

In the hallway, Jiyong exhales.

“You hear that?” you grin, bumping your shoulder against his. “She’s made friends already. Our little socialite.”

He nods, but when you glance up at him, his hand is moving discreetly across his face.

“…Are you crying?”

“No,” he says, immediately defensive, voice thick.

You raise an eyebrow.

He wipes at his eyes again and shrugs helplessly. “It's just all hitting me now - school... Our baby goes to school. And I was her first friend,” he mumbles. “Now she has others.”

You stare at him for a second before wrapping both arms around his waist, pulling him in. His forehead drops against your shoulder as he sniffles dramatically.

“Oh my big baby,” you coo, rubbing his back, “do you need some attention too?”

“…Maybe.”

You laugh softly and kiss the top of his head. “Alright, come on then. Let’s get you to bed before you start asking for slime too.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

happy Diva Day!! our baby is growing up fast - im not crying, you are 😭

the next diva series will hopefully include angel more <3 bless her

thank you for reading! slime was highly requested for this series - and it's not the last we'll see of it...

love always,

mash

xxx

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @breakmeoff , @emmiesoverthemoon , @rafesbunniebby , @ricecake9999 , @fleabagspurplewife , @sylviavf , @ldydeath , @wonyluvi , @deliciousmagazinequeen , @heartubeatusalon , @imminsugasgf , @steponupbabe, @moontabi , @1950schick , @wcnderlnds

[bower-quinn]

Little pieces of paper

Eddie receives little notes full of compliments. But who could possibly be behind this, and what does a waltz have to do with it? From stranger to lovers, fluffy, explicit speech

Goddamn it, this shitty place came straight out of hell, Eddie Munson thought as he stepped into the school building. It wasn’t the first time he had that thought—in fact, he had it every single damn day.

School might’ve been the best time of your life—if you were popular. Definitely not if you were an outsider. The popular assholes only acted nice to him when they wanted to buy drugs. He usually charged them double. That way, everyone was more or less satisfied. That was all he was. The stoner. The supposed devil worshipper, if the rumors parents whispered were to be believed. But really, he was just like everyone else—or, well, almost.

He was in a foul mood, like every Monday morning. He’d been supposed to have a gig over the weekend, but it got canceled. And now he hated the world just a little bit more. Eddie strolled to his locker, gave the dented door a good kick so it would spring open, and spotted something between crumpled paper and a broken pencil—a small, folded note. Not from a teacher. Just an ordinary slip of paper, neatly folded. Curious, he pulled it out.

“That denim jacket looks damn good on you.”

Eddie frowned and looked around. His eyes scanned the hallway. No one was looking at him. No one was laughing. No one seemed to have noticed anything. He didn’t throw the note away. He tucked it into his chest pocket and closed his locker, a thoughtful look settling over him that lingered all the way until class started. Suddenly, Monday didn’t seem quite so dark.

Class passed by like a blur. Eddie kept wondering who might’ve written him that note. He went through every name he could think of but came up with nothing.

The next day, when he found another note, he let out a quiet gasp of surprise.

“Are your curls as soft as they look? I’d love to touch them.”

Unconsciously, Eddie brushed his hair out of his face. Who the hell would write something like that to him? And more importantly—who the hell felt that way? No one had ever told him his hair looked soft. No one had ever wanted to touch it.

He was almost convinced it would end there. But a small flicker of hope held onto the idea that maybe—just maybe—there would be another note on day three.

And there was. On Wednesday, it read:

“Every time you smile, I wish it was just for me.”

Thursday:

“When you stare out the window, you look like you’re in another world. I’d love to know where you go.”

Eddie grew restless. Not in a bad way. But in the way someone does when something good happens that they can’t quite understand. At lunch, he showed the notes to his D&D crew. Gareth nearly dropped his sandwich laughing, Jeff giggled like he’d just seen a naked woman for the first time, and Dustin—well, Dustin looked at Eddie like he’d just realized someone could actually be interested in him.

“A secret admirer, huh?” Gareth smirked. “Or at least a GIRL!” Jeff added with exaggerated emphasis, like it was the most absurd idea ever.

Eddie laughed along. A little too loudly. And while the boys turned back to their fries, his eyes swept the cafeteria. Who was watching him? Who had the guts to write those words—but not to show themselves?

At home, Eddie carefully placed the notes on his bed. He pulled out an old, empty scrapbook he’d found once at a flea market. Page by page, he pasted the notes in, like they were treasures. And in a way—they were. Next to each note, he scribbled the date.

Then came Friday. This time, it wasn’t a short message. It was a longer letter, folded carefully, written on heavier paper. Still in the same handwriting.

Eddie read it standing right there in the dim hallway, between the rows of lockers. And with every sentence, something shifted in his face.

Eddie, I saw you laughing with your friends about the notes. Maybe it was just a joke to you. But for me, it was real. I wanted to say all the things I never dared to say out loud. You always seem like you don’t care about anything. But I see you. When you think no one’s looking, I see you tapping your fingers on the desk when you’re nervous. I see the way you lift your chin when someone looks at you like you’re beneath them. But now, I feel like I made a mistake. Maybe it was ridiculous of me to compliment you. Maybe I’m just naive.

Eddie felt something tighten in his chest. He hadn’t meant to laugh at whoever wrote them—not really. He just didn’t know what to do with the feeling of someone being genuinely kind to him. Just kind. Without wanting anything in return.

He wanted to apologize. Explain himself. But every note had been unsigned. He had no idea what to do now.

What if he’d ruined everything? What if there were no more notes?

Angrily, he slammed his fist against the locker. The metallic echo rang through the hallway. A wave of pain shot through his hand.

“Fuck,” he hissed, clutching it. Goddamn idiot.

The weekend was torture. Not only was his hand sore and turning a faint shade of blue, but he had to go two whole days without any notes.

He smoked too much. Thought way too much. He knew the last letter by heart.

When he pasted it into the scrapbook, he wrote next to it: “I’m sorry.” His jagged handwriting beside those neat, rounded letters looked like an insult.

He didn’t know what to expect when he opened his locker Monday morning. Maybe... nothing. Maybe it was all over.

But then—there was a new note.

His heart did a tiny flip. Same handwriting. Familiar. Tilted slightly to the right. And as he unfolded the paper, it felt like touching something sacred.

“I really thought about stopping. Honestly. But I couldn’t stand the idea of your beautiful brown eyes looking sad because of me.”

He leaned his forehead against the locker and smiled. A small, honest smile. Little butterflies stirred gently in his stomach. Someone thought his eyes were beautiful.

After that, it became routine. One note per day. Each one a beam of light cutting through his otherwise dull school days like sunlight through a dirty basement window.

The tone changed. It grew warmer. Bolder. The compliments started to shift.

From: “Your smile saves my mornings.”

To: “Last night I dreamed you were holding my hand—and I woke up smiling.”

From: “The way you look when you listen to someone—wow.”

To: “I wonder what your lips would feel like on mine.”

And Eddie?

He read each note with focus. Sometimes, he was almost embarrassed by his own goofy grin. Other times, he turned red. Really red. Especially when the notes got... more direct.

One of the last ones completely knocked him off course:

“Just thinking about how your tattoos would feel against my bare skin gives me goosebumps. And I hope you feel the same.”

Eddie had read that one during class, hidden behind his binder in the back row. He turned red like a tomato in July and shoved the note into his bag as fast as he could. After that, he stopped showing them to the guys. They’d never take it seriously. They’d make jokes.

But Eddie... Eddie felt something. Maybe awe. Maybe desire. Maybe just a warm flutter in his chest he hadn’t felt in ages.

And then—there was her.

Steve Harrington’s sister.

She’d never paid him much attention. But lately... She greeted him. In the mornings. In the afternoons. Waved at him in the cafeteria. Not flirtatiously. Just... kindly. And sweet. So damn sweet.

Once, when he walked into class, she looked up, smiled... And Eddie felt like the air had thinned out completely.

Of course, he thought about it. Could it be her?

But then he shook his head. No. She was too... perfect. Too confident. Too brave. The notes felt secretive. Vulnerable. Like they came from a quiet corner—not from someone who waved at him openly across the cafeteria.

Then came Tuesday. One of those hot, sticky, dragging days.

He’d just read the newest note.

"Have you ever had a blowjob? I wonder how your cock feels in my mouth. What it looks like."

Jesus Christ.

This was the first one that was... explicit. An entire little fantasy written on paper.

Eddie stood there, beet red, heart pounding in his throat. He could feel the words ignite something in his lower stomach. A tingle. A pull. His body reacted before he could even think.

Jesus Christ, was he really about to get hard in the middle of the hallway?

He tried to shove the note away before anyone saw. But Gareth came around the corner—too loud, too clumsy, too nosy as always.

“Yo, Eddie! What’re you reading, man? Another one of your sexy fan letters?” he grinned.

Eddie slammed his locker shut way too fast. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled, his face heating up again. “Let’s go. The others are probably waiting.”

He was just about to walk off—when a soft voice called out behind him.

“Um... Eddie?”

He turned.

There she was. Steve Harrington’s sister. Wearing a light, floral summer dress that fluttered softly in the hallway breeze. Her hair gleamed like honey under the fluorescent lights. And her eyes—so clear, so warm—met his.

She was holding a small folded note. His note.

“You dropped this,” she said, her voice so soft it made him dizzy.

He stared at her. He didn’t know if it was the dress. Or her angelic face. Maybe both. Maybe it was the way she looked at him—like he wasn’t just the freak. Not just the outsider. Like he was someone. Someone she noticed.

With trembling fingers, he took the note back.

“Thanks,” he managed, his voice rough.

She smiled—radiant, genuine, breathtaking—and turned to disappear into the crowd.

Eddie stood frozen.

“Dude,” Gareth muttered, “stop staring like some goddamn creep. You’ve got no shot with her anyway.”

“Thanks, Gareth,” Eddie snapped. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Gareth raised his hands in mock surrender. They walked to D&D in silence. That session, Eddie tortured the party mercilessly.

At home, he locked the door, music turned down low—a rare occasion—and pulled out the scrapbook.

Page by page, he flipped through the notes. Each one from that same, unknown voice. Someone who saw him in ways he couldn’t—or didn’t dare—to see himself.

He studied the handwriting. Thin, round letters. Neat but not perfect. With tiny irregularities that made it feel... human. Real.

He traced one line with his finger, gently—like he could touch the person behind it:

“You make me tremble just by sitting there.”

A quiet sigh escaped him. And then the thought struck:

Can you fall in love with someone just through a few handwritten notes?

The answer wasn’t clear. Not a yes. Not a no. But his heart beat faster, and his stomach tightened in that way it only does when something really matters.

He longed for this person. Their voice. Their face. The moment everything would become clear.

He wanted to see them. More than anything.

Eddie had a mission. He arrived way too early and stood for nearly half an hour just watching his locker, hand on the lock, eyes like a hawk.

Part of him—the paranoid part—wondered: What if it was all a joke? Gareth, Jeff, the others... maybe they were messing with him?

But then he thought of the handwriting. The tone. The details.

No. That wasn’t them. Too real. Too raw.

So he stayed. Skipped Spanish. Hid behind a pillar a few feet away, watching.

And then— He saw her.

Little Harrington came out of the history classroom. She was wearing tight black jeans today, along with a loose band shirt that slipped slightly off her shoulder. Her hair fell into her face as she hummed something—softly, barely audible, but Eddie perked up his ears. It took a moment, then it hit him like lightning. “Fade to Black.” Metallica. He knew the song by heart. She was humming the guitar line, slightly off-key, but unmistakable. He swallowed. Could it be? She walked right past his locker without sparing him a glance. Then headed toward the bathroom. No note. No look. No hesitation. Two minutes later, she came back out, face freshly washed, hair pushed back a little. She disappeared into her classroom again.

Eddie stood there. Confused. Disappointed. And somehow... empty. He had hoped she would leave something in his locker. A clue. A glance. Something. But nothing.

The next morning, his disappointment still lingered as he hesitantly approached his locker. He opened it slowly. Expected nothing. But there it was again. A small, folded note, neatly wedged between his books. He opened it, heart pounding. And as he read it, he couldn’t help but laugh. A soft, joyful, completely different kind of laugh.

“You can watch your locker all you want, Munson. You’ll never catch me. Maybe you’d be disappointed if you did. Maybe the mystery is better than the answer. But in case you’re curious: You look damn good when you’re all tense like that. Almost like a predator. Damn sexy.”

Eddie folded the note and pressed it to his chest. He grinned. He hadn’t caught her. But she had seen him. Again. And somewhere out there, she was walking around—with that handwriting and that damn intuition for him. And he knew he wouldn’t give up on her.

But then something happened that clouded Eddie’s good mood from the past weeks. Something that seemed like it came straight out of hell—like the school itself had invented it to torture him: PE class. Eddie’s personal nightmare. In shorts. Very short shorts.

He was late, as always, dragging his feet into the stuffy gym that smelled like old rubber and overheated disinfectant. He scratched the back of his neck, sticking out of a too-tight t-shirt, and was ready to line up with the other guys who, as usual, were just waiting to throw balls at each other’s heads.

But today was... different. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw it wasn’t just his class in the gym, but a group of girls as well. And among them— her. She was wearing a loose white shirt tucked casually into her pants, her hair down, and she had an elastic band around her wrist that she was absentmindedly twirling between her fingers.

Their eyes met, and she smiled. Eddie blinked. Was that—meant for him?

The gym teacher stepped forward, set down an old cassette player, and said loudly: “Coach is sick. So no hurdles or dodgeball today. We’re doing something different: dance class.” A collective groan swept through the gym. Eddie rolled his eyes—dramatically. The teacher noticed instantly. “You’ll dance too, Munson,” she said sharply, pointing at him. Eddie raised his hands and gave an exaggerated innocent grin. The moment she turned around, he flipped her off behind her back.

A giggle rang out. Soft, bright, gentle. He turned. There she was. Hand in front of her mouth, clearly laughing at his gesture. She winked—and Eddie... was gone. Completely. His mind went blank, like it only did after two joints.

“Ladies’ choice!” the teacher called as the music started. “Girls, pick your partner. Let’s go!” As soon as she finished, the girls rushed forward. Eddie was already half sitting on the bench, certain he’d be ignored as always. The girls would pick the jocks. The pretty boys. Not the freak in the band shirt.

But then—footsteps. And there she was. Standing right in front of him.

“Hey,” she said quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Then she held out her hand. “Wanna dance with me?”

Eddie stared at her. “Are you... sure? I mean—you could ask anyone.” She smiled, her voice calm and warm: “But I’m asking you.” His fingers trembled as he took her hand. Her skin was soft and warm. They walked together to the center of the gym. She didn’t let go of his hand. His heart pounded. I’m holding Harrington’s little sister’s hand. Me. Eddie-freakin’-Munson.

The music started. A slow waltz. Everyone around them began to turn and sway. Only Eddie stood stiff, overwhelmed. She stepped closer, took his other hand, placed it on her hip. “Like this. And now your other arm on my shoulder. Just like that. Don’t worry, I’ll lead.”

Eddie swallowed. His hands on her hips felt like they had just touched a live wire. His knees were ready to give. Everything about this felt unreal—the slow rhythm of the waltz from the old tape player, the muffled voices of the other students, the soft gym light, her perfume. She looked up at him and smiled.

“You dance better than I expected,” she said softly. Eddie laughed nervously, trying not to step on her feet. They moved to the beat—awkward at first, but somehow finding a shared rhythm. Eddie felt his tension slowly ease.

“Is this your first time? I mean—dancing?” she asked, blushing a little at how that sounded. “Depends if you can call this dancing,” he muttered and grinned. “But yeah. No one’s ever asked.” She looked at him seriously. “I asked.”

Eddie swallowed. “You’re braver than I thought.” “And you’re shyer than I thought,” she replied gently. He laughed, or tried to—it came out awkward. “Don’t say that too loud. My image will fall apart.”

She laughed too—an honest, bell-like laugh. Her eyes flicked downward, to his leg, where a bit of a tattoo peeked out from under his pant leg. “Is that... a skull?” she asked. Eddie glanced down and cursed under his breath. “Damn. Yeah.” He tugged at the pant leg, to no avail. “Didn’t mean to show that today.” “Cool,” she said simply. “You have more, right?” “Seven,” Eddie replied. “Some bigger, some... born from bad lighting and worse decisions.” She smiled. “Can I ask what they mean?”

Eddie hesitated, then saw the genuine interest on her face and nodded. “The bat wing’s because of Dungeons & Dragons. My character made a dark pact—it was super edgy, and I was sixteen.” “I like it,” she said, locking eyes with him. “I think that’s my favorite one.” “You have favorites among my tattoos?” She nodded, but didn’t elaborate. After a few silent steps, she said: “I’ve always wondered what tattoos feel like on skin. If you trace them with your fingers. If they... feel different.”

Eddie looked at her in surprise. It wasn’t just what she said—but how. Something about it felt familiar. Like déjà vu. Like... a line from one of the notes. “Some really do feel different,” he said cautiously. “Some are slightly raised. Want to—?” He stopped, turning red. But she removed a hand from his shoulder—thankfully not the one in his—and traced the bats. “Soft,” she murmured. “But yeah, a little raised. You’re right.” Then—out of nowhere—she asked: “Would you go to the movies with me sometime?”

Eddie froze. His heart felt heavy. He liked her. Truly. But... “I... think I might already be in love with someone else.” Her eyes widened. He could see how much his words hurt her. And that fact alone was awful. He, Eddie Munson, had hurt someone this good.

“Oh,” was all she said. Her voice was quiet, almost fragile. A small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That hurts. Honestly.”

Eddie felt terrible. So he said: “There are... notes. I know it sounds silly. Someone’s been leaving me one almost every day. For weeks. And... I think I’m falling for someone I don’t even really know.”

She looked at him for a long time. Her expression shifted. He couldn’t quite read it—surprise? Sadness? Hope? Then she said calmly: “Maybe you just have to wait until all the puzzle pieces come together.”

But before he could ask what she meant, the class ended. Without another word, she left the gym, leaving Eddie full of question marks. Puzzle pieces?

The next morning, he walked to his locker with a pounding heart. He knew it. Something would be there. And it was. A note. Folded. Light blue paper. He opened it.

“Isn’t it beautiful when all the puzzle pieces fit?”

Eddie’s heart skipped a beat. He slowly looked up. A bit down the hall—there she was. Harrington. She raised her hand. Smiled. He stared at her, then at the note, then back. She shrugged. And laughed. He ran toward her.

“Was it you... this whole time?” he panted. She nodded. “Yes.” A wide, disbelieving, joyful smile spread across his face. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” “I needed to figure out how you felt about me,” she said, smiling brightly, “as you might’ve noticed, I’m shy.” “But bold enough to write me dirty notes,” he whispered, smirking as she blushed.

Then she looked into his eyes. “Are you finally going to kiss me, Munson?” Eddie didn’t wait for a second invitation.

Weeks later, Eddie worked up the courage to show her his notebook. The one where he’d pasted all the notes. The one he kept under his pillow. They flipped through the pages together, laughing now and then. Later, when Eddie was alone again, he noticed a new entry. This time, written directly into the notebook. The handwriting was exactly the same.

“No more notes. I love you, Eddie Munson.”

And Eddie Munson, the freak, the outsider, the metalhead, smiled like someone who’d just gotten everything he ever wished for.

[katnipp]

stuck in your web— aeri uchinaga

genre: FLUFFF 🕸️

synopsis: y/n’s just a girl with a sketchbook and a crush on spiderwoman. but then come the trinkets, the soft rooftop visits, and the rescue that changes everything. turns out, spiderwoman’s been in love this whole time

—

it started before the trinkets.

it started the first time giselle saw her.

it was winter. snow melting into slush on the sidewalks. giselle was perched on the rooftop of a run-down bodega, suit torn, arm bleeding from a bad landing. she thought no one saw her. but then there was her. sitting quietly on a bench across the street, sketchbook in hand. hood up. headphones in.

sketching her.

their eyes met once. just for a second. then the girl looked away, embarrassed, like she’d been caught.

giselle never forgot.

months passed. the wounds healed. but that girl — y/n — was everywhere. in the halls at school. tucked in corners of the library. laughing quietly with herself at lunch over her sketchbook. and every time giselle saw her, her heart felt a little too heavy in her chest.

so she started swinging past her apartment.

just once at first. then more. until it became a ritual — every night, after patrol. no reason. no plan. just habit.

and then the trinkets started.

⸻

a red ring pop. it was stupid, but giselle liked the color. she left it on the fire escape railing and bolted before y/n could open her window.

an origami spider. folded out of math test scrap paper — the one she failed because she was too busy staring at y/n in third period.

a pressed daisy with a perfect webbed pattern drawn in glitter pen on the petals.

a heart-shaped eraser with a spider sticker on it.

every time, she left before dawn. every time, she watched y/n find them. her little smile made giselle feel like she’d won the lottery.

it should’ve been enough.

but then came the parking lot.

⸻

she’d just finished stopping a robbery when she saw it.

y/n, walking alone behind the school. hoodie sleeves bunched up over her hands. looking at the bracelet giselle left the night before — little red beads strung together on a stretchy string.

and then three upperclassmen closed in.

at first, it looked casual. just some guys teasing a younger girl. then one of them snatched the bracelet right out of her hand.

“what’s this?” the tallest one said, holding it up like it was trash. “your little superhero girlfriend leave you this?”

“awww,” another one laughed. “is spiderwoman your secret valentine or something?”

y/n didn’t answer. she just stood there, small and silent.

“bet you leave your window open hoping she’ll climb in, huh?” the third one smirked. “you like playing damsel, freak?”

before y/n could say anything, a web shot out from above and snatched the bracelet back mid-air.

then the ground cracked beneath a pair of boots as giselle dropped in between them.

no words. just a long, slow look.

“y’all are real bold for three dudes who wear the same ugly shit every day,” she said flatly.

the guy who took the bracelet raised his hands. “we were just messing—”

“yeah?” giselle said. “then mess with someone who won’t break your jaw.”

they ran. full sprint. didn’t even look back.

giselle turned to y/n, kneeling slightly so they were eye level.

“you okay?”

y/n nodded slowly, eyes wide.

she bent down, trembling a little, and picked up the bracelet.

“you saved me,” she whispered.

giselle looked away, heart thudding like a drumline in her chest.

“yeah, I… do that.”

“was it you?” y/n said. “with the gifts?”

silence. then a tiny nod.

y/n took a step forward.

“thank you,” she said, soft and serious.

giselle almost fell over.

⸻

she walked her home after that.

well — swung her home. cracked jokes the whole time just to hear y/n laugh into her shoulder. they landed on the fire escape, and giselle made to leave.

but y/n tugged on her glove.

“wait,” she said. “you forgot something.”

she pulled out a folded sketch.

spiderwoman. perched on a ledge, graceful and powerful — but the eyes were soft. drawn with impossible detail.

“for you,” she said shyly.

giselle took it like it was gold.

“you’re gonna kill me,” she muttered. “i’m in so much trouble.”

y/n smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear.

“good. now you know how i’ve felt every time i found something on my windowsill.”

giselle froze.

“you liked them?”

“i kept all of them.”

dead. she was dead. buried. she was head over heels in love with her.

⸻

the next day at school was a disaster.

giselle was sweating through her hoodie. she walked into the wrong class, called her math teacher “mom,” and accidentally webbed her water bottle shut in the hallway.

yujin caught her at lunch.

“okay, what’s going on with you?” she said, frowning.

“nothing,” giselle wheezed. “i’m totally fine. normal girl behavior. zero problems.”

“you’re acting like someone found out you’re in love with y/n.”

giselle spat out her juice. across the cafeteria, y/n was sitting with her sketchbook, wearing the bracelet. and smiling.

at her.

⸻

later, a note appeared in giselle’s locker.

“you looked really pretty in red yesterday.”

she reread it seventeen times. then webbed herself into the janitor’s closet to scream.

⸻

two days later, y/n found her in the library.

cornered her between the sci-fi shelf and the comic books. held something behind her back.

“i have something for you,” she said.

giselle blinked. “is it another note? please say it’s a note. i’m putting them in a scrapbook.”

y/n pulled out a sketch.

not spiderwoman.

her.

no mask. no suit. hoodie up. same eyes. same soft tilt of her head.

“i know it’s you,” y/n whispered.

giselle stared.

“how—”

“your voice. the bracelet. and you called me ‘sketchbook’ last week. only spiderwoman calls me that.”

giselle turned red.

“i… didn’t mean to—”

but y/n smiled and pressed the drawing into her hands.

“you’re lucky i like superheroes.”

giselle made an actual whimpering noise.

⸻

that night, for the first time, a trinket appeared on giselle’s windowsill.

a paper crane. folded with gold-tipped edges.

underneath it: a note in soft, messy handwriting.

“for your nerves. come by tomorrow. i’ll bring snacks. — sketchbook”

she read it ten times.

then stuck it to her ceiling and smiled until sunrise.

—

[wanderlettesz]

The Price of Loving

yandere cheater x reader

After you discover your fiancé cheating on you with his assistant, rage takes over and you kill her right in front of him. Arrested and imprisoned for the crime, he visits you frequently, wanting to rebuild what he destroyed.

Tw/Tags. yandere, cheating, toxic relationship, kidnapping, obsessive, non-consensual touching, degradation, homicide, blood, manipulation, captivity, bondage, force feeding, death (not the reader), angst, suggesting content. Pronouns are not used, but the reader is implied to be a woman. Let me know if I missed any.

Word Count: 11664

The room was silent, the only sound being that of the clock.

“What do you feel when you think about crime?”

Silence.

“Do you regret what you did? 

Silence. You know there's no point in answering.

The psychologist forces a small smile “If you don't want to talk again today, that's fine. We'll wait until you're ready.” She writes something in her notebook and closes it “You're free to go.”

You don't bother saying goodbye and leave the room, the policemen who were at the door waiting for you to leave escort you in silence to your cell. At every cell you passed you felt eyes staring at you, and you made sure to return their gaze. When you arrived, you were brutally pushed inside, the brute action made you clench your teeth, and you held back so as not to say anything.

You sit down and breathe, trying to calm down. You've been here for a week now, but with James coming here every day, it feels like an eternity.

"James..."

You mutter bitterly, his name leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. Your eyes wander to the other side of the room, where the thousands of gifts he brought are scattered across the table without any care.

______________________________________________________________

The smell of alcohol and antiseptics invades your nostrils as you walk through the hospital corridors to your fiancé's room. You were carrying a box of sweets in a good mood, you worked hard to cook all this after all.

Your hands got burnt in the process, but if that's enough to show him that you love him, there's no need to worry about it.

You hesitate for a second, but decide not to knock. As you turn the handle and push open the door, you freeze at the scene. You regret not knocking sooner.

A blazer is lying on the floor, next to a woman's jacket. The table where a woman is sitting is a complete mess. You look around the scene in shock, until you finally see the faces of the couple in front of you.

Your fiancé and his assistant.

James quickly turns away from the woman and towards you. He seems completely oblivious to the woman in front of him “Darling, you've come to visit me!” a smile appears on his face as he walks over to you 

How dare he look happy after the scene you've just witnessed?

Noticing your presence, the assistant tries to leave discreetly, her steps hurried but contained. You don't think, your gaze sweeps the room and settles on the first object within reach, a chair.

The impulse takes over you, and before you can even think, you’ve already lifted it and struck her with the first blow. The sound of the impact and the screams echo around you, and you keep going. You hit her again and again until you realize the screams have stopped.

It was enough to alert nearby staff and patients. Some watched the scene with horror etched across their faces, while others were already running toward where you were.

You turned to your fiancé. His face was a mix of fear and shock, but there was something else. A glint in his eyes, a small smile on his lips.

He looked pleased.

"You... killed her? Because of me?" his voice came out low, almost in awe. "If I had known you were…"

You didn’t let him finish. You raised the chair again and lunged forward, ready to strike. But before you could hit him, you were restrained by nurses who rushed in and pinned you down.

On the ground, trapped under arms and surrounded by shouts, as the nurses rushed to check the woman's body, you realized what you had done.

There’s no going back now. ______________________________________________________________

You clench your fists as that memory flashes through your mind again, and you quickly look away from the table. There's no point in thinking about it anymore. Instead, you fix your gaze on the hallway clock.

5:48 p.m. James usually arrives around this time. Maybe he’s running late. Or maybe, just maybe, he finally gave up trying to convince you not to kill him with your own hands. You hope it’s the latter. But your hopes die the moment you hear that sticky, annoyingly cheerful voice.

“Thank God you’re awake... You usually tend to doze off around this time.” He appears from the corner where you were looking at the clock. “Sorry I’m late, darling, the hospital was packed today.”

You ignore him and turn your back, not even bothering to answer. He has always hated the silent treatment. If you're lucky, he'll give up and walk away. But you know that would be a miracle.

"I thought we were past this…” His annoyance is obvious, even though he tries to mask it with sadness. "I noticed you even had one of the chocolates I brought yesterday. That has to mean you're starting to forgive me.”

What? You didn’t touch any of the things he brought, but you decide not to care about that now. "I told the guards not to let you in," you say directly, completely ignoring the absurd thing he just said before. "Why are you here?”

"You should know that won’t stop me." "I guess not." You turn toward James, not hiding your unhappiness at seeing him. "So? What did you come here for?”

"Can’t I visit my own fiancée anymore?" he said, showing the gifts. "Look, I picked your favorite flowers and chose the best chocolates for you..."

You don’t pay attention to his words. Hearing him speak used to be something you loved, but now it only provokes irritation.

As you struggled to push away any thought that reminded you of his presence, the cell door creaked open with a dry squeak, and a guard let him in. Your eyes first went to the gifts he carefully placed on your table, adding them to the others he had brought before. When you finally mustered the courage to face him, his arms were already around you.

“What…” You immediately raise your hands to push him away, but he interrupts you by hugging you tighter and bringing his lips close to your ear.

“You don’t want to make a scene here in front of everyone, do you?” His warm breath tickles your skin, sending an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. If you want to get out of here and as far away from him as possible, you better be discreet for now.

Noticing your attempt to hold back, he rested his head on your shoulder, prolonging the moment longer than tolerable. When he finally pulled away, he smiled with that same irritating smile as always.

"Aren’t you afraid I’ll break your face?”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

You definitely would, but not here.

He settled on the edge of your bed and motioned for you to sit beside him. “I have something to talk to you about.”

When you didn’t follow, he took your hand and gently pulled you to his side, his expression now serious as he lowered his voice. “Look, about everything that happened…”

“What is wrong with you?" Your hand pulls away from his in a sharp motion.

He doesn’t react right away. He just lowers his eyes, as if searching for words on the floor. For a brief second, he looks hurt, but says nothing.

"You think you can just come back here and try to fix everything?" Your indignation is clear. Your stomach turns just having him this close. His scent, the sound of his breathing, everything about him feels really annoying right now.

He takes a deep breath, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost cautious. "I know, I know what I did... But could you at least listen to what I have to say?"

That sparks something inside you. Your heart races, like you’ve just been punched. You stand up abruptly, the bed creaking under the sudden movement.

"Listen?!" your voice rises instantly, firm and uncontrolled. Your whole body is tense, you’re really holding yourself back from exploding. "Do you even know what you’re talking about?! You cheated on me, for fuck’s sake! There’s no excuse for that!" Your breathing is already heavy. 

He stands up too, maybe out of impulse or maybe out of fear of losing control of the situation. He tries to take a step toward you, his hands slightly raised as if trying to calm you. "Darling, please, calm down, I just want to…”

"Get the fuck out of my cell." You cut him off, looking him straight in the eyes. "I don’t want to hear what you have to say, none of your excuses. I’d rather rot in prison than be free because of you!”

He freezes for a moment, as if unsure whether he should insist or leave. But you don’t look away. The air between you is heavy. Your argument has drawn several curious looks, and one disapproving glance from a guard.

James knew that if he pushed any further, he’d lose any chance of speaking to you again.

He leaves the cell in silence, without looking back. But just before crossing the door, you still catch his final whisper,barely audible.

"I’m going to get you out of here."

Your eyes widen for a second before you pull yourself together. 

"And when that happens, I’ll kill you."

He says nothing else and walks out in silence.

Your body is still trembling with anger, and you throw yourself onto the bed, one arm resting over your eyes. You try to calm your breathing, taking deep, slow breaths.

You tried once, then twice, three times…Each attempt only seemed to make the irritation worse. You can’t understand how he still manages to affect you so deeply, even after everything that happened. You keep trying for the rest of the night.

______________________________________________________________

The next morning, you wake up in a bad mood, your body stiff in an uncomfortable position and your shoulders aching, without remembering exactly when you fell asleep. But it wasn’t the discomfort that woke you, it was a different sound.

You turned your head slightly to the side and looked out of the corner of your eye. You saw a hand reaching through the bars of the neighboring cell, trying to grab a box of chocolates James had left on the table against the wall opposite your bed.

You watched the woman’s pathetic attempt to be quiet. She seemed to be struggling. Her hand barely touched the box, and when she did, all she managed to do was push it farther away.

The scowl that was already on her face deepened. With an annoyed sigh, she pulled her hand back. Just as she was about to try again, she looked in your direction, probably to check if you were still asleep.

Your eyes met and she quickly withdrew her arm, freezing. You stared at each other for a few seconds before she gave you a mischievous smile. "These chocolates have been here for days…! You’re not going to eat them, are you? It’s better if someone does before they rot and make the whole place stink!”

Despite the confident tone, you noticed the nervousness she was trying to hide.

You look away and stare at the ceiling. "You can take it. I wasn’t going to eat it anyway."

The woman stayed silent for a moment. She didn’t seem to believe you truly didn’t care. "...Really? I mean... alright then! Don’t mind me grabbing it!"

She reached out again, this time more eagerly, and finally managed to grab the box.

With a satisfied smile, she pulled it into her cell and opened the box, unwrapping a chocolate. "I was so hungry! Yesterday, when your boyfriend was…”

"Ex” you correct her.

"...Ex-boyfriend was here, I couldn’t grab any and spent the whole night starving. You and he are terrifying when you’re angry, so I didn’t want to risk it." She tossed the chocolate in the air and caught it in her mouth, chewing happily.

You got up from the bed and sat up, your gaze falling to the floor. “...Did you see what happened yesterday?”

"You should be asking who didn’t see it." She grabbed another chocolate. "You two were loud. I don’t know how he still has permission to visit you and bring all this good stuff!"

"Good stuff..." you repeat bitterly as you start getting up to get ready.

The woman you were talking to glanced quickly at the clock and realized she also needed to hurry. Neither of you wanted to attract the attention of the guards.

______________________________________________________________

After pricking your fingers several times, you finally finish sewing the hand of the small amigurumi you've been working on since you got there. Carefully, you hold it up to your eyes, examining each stitch closely.

It's not perfect, but... it's good enough. You hope some child will like it.

Then, the sound of the bell echoes through the hallway. It’s time for outdoor break. You put your materials away, hand the amigurumi to the woman in charge of the workshop, and head toward the yard.

Outside, you sit on a bench, watching the other inmates also taking advantage of the fresh air, some chatting, others in silence. They don’t mind your presence and ignore you.

Your eyes fall to your hands, thousands of tiny wounds scattered across them.

"Wow, that looks painful..." The same woman from before is leaning over your shoulder, eyeing your hands with curiosity.

"You again?" you turn your face away, annoyed. She turns to face you, her smile widening with amusement.

Ignoring your comment, she sits beside you. "Didn't know you were the crochet type. Doesn't suit you at all, especially making stuffed animals.”

“It’s not like I... like it. It’s just the least awful job around here.” You lower your hands to your lap.

“Doesn’t look that way to me…”

She decides to drop the subject and, in a casual motion, throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. Then, she slips a hand inside her bra and pulls out a chocolate wrapped in luxurious packaging.

“Check this out.” She places the candy between you two. “I don’t like owing favors, so I brought you a chocolate from the boss’s office. This is one of the most expensive in the world! Look at this fancy wrapping…” Her fingers point out tiny details in the packaging that no one would notice without trying.

When you make no move to take the chocolate, she grabs your hand and places it in your palm. “Impressive, right? I’m paying my debt to you for those other chocolates. Feel honored.”

You don’t really care about that, but she looks so proud that you don’t have the heart to ruin her moment.

"Thanks, I guess. You didn’t owe me anything, but... I appreciate the gift." You tuck the chocolate into a pocket or fold of your clothes.

She watches your face closely, looking for any sign of sarcasm. Finding none, she nods, satisfied.

"You’re not what I expected, [Name]." She crosses her legs and props her elbow on one knee, resting her face in her hand. "When I read your file, I thought you were just another one who messed up their life over someone stupid. But you seem… alright, even after everything.”

"Prying into other people’s lives is a huge invasion of privacy."

"Yeah, maybe. But criminal records are public reading in here. You should see what they say about me." She makes a playful face. "I’ve heard so many stories I don’t even know what I actually did anymore.”

“Anyway, it’s none of your business.” You stand up and start walking back, wanting to end the conversation.

She jumps up from the bench almost instantly, quickening her pace to catch up with you. “Hey! I’m trying to get close to you. Everyone here has an ally, and you need one too!”

“Why would I need one?” you snap back without looking at her. “If I just don’t mess with anyone, no one will mess with me.”

"That’s not how things work in a place like this.” She steps in and stops right in front of you, forcing you to halt, then reaches out her hand. “My name’s Sasha. If you become my ally in here, I promise I’ll watch your back. So? What do you say?”

You stare at her hand without moving. The offer doesn’t make much sense to you, but you feel that if you refuse, she’ll keep pushing, maybe even more than before. Before touching her hand, you hesitate.

“And what do you get out of this?” You pull your hand back and cross your arms suspiciously. “I don’t see what use I’d be to you, and it’s pretty clear you’re not doing this out of kindness.”

“What if I’m just being nice?” 

“Yeah, right” you say, turning your back and starting to walk away.

She starts walking beside you again, talking non-stop. The walk back is full of her trying to convince you to accept the offer. You begin to think she’s insisting just so she doesn’t seem lonely.

______________________________________________________________

When you came back, you expected to see James waiting in front of your cell, but he didn’t show up.

He didn’t show up that night. Nor the next day. Nor the week after. In fact, months passed without any sign of him.

You still can’t really believe it, even though the answers are right in front of you. Has he finally decided to leave you alone?

During that time, Sasha tried to get closer to you. For some reason, she was always around and greeted you in a good mood. Even though she was loud, she didn’t annoy you like before. She was kind of nice to have around and always brought you gifts. You shared a bit about your life with her, and she shared hers.

She told you that before she got arrested, she was trying to pursue a career as an actress. She went to auditions, took acting classes, and even performed in an amateur play. You found it curious that someone like her ended up in prison.

When you asked why, she said she was arrested for theft, explaining that it was hard to afford the cost of classes and she saw no other way out. One day, you happened to see a small badge with the name of a theater. She quickly hid it and didn’t explain further. She looked embarrassed, so you decided not to press her about it.

It was 3:00 AM when you woke up to loud noises, hurried footsteps, gunshots, and other sounds you couldn’t quite make out.

Already alert, you immediately got up. Your heart raced as you tried to understand what was happening. The sound of footsteps and gunfire echoed down the entire corridor, mixed with screams and confused voices.

You moved closer to the bars of your cell, trying to see beyond the darkness. The faint light from flickering lamps showed figures running past, some shouting, others trying to shield themselves from whatever was going on.

Sasha appeared on the other side of the bars, her voice standing out amid the intense noise filling the corridor. "There you are! Are you hurt?” she asked with concern.

In her hands, she held a small key which she quickly inserted into your cell lock. You heard the click of the door unlocking and decided to ask, even though you already had an idea

"Sasha, what the fuck is going on?!"

She glanced quickly to the sides before answering "It's a riot. We don't have much time, let's get out of here."

As soon as the door swung wide open, she grabbed your wrist tightly and pulled you out, not giving you a chance to hesitate. The corridors were absolute chaos, bodies scattered on the floor, prisoners freeing each other, and police officers trying, in vain, to contain the riot.

You ran alongside Sasha, trying to keep up the pace, but every step was a challenge. The smell of blood and burning smoke in your nostrils was unbearable.

Suddenly, there was an explosion at the end of the corridor. Your body reacted instinctively; you turned your head back and saw a huge hole in the wall next to the door.

A crowd of prisoners was fleeing in panic, trampling everything in their path. The sharp sound of gunshots made your heart jump, and you quickly looked forward. Sasha was looking over her shoulder, clearly annoyed. "For God’s sake..." she muttered to herself before looking at you. "Pick up the pace, and don’t run in a straight line." She tightened her grip on your wrist and rushed ahead.

You tried to keep up, but you couldn’t. If it was already hard to dodge the bodies on the floor, now it felt impossible. Even after grabbing her with both hands, you and Sasha struggled to stay together, the panicked crowd made it nearly impossible.

And then it got worse. You felt a sharp pain in your thigh. It was like your leg had been torn apart from the inside, followed by a burning sensation that made you gasp.

The sound of the gunshot still echoed in your ears when your fingers slipped from Sasha’s. In the blink of an eye, she vanished into the crowd.

"Shit..." you hissed through clenched teeth. 

You stumbled until you managed to get out of the escape route and leaned against a wall, trying to think of what to do. The pain was overwhelming, you knew you wouldn't be able to run like that.

While you were struggling to come up with a solution, you felt a hand slide around your waist, and before you could react, you were yanked back with brutal force.

A damp cloth covered your nose and mouth. Your body fought on reflex, but stopped the moment a familiar voice whispered in your ear.

"I told you I’d get you out of here."

______________________________________________________________ You woke up with your face pressed against something warm and firm. Slowly, your senses began to return, and as you looked up, you found yourself face-to-face with James’s peaceful, sleeping face. What the fuck? When you tried to push him away, you realized something strange, your hands were cuffed behind your back. Looking down, you saw that your thigh was carefully bandaged. At least your feet were free.

You expected to be in your old home, the place where you lived before everything fell apart, but the room around you was completely different. It looked... tropical. Warm golden light filtered through the windows, the air smelled faintly of sea salt, and from outside came the soft, rhythmic sound of waves crashing.

With effort and several tries, you managed to get to your feet and take a better look around. This place was definitely not an ordinary house. The walls were made of light wood, decorated with fine fabrics and clay-potted plants. A steady breeze flowed through the room, making the white curtains sway gently. Outside, you could hear birds and the distant sound of the sea.

“Did you like it? I decorated it just for you.” You turned your head. James was still lying on the bed, silently watching you. His gaze was fixed, like he was waiting for a specific reaction.

“Where did you bring me?!” you snapped, unable to hide the anger and confusion in your voice.

He stood up slowly and walked to the middle of the room. He stopped and opened his arms with a satisfied smile on his face. "How can you be mad after everything I did just for you?" He started rambling about the decorations, mentioning where he had stored your police training books, your clothes, and your personal belongings.

You kept your gaze steady as you waited for an explanation. The anger inside you grew, mixed with fear and disbelief.

He sighed and then returned to the bed, sitting on the edge.

"It was your dream to live in a house by the beach." he said, trying to make you understand what he had done for you. "That's why I worked so hard to bring you here."

"Bring me here?!" you said, incredulous. "You literally kidnapped me and handcuffed me!"

He went silent for a moment, then admitted, looking away, "…Well, I didn’t see another way to get you here."

You felt a knot in your throat. He continued, his voice lower now, almost as if trying to justify himself, "And you didn’t seem emotionally stable enough to have a conversation with me."

You grit your teeth, the feeling of helplessness starting to weigh on you.

“So you thought you had the right to decide everything for me?” you ask, trying to control the tremor in your voice. “I’ve told you, it’s over! It’s finished, done, gone!” You hope your firm words finally get through to him.

His smile falters and he stands up, walking toward the door.

“Now you’re going to leave and just let me here?”

He opens the door and looks back over his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon, darling. Wait for me.” He closes the door behind him with a smile.

There’s no way you’re going to just stand here waiting for him.

The pain in your thigh is unbearable, but that won’t stop you. You drag your legs slowly to the edge of the bed and, after a lot of effort, manage to touch your feet to the floor. Every movement makes the pain worse, your body trembles, and you’re almost regretting what you’re trying to do.

But your pride speaks louder. You refuse to obey him. He must think you’re helpless now that you’re hurt. Even with that thought, you’re still hesitating.

You hesitate just long enough for him to come back.

"...I thought I told you to wait for me.” he said, clearly not pleased. "You won’t be able to walk without my help.”

"I don’t need you, I can walk on my own…" The tremor in your voice is obvious, even you’re not sure you believe it.

“Then walk.”

“...What?”

"Walk." He repeats, leaning his back against the wall by the door. "You said you don’t need me, so I want you to come to me without my help.”

The room fell silent. You felt your breathing quicken. The weight of the situation fully settled on your shoulders. Your thigh throbbed, each pulse of pain sharper than the last. You looked down at the floor, then at the distance to the door. It was just over two meters, but to your injured body, it felt like a battlefield.

"I'm waiting, or have you already given up?"

He stepped away from the wall and started walking toward you. You quickly raised your hand, signaling for him to stop.

"I can do it..." you whispered to yourself, trying to believe your own words. You took a deep breath, gathering courage. With great care, you placed your uninjured leg on the floor. But even this simple movement pulled the muscles in your injured thigh, sending a sharp pain through your body like an electric shock. A trembling sigh escaped your lips.

James watched silently, but you noticed impatience growing on his face. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you give up, you decided to push through it.

You regretted it. Deeply.

Your body gave out immediately, overwhelmed by immense pain. Your leg failed, and before you could react, you were already on the floor. The sound of the fall echoed through the room, your head hitting the floor hard, the impact knocking the air out of your lungs.

But nothing hurt more than your thigh. The sudden movement from the fall made the injured muscles contract, and the pain tore through you as if the wound had opened again. Your body trembled and tears welled up in your eyes. You could barely breathe.

You clenched your teeth as you heard his loud laughter echo right in front of you. The sadness that had consumed you seconds before quickly merged with anger and, even worse, humiliation.

“You look like a worm writhing…” he mocked between laughs, barely able to contain himself.

When the laughter finally started to fade, you mustered the courage to lift your face. But it was in vain. The weight of his shoe was already pressing down on your head, forcing you back to the floor.

“Stay down.” he murmured, his voice hard and cruel. “It suits you better.”

His harsh tone caught you by surprise, he had never spoken to you like that before. A chill ran down your spine, but you tried to keep your voice steady, even though the tremor betrayed your insecurity.

“Is that the first thing you do when you see your girlfriend in pain? What a great boyfriend you are…” Your own words disgusted you, but it was better to keep him entertained for now.

He fell silent, and you couldn’t guess what expression was on his face at that moment. Without warning, he lifted his foot off your head, and you took the chance to slightly raise your head. Just as you hesitated to look at him, you felt the weight of his shoe press against your chin, gently lifting your face with a disturbing tenderness.

“You’re right” he said, his voice carrying a false tone of remorse. “But on second thought... a snake suits you better, don’t you think? I say that as a compliment.”

You shot him a sharp look, as if you could cut him with your eyes. But he simply ignored it, as if your contempt didn’t affect him in the slightest.

Without warning, he bent down and picked you up in a bridal carry, with unexpected gentleness. The contrast between his cruel words and soft gesture left you confused.

“Let’s go” he murmured, a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips. “The kitchen awaits.”

As he carried you toward the kitchen, you started to take in the rooms you passed through. He had really decorated everything exactly the way you told him.

______________________________________________________________ “So... what are your life goals? Or better yet, what are your dreams?” James asked, resting his elbow on the table as he watched you with interest.

“Dreams...” You paused for a moment, fork halfway to your mouth, and glanced out the window. The question seemed simple, but it struck deep. After a few seconds of thought, you cleared your throat softly. “I guess I’d like to live in a house by the beach. The sound of the waves relaxes me... The sand is nice too.”

James nodded thoughtfully and took a sip of his drink. “I totally get that. But you’ve got to be careful too. My mom used to go to the beach every weekend but never used sunscreen. She’d get all burnt, and guess who had to take care of her afterward?” He rolled his eyes slightly, but the gentle smile at the corner of his mouth betrayed the affection behind the memory.

“You really have a way of taking care of others...” You commented, a slightly softer tone in your voice. “I think our goals connect somehow. I can’t stand injustice, so I want to become a police officer after finishing college.” You extended the study book that was next to your plate. He took it carefully, flipping through some pages with interest, his eyes scanning the words.

“Now that you mention it...” He closed the book slowly, turning his gaze back to you. “You’re right, I have a dream similar to yours, but instead of living by the beach, I want to have a wedding there.”

“Oh, I’ve already been to one.” Your expression remained neutral, but your eyes clearly lit up at the subject. “My aunt got married on the beach. It was very beautiful. I think I’d like to do the same...”

The conversation went on. You were calm, sitting in your home, eating a simple meal made right there. There was no tension in the air. Just his presence there, talking to you, was enough to make you feel at ease. You felt safe and relaxed, as if you didn’t have to worry about anything else.

At that moment, you believed you had found the right person, someone who understood you.

______________________________________________________________ You shake your head, trying to push the bad memories away. Thinking about the promises he made wouldn’t change anything now. When you become aware of your surroundings again, James is placing you sitting in the kitchen chair.

The kitchen was spacious and incredibly tidy. The light wooden furniture matched the tropical style of the house, and all the utensils were neatly arranged, as if they had never been used. On the marble countertop, some fresh fruits and ingredients were already prepared.

“Breakfast isn’t ready yet, I just came back because I thought you might be feeling lonely in there.”

James turned his back, grabbing a knife to continue cutting whatever it was. The rhythmic sound of the knife hitting the board filled the silence. “So you want me to just sit here watching you cook?” you ask, breaking the silence.

He didn’t stop cutting, nor did he turn to you. “You used to do that before, liked watching me cook…”

You furrowed your brow. Did he notice that? You didn’t even know he paid attention to such details. But then the memory of everything he did to you came rushing back, and that little moment of distraction dissolved into the bitterness of reality.

You watch his movements, the way he handles the knife naturally. The sweet smell of herbs began to spread as the tea finished brewing, filling the air with an almost comforting aroma. Emphasis on almost.

James washed his hands and carefully dried them on a white linen cloth folded over the sink. Unhurried, he grabbed a tray he had prepared on the counter and turned toward you.

On the tray, fruits cut into small pieces were arranged in separate bowls, strawberries, bananas, kiwi slices. Next to them, little pots with condensed milk, chocolate syrup, and fresh cream completed the presentation. You studied the tray before commenting, “This isn’t the healthiest breakfast for someone who’s still recovering.”

“Responsible as always, darling” a nostalgic smile appeared on his face. “I know, but I think you also need to regain some of your mood.”

He pulled a chair next to you and sat down, placing the tray in front of himself. Your gaze showed confusion as you realized he positioned it in front of him, not you.

Without saying a word, he grabbed a fork, speared a piece of strawberry, and dipped it into the melted chocolate.

“Let’s do it like we used to.” He raised the fork slowly to your lips. “Don’t you miss when I used to feed you?”

You immediately turned your head to the side. “No way.”

“Don’t be like that.”

He tried again to bring the fork closer, persistent, but you turned to the other side. The little standoff went on for a few moments, almost like a silent game between you two. Only when he realized he wouldn’t win the game did he sigh, defeated.

“All right, all right. How about we make a deal?”

“A de...” You barely finished the word before he took advantage of your distraction and shoved the fork into your mouth. He let out a low chuckle but stopped as soon as he noticed the deadly look you shot back at him. It was clear he recognized the boundary he had nearly crossed.

“If you sit on my lap, I’ll let you feed yourself.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you think I’ll accept that?”

“Well...” He tilted his head slightly, still wearing that strange smile on his lips. “I’m giving you a choice.”

You quickly weighed the options. None of them were good, just the lesser evil. Letting him feed you would put you in a infantilized, helpless position. But accepting to sit on his lap… well, you could pretend you were just trying to make everything more bearable. Besides, by taking the fork yourself, you could keep a minimum of autonomy. An illusion, perhaps, but enough for now.

You took a deep breath, suppressing the pride and frustration boiling inside your chest “I’ll sit on your lap if you let me eat by myself.” His eyes lit up as if he had just received a gift. He nodded enthusiastically, a wide smile spreading across his face. “As you wish, darling.”

Without waiting any longer, he stood up and carefully lifted you. Then, he settled you onto his lap with surprising gentleness, adjusting your position so that both of you were facing the table where the breakfast tray rested.

You kept your face neutral, focusing only on the food in front of you and picked up the fork. Your first thought was to turn around and stab him, but you could feel his eyes on you, sharp and watchful like a hawk. You let the idea go and began eating in silence. As you chewed, he leaned in and began pressing his lips against random spots on your back. Each kiss sent a shiver down your spine, and you gripped the fork so tightly your knuckles turned white.

When you raised the fork to spear the last piece of fruit, James tried to take the utensil from your hand. You resisted. He then wrapped his hand around yours and gently guided it back toward the plate.

“I thought we had a deal.”

“I’m not feeding you” he said calmly. “I’m just guiding you.” Instinctively, your head tilted slightly upward as the fork approached your mouth. James didn’t seem interested in continuing the game, he held your chin firmly, though not aggressively, forcing it downward. You refused to open your lips, so he let go of your chin, pinched your nose gently and patiently, and waited.

A few seconds later, the discomfort overpowered your stubbornness. You opened your mouth to breathe, and he took the opportunity to place the piece of fruit between your lips.

“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You knew he wouldn’t take well the answer you had in mind, so you held it back, biting your lower lip hard to keep the words from slipping out. He didn’t insist, he simply lifted you gently from his lap and placed you back in your own chair.

“I’m going to do the dishes. Once I’m done, I want to show you your new home.”

You didn’t argue. Getting to know the area might be useful. The more you learned about the place, the better your chances of escaping.

______________________________________________________________ James took you through every room in the house, pointing out details of the decor, personal items he had brought to please you, and speaking with enthusiasm about everything he had prepared.

It was only later, when you looked toward the horizon and saw the sea stretching as far as the eye could see, that you understood the full weight of the situation. You weren’t just on a beach, you were on an island.

That made everything worse.

Still, a spark of hope ignited. There were guards scattered throughout the property. Their presence made escaping more dangerous, yes, but it could also be the key. If you could just get close to one of them… maybe you could ask for help.

The tour lasted the entire day, and even when you tried to hide your exhaustion, James noticed. He decided the tour would have to continue the next day. Now, you’re in the bedroom’s spacious bathroom, where the jacuzzi softly warms the water with gentle steam.

You're sitting in the center of the tub, the water enveloping your body, while James sits behind you on the edge. You insisted on bathing alone, wanting to preserve some sense of independence, but he refused to risk you getting hurt or something unexpected happening.

In the end, you reached a compromise: he would help wash your hair, but you wouldn’t take your clothes off. James agreed without protest and removed your restraints. At the moment, his hands are gliding slowly through your hair, massaging and washing it gently, while you lather your body from the front. "Be careful not to get your bandage wet. Even with the protection I put on it, it’s better not to take any chances."

You nodded silently. To someone who didn’t know him well, his tone might have seemed harsh, maybe even cold, but you knew it was the same clinical tone he always used with patients.

"I'm done. Can you hand me the handheld shower?"

"Aren’t you going to wash your back?" he asked, already leaning in. Before you could answer, James reached for the soap on the soap dish where you had left it. Without hesitation, he slid his hands under your wet shirt, gliding the soap across your back in slow, deliberate motions.

He leaned in, pressing your back against his, and whispered against your ear “Just relax, let me take care of you for a moment.”

Your body shivered involuntarily, but you didn’t resist. After so many arguments throughout the day, you simply didn’t have the strength to fight anymore.

“Aren’t you tired too? You spent the whole day carrying me around.”

Your attempt to push him away with logic sounded more like concern, and you realized it too late. Behind you, you felt the smile forming on his lips. “I’ll never be too tired to take care of my darling.”

If you ignored the fact that it was him there with you, it would’ve been a perfect moment. The warm water, the circular motions on your back, the silence that filled the bathroom, it was almost comforting. At least you were getting clean, even if fully clothed.

You thought he was done when he returned the soap to the dish, but then his hands came back to your shoulders, now with a gentle massage. You didn’t protest, just closed your eyes and tried to disconnect from reality. Pretend it’s not him, [Name].

His fingers softened their movements once he noticed your body was finally giving in. You took a deep breath, trying to take what you could from that strange moment of calm.

“Feeling any better? You were tense all day.”

“I think so…”

“Good.” After a few minutes in silence, James removed his hands from your body and picked up the handheld shower. The warm water ran gently, washing away the foam from your skin. When the last trace of soap was gone, he reached for the edge of the tub and opened the drain, letting the water slowly begin to empty.

Turning his back to you, he gave you privacy to remove your clothes. When you told him it was okay to turn around, he came back, wrapped your back with a soft towel, and helped you sit on a dry chair.

Unfortunately, you weren’t very lucky with clothes. He allowed you to put on your underwear, but insisted on helping you into the nightgown. You didn’t really understand why, if he had let you bathe fully clothed earlier, why not give you privacy now? But you figured it was probably because it would be faster with his help.

Once you were dressed, he picked you up and carried you to bed. You were already feeling quite drowsy. He pulled one of the soft blankets up to your shoulders.

“You can sleep now, darling. Once I’m done, I’ll come lie down with you.” He returned to the bathroom, likely to take his own shower.

Your gaze fixed on the bedroom ceiling, mind already turning over what to do the next day. Maybe it would be a good idea to start looking for places to hide things that could help you escape.

Your thoughts didn’t get much further than that, you drifted off to sleep.

______________________________________________________________

After some time, you woke up to the gentle touch of a hand caressing your cheek. Your eyes opened slowly, still heavy with sleep, and you turned your face toward the touch, finding James watching you with a tender expression.

“Sorry… I didn’t mean to wake you.” he said in a low voice, one that sounded genuinely regretful.

You remained silent for a moment, just observing him. He was shirtless, a few drops of water still trickling down his chest, likely from his damp hair after the shower.

“Don’t do that again” your voice came out more sleepy than firm as you pulled your face away from his hand and turned your back to him. The pain in your thigh was still there, but no longer intense enough to keep you from sleeping on your back.

You expected him to respect your space and leave you alone, but he didn’t. James came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you gently close to his body.

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself in the bath… How about we continue that?” he whispered, his hands sliding along your body.

The irritation that erupted inside you made you open your eyes, fully awake. “I don’t want to.” you said firmly.

But he didn’t back off. His hand began to roam your thighs. “You can go to sleep while I help you relax. I know you’re exhausted.”

You reacted quickly, grabbing his wrist and pulling it away “I said I DON’T want to!”

With his other hand, he grabbed your wrist that was holding his and squeezed hard until you were forced to let go. “Let me go, you’re hurting me!”

He was silent for a moment, then asked with a voice mixed with confusion and irritation “Why are you acting like this?”

“Acting like what…” you started to say, but didn’t get to finish. In a swift move, he pulled you, turning your body onto your back and climbing on top of you. Your hands were now pinned under his, firmly held against the mattress.

“Why are you acting like this?! You never cared about this before!” His voice was explosive, filled with rage. He seemed on the verge of losing control, tired of your resistance after a whole day.

“I didn’t care when we were together, but now we’re not.” You try to pull away from his grip “How many times do I have to explain this to you?! You destroyed everything when you cheated on me!”

“I’m trying to fix it! I really am!” His voice now trembled, and his eyes dropped to his collarbone, avoiding your gaze. “I know what I did was wrong, I just… I just thought…”

“Thought what?!” Your voice came out firm. It was like suddenly he was the victim in the story.

“I thought you didn’t love me…” he continued, his voice softer. “I knew how you were, but I thought I could change you. I thought that, by being with me, you’d be more affectionate.”

Your eyes widened and you felt them start to water, had he never seen your efforts?

“So… you never saw what I did for you?”

“I thought you were doing those little gestures because you felt sorry for me. I didn’t think it meant you were changing…”

You looked away and stayed silent, swallowing the pain of his indifference toward everything you had given. The silence caught his attention, and he leaned in, trying to see your face.

“That’s why I went after someone else! I just wanted to be loved. I thought what I was getting from you… wasn’t love.”

“You’re a horrible person.” The firmness in your words before completely vanished, and the tears you’d been holding back started to fall.

“Just like you, [Name].” The coldness in his voice surprised you, and you turned your gaze toward him.

“Tell me… Who was there when you were bullying at school, huh? Who cleaned up the mess you left behind? Who took care of the people you hurt just to make sure no one reported you?”

“I… I know. I know I was a horrible person, but…”

“You weren’t, you are!” he growled, tightening his grip on your wrists even more. “And that’s why only I can understand you.”

“You’re wrong! I’m not like that anymore!” you rebelled again, your eyes burning with anger and fear. “Unlike you, I’m trying to change! I really am!”

"Change?" he leaned in until your faces were almost touching. "You murdered someone just a few months ago… Do you really think you’re going to become a police officer after that? Do you think anyone’s going to forgive you?"

As much as you try to fight it, deep down you know he’s right. You swore you would change. Promised yourself you’d become someone better, someone worthy of forgiveness.

But the guilt that haunts you can’t silence one thought, that woman… She deserved what happened. Just like the man currently on top of you does too.

"But… I forgive you." His voice came out soft, almost compassionate, as he released your wrists. You pulled them back toward your body, shielding them like you were trying to erase the marks of his touch.

"You killed her because of me… I know I’ll never be able to repay what you did for me, but I want to spend the rest of my life devoted to you."

He wiped away the tears you hadn’t even realized had fallen, then sealed your lips with a gentle kiss.

His words echoed in your mind, and even though you didn’t want to admit it…You knew he was right.

Deep down, the truth was already clear to you.

______________________________________________________________

Months went by, and you admit it wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Now that your thigh has fully healed, you’re able to walk around the house with ease. After so many renovations, the place no longer feels like a simple home, it’s practically become a mansion.

James allows you to walk around the island as well. That filled you with hope at first, you even believed you might find other people there. But, over time, you realized that the only figures crossing your path were always the same men, guards. Guards at the gates, guards along the trails, guards watching from afar. Guards everywhere.

He seems determined to make all your dreams come true. He’s always speaking with enthusiasm about the things you once said you wanted, going out of his way to recreate scenes he claims were meaningful to you. And truthfully, many of them are. But none of it feels real to you, not when it's all happening because of the wrong person.

The only demand James imposes is that you spend time with him every day. He works from home most of the time, but on certain days, he needs to leave for the office. It’s during those intervals that you’ve had your best chances to explore the house and the island, still within the limits he set, of course.

Communicating with the guards has been a challenge from the beginning. Most of them wouldn’t even look in your direction. They were always on high alert, eyes scanning the surroundings as if they were being watched constantly, as if someone could threaten them with just a glance.

After trying for a long time, you finally managed to get a few words out of one of them. He worked at the main entrance of the house and seemed to be more than just a watchman, he acted like a personal bodyguard. On the island, he was only known as “T.”

You couldn’t speak freely. All communication had to be done through notes, since, according to him, all the guards were required to wear embedded earpieces in their uniforms, monitored at all times.

T told you he was there because of a personal debt to James. Years ago, James had saved his son’s life, and ever since then, he felt obligated to repay that gesture with loyalty.

At first, you thought it would be nearly impossible to make him see your situation for what it was. But, to your surprise, T understood everything faster than you expected. The truth is, he already suspected. He already felt that something was deeply wrong with that place. As grateful as he was, he still knew how to tell right from wrong. With T’s help, the two of you came up with a plan where every detail was carefully calculated. You knew that if it failed, you wouldn’t get another chance.

After all that time waiting, the day finally arrived.

At that moment, you were sitting on James’s lap while he worked. In the past few days, he’d been dedicating himself to work late into the night, and because of that, you had to adapt your own routine, sleeping during the day and living like a true night owl.

Of course, you complained, but James simply said it was temporary and that he wanted you to get used to it. Though it had been difficult at first, the new routine ended up creating unexpected opportunities, now you were able to hide the items you'd been gathering for your escape much more easily.

Your fingers moved delicately as you worked on a new amigurumi, inspired by a character you’d recently seen on television. It had once been a hobby you practiced out of obligation in prison, but it had since become a way to relax.

When James discovered your new hobby, he was so delighted that he dedicated an entire room for you to work in. Whenever he could, he’d join you, eager to learn. Since you didn’t have much patience for teaching, he tried to learn on his own, watching you closely. You even felt a bit sorry for all the puncture wounds on his hands and eventually decided to help him. You had a feeling he did it on purpose.

Your thoughts were interrupted when you felt a head rest gently on your shoulder.

“This character is cute… I didn’t know you liked them.”

You shrugged, eyes still focused on the precise stitching. “Their look got stuck in my head, so I decided to use the inspiration.”

He stayed quiet for a moment, watching you as your fingers danced between yarn and needle. Only when he noticed the hours slipping by did he finally move.

“I’m going to make something for us to eat, darling. Want to join me?”

“Wouldn’t that be breakfast? It’s nearly sunrise.”

“You could call it that.”

“Not now” you replied after pretending to think for a moment. With care, your fingers adjusted a loose strand of the amigurumi’s hair. “I want to finish this first.”

You stood slowly and walked over to the bed with the doll in hand, your eyes never leaving it for even a second.

“As you wish.” He walked to the door, but before leaving, he cast one last glance over his shoulder. “There's something for you in the wardrobe. Please try it on.” That caught your attention and made you lift your head, but he was already gone. Fortunately, this has been happening often in recent days. He’d been leaving more frequently, which although strange had opened the window you needed to finally start planning an escape with T.

You opened the wardrobe and found a luxurious golden box. Carefully, you pulled it out and placed it on the bed. As you opened it, your heart sank.

No… this couldn’t be what you were thinking.

You took out the elegant dress and examined it closely. Yes, it was exactly what you feared.

The fancy wedding dress looked like it had been tailored specifically for you. So that’s why he had been going out so much. The flowers, the decorations, the candles… He was planning a beach wedding.

A small note fell from the dress

“Tonight will be a special night. I hope you liked it.”

You felt challenged, as if the day you were planning to be the best of your life was, in fact, going to be his.

Even if every part of you wanted to tear the dress apart with your bare hands, you knew you had to wear it. If James came back and noticed you hadn't put it on yet, he’d insist on helping you.

You headed to the bathroom and tried on the dress. It was truly beautiful… You didn’t expect it to look that good on you.

Wearing something he had picked especially for you made your skin crawl, but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave it behind now. Better to take it with you and sell it to some rich woman, you’d need a place to stay after all.

Just as you were about to take the dress off, James appeared in the doorway. Seeing the opened box on the bed, he said "Having trouble, darling? I’m almost done, I’ll be back to help you in a minute."

Almost done?! You glanced at the clock. 05:34

You’d spent more time on this than you intended, it was better not to waste another second. T had probably already left the hammer hidden by the window, just as planned. You walked over, and there it was. You picked it up and examined it carefully, it was heavy and solid, strong enough to do real damage, no doubt about it.

You felt guilty for not telling T this part of the plan. But if everything went the way it was supposed to, you wouldn’t be here when he found out the truth.

Cautiously, you peeked through the bedroom door. In the kitchen, James stood with his back to you, focused on stirring something on the stove.

Your heart pounded.

What if he turns around now?

Your eyes stayed fixed on his neck, more precisely the base of it.

Medulla oblongata.

If you hit the right spot, it would be an instant death. At least, that’s what one of his medical books said.

You inhaled deeply, trying to steady the anxiety tightening your chest. Your eyes didn’t stray for a second, waiting for the moment his guard would drop.

Finally, you decide to act. You begin walking slowly toward him from behind, both hands hidden behind your back, gripping the hammer tightly. With your other hand, you discreetly lift the hem of the dress to avoid making any noise on the floor.

He remains unaware, but as you get close enough, you notice a slight shiver running down his shoulders, he must have sensed your presence “Darling, you…” he begins to say, turning slowly, but you don’t let him finish.

In one swift motion, you raise the hammer and strike the base of his neck. The sound of the impact makes your entire body tremble. You take a step back, fear and adrenaline flooding every sense. Your eyes squeeze shut in a desperate attempt to shield yourself from the horror of what you’ve just done, but the heavy thud of his body hitting the ground forces you to open them again. James lies motionless.

You did it. You struck the medulla oblongata.

Even so, the tight knot in your throat refuses to loosen. You know he won’t wake up, but the anxiety doesn’t go away.

You step back from the body slowly, knowing now is the time to run to find T. The sooner you get off this island, the better.

You walk to the door and cast one last glance at the fallen body.

“I promised I’d kill you when I got out of prison, didn’t I?” you murmur before running out of the house.

You struggle to run through the island’s forest. Branches snag at your dress, as if the island itself is trying to stop you from leaving. The ground is wet, covered in slippery leaves, and raindrops feel like blades against your skin. T had told you he secured a boat for you to get out of here, but the trail he left for you to follow seems to be dissolving in the rain.

Just keep running, [Name].

After a few minutes, something red catches your eye, caught on a branch. It’s the ribbon T promised to use to mark the path. You pick up your pace, heart pounding.

When you reach the shore, you see the boat. T is there, soaked, trying to get the engine to start. He turns around with a smile on his face.

“You made it!” he says, placing his hands on your shoulders as you catch your breath. “The forest and the rain really didn’t go easy on you. Are you okay?”

You glance down at the countless cuts covering your skin. The pain is just starting to pulse now, as if adrenaline had put your nerves to sleep.

“Yeah, yeah, just some scratches,” you try to ease his worry. “So, how are things?”

“All according to plan” he replies, opening a compartment at the bottom of the boat. “Food, clothes, gas…”

You nod at each item he points out.

“You better hurry, we don’t know when James will wake up.”

“…Yeah, I better go.” you say as you step in, more worried about leaving before he discovers the truth.

T helps you get settled. When everything is ready, you turn to him, feeling a mix of relief and gratitude.

“I… I really want to thank you. I couldn’t have escaped without your help.”

He hands you the last bag of food and pats your shoulder. “Don’t worry, it’s the right thing to do. I hope you…” Before he finishes, you hear a gunshot.

T chokes, his gaze blurring. Suddenly, blood spills from his mouth, hot and dark, staining his clothes.

…What?

He falls to his knees, clutching his chest, unable to speak a word. Without thinking, you jump off the boat and kneel beside him, desperately trying to stop the bleeding.

The dress, once soaked from the rain, now stains bright red.

“We’re even now.” A familiar voice echoes behind you with a coldness that chills your blood.

You don’t want to look up. How could you?

“You’re not even going to look at me? Looks like I’ll have to make you.” A sigh escapes your lips as something explodes next to T’s neck, right at the carotid artery. Blood spurts out, splattering your face, while his lifeless body collapses onto you.

An explosive device?

“So? Are you going to pay attention to me now?”

You feel the world spinning, but gather enough courage to lift your head. And there he is.

James.

Alive. Standing. With that damn smile. The blood drains from your face as if pulled from within, your stomach twists, and for a moment you think you’re going to throw up. Everything around you becomes noise, the sound of the sea crashing against the shore, the wind blowing through the open window, even your own heartbeat. All drowned out by his presence.

“How… How are you alive? I made sure to hit your medulla oblongata…” Your face twists in pure horror. You were certain. You had hit it!

…Right?

He laughs. A soft, almost innocent laugh, as if mocking a child who confused right with left.

“Actually, it was the occipital bone.”

He sees your terrified expression and mistakes it for confusion. He starts explaining, almost like a patient teacher.

“You hit right here.” He raises his hand and points to a specific spot on the back of his neck, the exact region you aimed at. “But this is where you needed to hit.” His finger moves just a few millimeters down.

So close.

Had you really missed by such a small margin?

Your breathing grew heavy, each inhale a struggle. You had ruined everything. The entire plan, all the risk… and worse, you had dragged an innocent into this disaster.

The blood of an innocent was now on your hands.

Before you could react, James was already crouched before you.

“See? You need me even to kill someone.”

As your tears mixed with the cold rain and the blood running down your face, he slowly ran his hand through your hair, stroking it with a disconcerting gentleness, as if comforting a frightened child.

“Now we are both sinners.” His voice was sweet, almost gentle, but carried a cruelty impossible to ignore.

He kept stroking your hair for a few more moments, silently, until something behind you seemed to catch his attention.

“The sun is rising, darling. It’s time.”

His voice sounded soft, almost serene. The same hand that just seconds before was caressing your hair now squeezed yours, pulling you firmly to stand up.

You didn’t understand what he was saying. You still couldn’t process everything that had happened. Your mind was numb, thoughts scrambled, as if your body was still there, but your consciousness was far away.

James kicked something hard away, the sound of the impact echoing on the wet floor. When you looked at what it was, you saw T’s lifeless body thrown aside as if he were nothing.

Then he wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you tightly, probably to keep your steps steady as you both started walking.

As you walk, you see a body.

Then three, four, five…

The count continues. They are everywhere, lying on the ground, blood dripping from their necks. Your dress, which before only had T’s bloodstain, now drags on the floor, stained with the blood of all the others.

James notices the movement of your gaze, the way your head slowly turns, looking at every dead face that appears in your path. “Oh, them?” he says in a casual, almost distracted tone. “I forgot the remote also detonated all the explosive devices.”

The coldness in his voice frightens you. So you killed several innocent people?

Most of the guards were there, their bodies scattered, fallen over the chairs decorated for the wedding. The room was stained with blood, the heavy, humid air carrying the strong, bitter smell of iron, making your stomach churn. You tried to vomit but couldn’t. A lump in your throat seemed to tighten everything, leaving you breathless.

He walked beside you with an unsettling calmness, his eyes reflecting the pale light of dawn. James stopped in the center of the altar, where blood splatters from the guards covered the floor, now also marked by the soles of his shoes.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said the soft, almost reverent voice. “I arranged everything so it would be exactly the way you like it. I wish I could have done more, but I admit that at this moment, I couldn’t ask for a better situation.”

You looked around, the contrast between the horrible scene and his words sending chills down your spine. 

He turned to you, took a small box from his pocket, and with a slow movement, opened it, revealing a ring that softly gleamed, reflecting the faint light of the rising sun. Carefully, he took the ring from the box and slid it onto your finger.

“Now, after all this time, we are married.”

You mustered the strength to say something, your voice barely a whisper: “…I don’t remember saying yes.”

An enigmatic smile appeared on his lips. “I’m sure you would have accepted in the end.”

Before you could respond, he gently held your hand, almost in contrast with all the violence surrounding you, and brought your fingers to his lips. He kissed the newly placed ring on your finger with an almost ceremonial care. Then, he softly pulled your hand and guided you behind the altar.

When your feet touched the cold sand, the icy water soaked your feet, making you shiver. James took off his jacket and wrapped his arms around you.

“Do you remember the dance we were practicing?” he asked, adjusting the jacket around your shoulders. “It’s been quite a while, but I still remember every step.”

You let out a soft sigh, not of impatience, but of indignation. You turned your face to the side, trying to avoid looking at him. But he wouldn’t allow it. With two fingers, he held your chin and turned your face back to him.

“It’s alright, I’ll guide you.”

He takes the first step, slow and steady, gently pulling you. Your feet slide against his, forced to keep pace with his rhythm. You want to rebel, to show your anger, to run away. But you can’t.

Do you even deserve to want anything?

His hands grip your waist firmly, guiding every movement. In a smooth turn, he spins you around, then pulls you back.

The innocent people whose blood is now on your hands can feel nothing.

He lifts you out of the water, your body suspended for a moment before touching the ground again.

You should just stop resisting and stay with him. You wouldn’t be happy, but wouldn’t that be a fair way to pay for your sins?

Then, he positions you with your back against his chest.

You’re not important enough for your death to pay for the lives lost because of you. Would the death of a bad person like you even be enough to repay the innocent lives?

Without letting go of your hand, he leans you back, his arm firmly supporting your arched body.

You promised you would change, that you would become someone better than you were in the past. Maybe you have no salvation.

You both spin together, and water splashes at your feet.

Actually, it would be hypocrisy. It’s like you’re forgetting what you did.

He slides back to the middle with you.

Then stay suffering, being unhappy.

In one last step, he pulls you close to him.

It’s the only thing you can do anyway.

Your breaths come in gasps as the dance ends. Your thoughts are interrupted when he begins to speak.

“I’m willing to spend eternity by your side, until your sins are forgiven, my sinner.” ______________________________________________________________ Epilogue

[annlyticalarchive]

CHAPTER SEVEN: Warmth of Different Kinds

”You will be different, sometimes you’ll feel like an outcast, but you’ll never be alone”

Mark Grayson X Kryptonian/Clark Kent! Reader

Prologue |Chapter Six | Chapter Seven (Here) | Chapter Seven

w/c: 4.1k

a/n: I might’ve injected a bit too much mutual pining into this one-

“Okay, let me get this straight,” Mark said as he paced in front of you. He’d been pacing since before you even started properly explaining. “You crash-landed in a spaceship. In Kansas. As a baby.”

“Right,” you confirmed, arms crossed, watching him circle like a storm cloud.

“Mister and Missus Kent found you, adopted you, and raised you.”

“Correct.”

“You’ve had your powers since you were…”

“I think the earliest I was told was two.”

“Since you were two. And you’ve just been using them in Smallville this whole time?”

“Not all the time,” you defended quickly, “but yeah.”

He stared. “And then you moved here for your dad… and kept using your powers to help. Okay, I get that. But pets too?”

You blinked. “I had to save the cat, Mark.”

“You had to save the cat,” he repeated, like he was trying to process something incomprehensible. “And you using your powers is what got Cecil to notice.”

“The weird government guy, yeah. You work for him?”

“Kind of. But anyway, that’s why he asked me about you.”

“He asked about me?”

“Well—more like implied. Dropped hints, really.”

You gave him a look. “Not creepy at all.”

Mark shrugged with a sneer. “Welcome to working with Cecil. Anyway, that’s when you went back home. Touched your ship, got—”

“A weird vision,” you said. “There was this guy. I couldn’t understand him, not really. It was all in some language I’ve never heard, but… I felt like I should know it. Like I used to.”

“And your suit appeared, right? With the same crest as that guy. Think he’s related to you?”

You hesitated. “M-Maybe? But it’s not like I can ask.”

“Right. So all you could understand were three words, what you think are names.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Kala-El, Jor-El, and Krypton.”

“And this guy placed you in the ship, sent you away from the planet, and then—boom.”

“Mhm. Exploded. Just… gone.”

Mark let out a long sigh and raked his hand through his hair. Judging by the state of it, not even his old overdose of gel could save it from how much of a mess it currently was.

He finally stopped pacing and looked at you, expression softening. “That’s a lot.”

You gave him a small, tight shrug as you fidgeted with your fingers in your lap. “Tell me about it.”

A quiet beat passed between you. Neither of you quite sure what to say next. But your own curiosity gnawed at you.

“Do I get my story?” You asked as you looked up at him.

“What?”

“You lied to me about yourself too, Mark,” You frowned at him as you crossed your arms, “I told you everything about me, I want know everything about you. Tit for tat.”

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“Oh,” you said aloud, unsure how else to respond. You genuinely didn’t know what to say. Every part of your mind spun, trying to find something appropriate, knowing how much Mark hated pity.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice heavy, from his spot beside you on the couch. He’d sat down around the time he started telling you about the fight. The fight with his father, Omni-Man. About how the truth shattered everything he thought he knew about his life.

He told you how his powers came in during high school. How his dad started training him almost immediately afterward. How proud he felt at first.

Then came the stories. Teaming up with Atom Eve, fighting alongside Rex Splode, becoming part of the new Guardians. Then things so unbelievable, you’d laugh if his tone wasn’t so damn tired.

A mission to Mars with brain stealing aliens. An accidental engagement in Atlantis. Fighting aliens from another dimension.

Then came the Viltrumites. His visit to an alien world. The meeting with his father again, and the discovery of a half-brother he never asked for, but brought home to his mom for them to raise anyway.

He told you about the another Viltrumite who came to Earth, Anissa, who tried to convince him to join their empire. How it turned violent when he refused.

Then his tone shifted. He told you, briefly, how his mom and little brother had been attacked by someone named Angstrom Levy. But he wouldn’t elaborate. His voice closed off. When you gently pressed, he just made a face, one you’d never seen before, and shook his head.

So you dropped it. Even if something about it twisted your gut. Something about the way he shut down.

Now the silence was heavier, but not uncomfortable. More like the kind that settles after both people have finally had a talk they desperately needed to have. And it seemed both of you did.

You looked at him, arms resting on your knees. “You’ve been through hell.”

Mark gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Sometimes it still feels like I haven’t made it out of hell yet.”

You were quiet for a second. Then, softly: “I’m glad you’re still here.”

He glanced at you then. “Yeah… me too.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Mark felt a bit guilty.

Telling her everything, his past, his secrets, the scars he usually kept buried, left him with a strange twist in his gut. Not just because he’d kept it from you, he was glad he could finally tell you, but because, somehow, it felt like he was one-upping you.

He’d always known you were adopted. You never tried to hide it. In fact, you wore it like a badge of honor, your family, your roots in Smallville, the people who raised you. The way your eyes lit up when you talked about home always said more than your words ever could.

But then Cecil came along. And whatever door he cracked open in your life… it didn’t close.

It was like a floodgate, one you didn’t even realize existed until it was forced wide open. Suddenly, you were homesick. Not for Smallville, but for something deeper. A place you’d never known. A family you couldn’t remember. A whole world that, by the time you looked for it, had already turned to dust.

And now, it seemed like you were alone in the universe.

Mark let his head lean back against the couch and turned slightly to look at you. You always insisted you were good at hiding your emotions, but right now? He could read you clearer than the headlines you would write.

There was a faint frown tugging at your lips. Your brow furrowed just enough to show how deep in thought you were. And your glasses, askew and slipping down your nose, made you look more like the quiet intern you pretended to be than the superpowered enigma Cecil was likely tracking. To his absolute displeasure to put it mildly.

Finally, he said softly, “You okay?”

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts. “Yeah,” you lied instinctively. Then paused. “No. I mean… I don’t know.”

Mark gave a slight nod. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“I guess I just…” You trailed off, staring down at your hands. “I thought finding out the truth would feel like closure. Instead it just feels like anything but.”

He sat up a little straighter. “You don’t have to carry all that by yourself, you know.”

You looked at him then, meeting his eyes. There was no pity there. No judgment. Just something solid. Steady.

Something more real than he had any right to get.

“You’re not the last one anymore,” he added, almost an afterthought. “You’ve got me. And your friends, Jimmy and Lois. And your parents.”

You gave a watery laugh at that. “Thanks, Mark.”

“Anytime.”

A pause. Then:

“You really did save that cat, though?” he asked, lips twitching.

“I had to,” you said indignantly. “She was stuck in a tree. And it was raining!”

Mark shook his head, grinning now. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah, well.” You pushed your glasses back up. “Get used to it.”

There was a much more pleasant silence that followed, warm and comfortable. 

But then he saw you make that face. He’d watched you work a few times, and each time before you asked a question, you’d make this face. Your nose would scrunch, your lips would press into a tight line, and you’d look at someone with such an intense gaze it made him nervous.

“What can you do?” you asked him quietly.

Mark blinked, caught off guard. “I—what?”

“I want to talk about something lighter, I’m tired of thinking about things I can’t change,” you said, scooting a little closer to him on the couch. You smiled in that way you always did, like you were trying not to smile too wide, and then you reached up and straightened your glasses like you didn’t just knock the breath out of him. Something about the gesture, so you, made his heart stumble. “And I’m curious. So, what can you do?”

Mark squinted at you, feigning suspicion, but there was already a smile tugging at his lips. “Are you asking me to brag?”

“Maybe.” You shrugged, your shoulder brushing against his as you leaned in, and Mark had to summon every ounce of self-control not to lose focus. Because it was just enough to make it impossible to ignore the heat where your shoulder met his. You always did run impossibly hot.

“So. Spill.”

Mark leaned back into the couch, exhaling slowly to keep his cool. “Alright, fine. Super strength, obviously. Flight. Super speed, I can break the sound barrier. And I’m durable. Like… really durable.”

“How durable are we talking?”

“Like… ‘get punched through a mountain and survive’ durable.”

Your eyes widened as you let out a hiss of breath as you remembered what he’d told you. “Right-“

Mark gave a sheepish nod and a small grimace. “Still hurts like hell, but yeah. I heal fast, too. Broken bones, bruises—give it a few hours or days, I’m good as new.”

You gave a low whistle that made him weirdly proud. “Okay, that is cool.”

He pointed at you. “Your turn.”

“What? You’ve already seen what I can do.”

“Sure,” he said, grinning, “but I want the dramatic list.”

You grinned, clearly enjoying the attention despite yourself. “Alright. From what I’ve gathered: Super strength. Flight but I’m still working on it. Super hearing. X-ray vision. Heat vision. Cold breath. Oh—and indestructible. I don’t think I’ve ever even skinned my knee.”

Mark let out a short laugh before he could stop himself. “Wait, you can see through things?”

You gave him a flat look. “Walls. I’ve only looked through walls. And do not ask about the super hearing. I hear everything. And I wish I didn’t.”

He snorted, nearly choking on air. “That’s not what I was gonna ask!”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“I want to see it.”

“W-what?”

Mark turned toward you fully on the couch, legs folding under him a little as he leaned in with a grin. “Come on. You said you wanted to lighten the mood, right? Let’s play a game. ‘How many fingers?’”

Besides, it’d give him something other than your effect on him to think about.

“I-I’m not playing a game with—”

“C’mon,” he coaxed, giving you a smile that he knew worked a little too well. “I want to see if it’s for real.”

You sighed, but the corner of your mouth twitched, your gaze already dropping to his abdomen.

Mark stayed still, arms tucked behind his back, watching your expression shift. There was something surreal about it, knowing someone was literally seeing through you. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not when it was you. But it was intense. The way you stilled, eyes slightly unfocused as you peered deeper. It sent a familiar shiver up his spine as he felt warmth begin to curl too low as his breath hitched.

Your brows pinched slightly, your gaze sharpening as you focused. He saw your pupils dilate, then narrow, as a faint, unmistakable shimmer sparked in your irises.

Blue.

“You’re changing them,” You said softly. “You cheat.”

He felt a flutter of awe he didn’t dare admit, but he happily took a distraction to deal with the very unwelcome feeling that had reared its head.

“Huh,” he said aloud, grinning when your expression relaxed and you blinked, focusing on him again.

“What?” you asked, already wary.

“Did you know your eyes glow when you do that?”

“They glow?” You reached up, as you touch your eyes as if to test.

“Yeah. Blue. It’s subtle, but cool.” Mark’s voice was a little softer now.

You dropped your hand, looking almost sheepish. “Most things I can see through,” you admitted. “Ma and Pa figured it out early. Had to start saving up to buy lead foil for Christmas and birthdays.”

Mark laughed, maybe louder than he meant, and the sound bounced off the walls, lifting the intense warmth that had began to fill the space, turning it into something lighter, something that should be between friends.

“Lead foil?” he echoed between chuckles.

“Hey, it’s not cheap!” you shot back, but your smile was unmistakable. “You ever tried being a seven-year-old with X-ray vision in a house during Christmas?”

Mark held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, you win. I’m sure that was brutal.”

There was a quiet beat after that. Not awkward, just calm. Peaceful, even. And in that stillness, Mark looked at you again, really looked.

How could he have ever thought, even for a second, that you were anything like his father?

All of it. Your uncertainty, your strength, your warmth, all was written plainly across your face. No mask. No hesitation. Just you. And for a moment, Mark truly forgot everything else.

“You know,” he said softly, “I think you’re doing a pretty damn good job of being you.”

Your cheeks flushed, and the sight hit him like a punch, sharp, breathtaking, unforgettable. He locked it away in his memory.

He swears he didn’t mean to lean in. But he did.

But your knees were touching. Your hands brushed, just barely. His breath caught when your fingers curled over his, faint, tentative, and gentle.

And then, without warning, you shot to your feet.

Clumsy. Sudden. Like something had yanked you back from the moment.

Mark stood up, too, blinking. “W-what? What’s wrong? I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Something’s happening.” Your voice was tight, urgent. Not scared, but focused. “Downtown. There’s screaming. It’s—” You paused, hand pressed lightly to your temple like you were suddenly overwhelmed. “It’s bad. I can’t tell exactly what, but it’s big.”

Mark straightened immediately, the heat in his chest replaced with something colder. Sharper. “How bad are we talking?”

You met his eyes again, the softness gone now, replaced by steel. “I have to go.”

“I’m coming with you.”

You hesitated, only for a second. Then nodded.

“Then suit up, Grayson,” you said as you turned heading toward your bedroom with quick steps.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It wasn’t until you were halfway through tugging your skirt back on over the main body of your suit, that your hands faltered.

Reality sank in like ice water through the fabric.

You’d leaned against him. Smiled at him. Your hands had brushed, and you’d let yourself imagine something for a moment. The warmth in his eyes, the soft curve of his smile, the way his voice dropped just a little when he said your name through laughter, you’d let yourself believe maybe it wasn’t just you.

But it probably was. Of course it was.

You stared down at your skirt, now wrinkled in your grip, and tried to ignore the shameful burn behind your face. 

Stupid. 

You were smarter than this. Smarter than to read into things that weren’t there. Just because he’d sat next to you and opened up didn’t mean he felt anything.

You were just someone who understood. Who could relate.

Someone like him. Not with him.

With a sharp breath, you forced your thoughts down, back where they belong, shoved them into the corners of your mind where you kept all the things you didn’t want to think about. Like the blurry visions from your ship. Like the fact that your entire planet was dust and ash and ghosts and you’re all that remains.

There were people out there who needed help. And you had a job to do. Maybe if you threw yourself into it hard enough, maybe if you focused, you could forget how your heart had fluttered like a bird trying to fly out of a cage it built for itself.

You hated the idea of using hero work, a tragedy you can still hear, as a distraction. You hated feeling like you needed anything to distract you. But right now?

Right now, it was the only thing keeping your chest from caving in from embarrassment.

So you tugged and attached your cape into place, wiped the emotion from your face, and told yourself this was about saving lives.

Not about a boy who smiled at you like you were something more than you were.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You led Mark downtown. Although it didn’t take much leading, sirens already echoed through the air as fire trucks raced below you both, lights flashing wildly in the dusk light.

And it didn’t take long to see why.

An apartment complex was burning. Not just a unit. Not a floor.

The entire building was engulfed in flames.

Black smoke billowed from broken windows, curling into the sky. Screams seemingly echoing down the block. The stench of burning plastic, scorched wood, and seared metal hung heavy in the air. The kind of smoke that clung to your lungs and burned your eyes. Even from the sky, you could feel the heat radiating up to meet you.

You’d dealt with fires in Smallville. Hated the way the sensations attacked each and every one of your senses. But this fire, was the worst you’d ever seen.

Below, firefighters scrambled to uncoil hoses and set up ladders, but the flames were too high, too hot. Windows burst out with the heat, sending glass raining onto the sidewalk. Debris crumbled from the upper levels, crashing into the street with a sound that made your teeth ache.

You hovered mid-air, scanning the structure. Your super-hearing focused. You could hear them.

Eight.

Eight heartbeats. Eight distinct voices. Some small and trembling, others hoarse from smoke.

You didn’t hesitate.

Not even when Mark called out your name, “Wait—!”

You dove.

The rush of air tore at your skin, but you didn’t stop, didn’t falter. You crashed through a second-floor window like it was tissue paper, the glass glinting around you before vanishing into the inferno.

The heat was instant and suffocating. Like stepping into the core of the sun. You could feel your suit cling tighter against your skin, moisture from your breath evaporating instantly in the dry air.

Smoke curled through every corner, blinding, disorienting. The walls glowed with angry red cracks. The floor beneath your boots groaned like it might give way at any second.

But you could hear them. See them through he walls.

A baby crying. A child sobbing. A man shouting for help with a rag pressed tightly his mouth.

You pushed forward, muscle memory guiding your steps. You tore a flaming door off its hinges and stepped into a room thick with smoke. A young woman was curled in the corner, shielding two children with her body. One of the kids was coughing so hard it sounded like their lungs might collapse.

“Hey,” you said, kneeling beside them. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

The mother, maybe she was a sister, you couldn’t tell, looked at you like you were a miracle. Her eyes wide and glistening in the flickering firelight.

You gathered all three of them gently, carrying them back to the hole you’d made in the wall. But you paused just before exiting.

Turning your head toward the open windows down the hall, you narrowed your eyes.

You took a breath.

A deep one despite how thick the air was with ash.

And when you exhaled, the air dropped to freezing.

A visible burst of white mist flooded from your lips and swept down the hallway like a winter storm. The windows shattered outward with the sudden change in pressure, and the fires in those rooms hissed violently, smothered and dying out. The temperature dipped drastically in the rooms closest to the building's edge.

The effect was immediate.

From below, firefighters surged forward, now able to enter the floor through doors and side stairwells. You could hear the radios crackled to life.

You leapt into the air with the three civilians in your arms, lowering them to the nearest medic with gentle care.

“Five more,” you said. “Young. Higher up.”

Then you shot back into the sky, Mark meeting you halfway.

“You’re insane,” he said, wide-eyed. “You could’ve been trapped!”

And a small part of you understood his worry. Cause despite both of you knowing you were indestructible, you didn’t know if your lungs were as well. 

But a larger part of you knew that the civilians didn’t share even the smallest portion of your abilities. So you didn’t care about yourself.

“They would’ve died,” you replied shortly, spinning midair and diving back in through the fourth floor.

The hallway was half-collapsed, flames roaring down the corridor like a beast that knew it was cornered. A door bulged from heat, its knob glowing red.

You punched through the wall instead.

Inside, three children and a man were huddled in a bathtub, the metal scorching hot but the porcelain barely holding together. The man had curled around the others protectively, and they all screamed as you burst in.

“Shh, I’m here. You’re safe,” you said, voice steady, gentle despite your racing heart. “We’re getting out. Now.”

One of them reached for you with a soot-stained hand, tiny fingers trembling. You scooped them up and cradled all four carefully in your arms, shielding their heads as you turned.

This time, Mark met you at the broken window, his eyes wide with alarm as he saw your cargo.

“Go!” you told him. “Get them to safety!”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t have to.

He took the man and a child from you, careful but quick, and shot down toward the waiting medics. You did the same quickly following his path downward.

But as you set them down, you could still hear it.

One heartbeat.

Still inside.

Top floor.

You flew up like a missile, crashing through a collapsed ceiling and into the topmost apartment. The roof above had started to cave, chunks of it burning and falling.

You found him, a boy, maybe ten or eleven, trapped beneath a beam. He wasn’t crying anymore. Just breathing shallowly. His eyes fluttered open as you landed beside him.

“You’re safe,” you said softly. “I’ve got you.”

Your fingers curled under the beam. It was searing hot, metal warped from the fire, but you lifted it without thought, tossing it aside. He coughed weakly as you scooped him up into your arms.

And then the roof gave way.

It happened too fast to think, an entire section collapsed above you, falling like a guillotine.

You turned your back, arms curling tight around the boy, and braced.

Flames engulfed you.

Smoke swallowed everything.

The floor beneath you finally gave as well and you crashed through three floors, your body shielding the child all the way down, until you slammed into the lobby with a force that cracked the marble tile.

You blinked through the dust and ash.

He was alive.

Coughing, but alive.

You smiled, dazed, and stood with shaky steps as the firefighters rushed in to take him.

You stepped outside.

And the crowd that had formed across the street went dead silent.

You were scorched and covered in soot, but standing. Cape torn. Eyes still glowing faintly from your x-ray vision you’d used to pinpoint the people and make sure you didn’t agitate any breaks or fractures. Smoke from dying embers that couldn’t burn you rolled off your skin.

Mark hovered just above the building’s wreckage, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You looked out across the chaos, emergency vehicles, medics, people crying, people clapping, and for a moment, you just stood there. Breathing. Scanning the crowd, making sure that everyone that needed help was getting it.

Until you finally moved.

Back into the air, next to Mark, who still hadn’t said anything.

You hovered beside him, silent.

And then he muttered, voice low but certain:

“Y’know, Lois had it perfect.”

You frowned at him as you tilted your head, “What?”

“Calling you Superwoman. The name is perfect.”

[h0useslut]

you are the life i needed all along

requests | masterlist

pairing : gregory house x fem! rheumatologist!reader

w/c : 2,3k

warnings : established relationship, mild illness (nothing graphic), implied age gap, mutual pining, soft confessions, emotional vulnerability, hurt/comfort

summary : greg can’t tell reader he loves her, because saying it out loud is hard. so he won’t say it at all. but he will show it to her.

a/n : based on this request!

It was a truth universally acknowledged that no woman could ever make Gregory House soften. Especially after Stacy. Or even more specifically, after his leg injury.

Or so everyone thought.

A few months after House had managed to gather up a team in order to run his department - a diagnostician, they’d said when you came in,

Cuddy hired you. Young, and full of new ideas in your field, Lisa didn’t hesitate to make you head of the rheumatology department.

You heard about the infamous Gregory House since the minute you stepped foot inside the hospital.

Learned more about him when you accidentally spilled hot coffee all over him.

He was supposed to be mad, wasn't he? He should’ve yelled, maybe said the most lewd comment known to mankind.

But instead of a cutting remark, he’d blinked. Blinked and let out the smallest and most dangerous smirk you’d ever seen.

“Guess you’re not a morning person either?” He’d said.

You blinked, halfway expecting to be eaten alive. “Yeah, well. Your fault anyway” you had teased, trying to stifle down a giggle.

“Oh great, you’re delusional. You’ll fit right in” he teased, but he also had a soft little on his face - almost genuine. It made your heart swell.

And that was just the beginning.

The next day, you bought him lunch to apologise for the ruined shirt, and let’s be honest. Who was Gregory House to deny free lunch? Even Wilson didn’t treat him with such joy.

“Oh, I bet you find me irresistible,” He said with a smug little expression, before devouring like he hadn’t eaten anything for days.

You figured that was it. A weird - one-off moment. But it wasn’t.

He kept showing up. In the hallway, in your office. In that space just below the stairs, you liked to hide when things got too loud, too clinical.

At first, he acted like it was a coincidence. Like he just happened to need to pass through wherever you were. But House was many things, and subtle was never one of them.

“I’m beginning to think you’re stalking me,” you teased once, catching him for the third time that week loitering outside your office door.

“Oh please. If I were stalking you, you’d know it pretty face” he shot back, but his eyes lingered longer than they should’ve before he limped off.

Your playful and witty banter only carried on for so long before the tension between you shifted. One day, somewhere along the stolen lunches sarcastic quips over patient charts, House asked you out. Not anything fancy, emotional - just him, looking at you and asking you as casually as if he were ordering takeout.

“Dinner?” No punchline followed. Just that.

You were stupid not to agree. Dinner turned into breakfast, turned into weekends, which turned into toothbrushes left behind and arguments over who stole whose sweatshirt. (you obviously? you loved his clothes)

Now it’s just you, and him. No announcements no big labels, just the strange unspoken understanding of you being his person. Somehow, he’s yours too.

Which is why today, when you show up at work sniffling and obviously running on less than four hours of sleep, House doesn’t let it slide.

“You look like death,” he said in a chirpy voice, hoping to get a small reaction from you. “Stole Wilson’s lunch. Here” He continued, dropping a small lunch box and an orange juice in front of you.

You barely glanced at him. “Can’t. I have clinic duty, consults, and a paper that should be turned in by Friday”

He frowns and then moves quickly. He shuts your laptop down, earning a small “Hey!” from you. “Why’d you do that?!”

“Cause I can’t have you passing out during rounds and embarrassing me”

“Oh, baby. You’re such a romantic” You fret, rolling your eyes - Or attempting to do so. Your head pounded so much even that was difficult for you.

“And you’re—“ He paused, bringing his hand to your forehead to check your temperature. “You have a fever, sweetheart. Take the compliment and lie down before I carry you”

Trying to protest was useless. He’d always get what he wanted.

“You know I’ll make it weird, come on. Up you go”

You muttered something about abuse of power when he helped you to your feet, but the truth was that the room was already spinning, and you were grateful he held you.

“Where are we going?” you asked, leaning into him slightly as he looped an arm around your waist.

“My office. Big chair. Nap. You’re banned from thinking for the next few hours.” he said, leading you down the hall like it was routine.

“No - Not your office. Smells like sarcasm and regret” you mumbled.

“Exactly. Suits you”

When he settled you on the worn-out leather chair, he didn’t tease you about the way you curled up immediately, or how fast your eyes fluttered shut. Instead, he pulled his coat from the rack and draped it over your body.

He doesn’t follow after the team immediately. He sits back at his desk, grumbling as he twiddles with his cane.

“Unbelievable. I get you lunch, save your life and the thanks I get is… Are you sleeping? Tsk tsk, sweetheart” He grumbled, but his words held no anger.

From the couch, he heard your muffled, drowsy voice.

“Love you too”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The small, rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips said it all.

After a few minutes, he walked over to you— placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. You were still warm.

“Goddamn hopeless romantic”

He stood there for a moment, just watching you. Your features weren’t totally relaxed— the crease between your eyebrows was still there. The sight made something in his chest tighten, some old reflex he tried not to name.

With a sigh, he turned back to his desk, settling into his chair and spinning lazily in it once before grabbing a pen. Diagnostics could wait a little longer. He pulled your laptop toward him, flicking it open despite your earlier protests.

“Clinic duty, consults, paper due to Friday” he muttered to himself, scrolling through your emails and files. “I don’t remember agreeing to date an overachiever”

Then, he started canceling. One email, then another - until your inbox and calendar were empty. But halfway through the process, Wilson walked in, probably ready to ask something - until his gaze landed on your sleeping form, curled up on House’s chair with his coat.

“Really?” He asked, eyebrows raised.

House didn’t look up from your laptop. “She’s sick”

“And you’re… playing secretary?”

He vaguely gestured with his pen, as if saying Go away. “She’s annoying when she’s dying. This is self-preservation”

Wilson chuckled, muttering a small “Whatever you say” before turning to leave.

“Oh and tell Cuddy if she needs rheumatology, she’ll have to drag her away herself”

“Fine, just don’t fall in love with her”

House didn’t answer. He just kept typing. Because if he had answered, he would’ve said something like, “Too late”

By the time you’d woken up, the sun had set and soft lamps were flickering in the office. You were groggy and unaware of how long you’d been sleeping, making House turn his attention to you the minute you shifted a little.

“Sleeping beauty is finally awake, hm?” He said softly, coming to sit near your feet.

“Yeah. How long was I out for?”

“Long enough for me to hack into your email account” He smirked, noticing how your expression went from sleepy to mortified.

“You did what?!” you croaked, sitting up straighter despite his coat being wrapped around you.

“Oh relax, you didn’t have any dirty secrets. Just a lot of boring consults and an unholy amount of calendar reminders. Honestly, it was more disappointing than I expected”

“You canceled my day, didn’t you?”

“Mhmm,” he popped a pill bottle open, handing it to you. “You’re still feverish,” he said softly, concern etched on his features.

You took the pills reluctantly, eyeing the water bottle he passed next like it had personally wronged you. “You know, you’re supposed to be the world’s biggest jerk. This is very off-brand for you”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, resting his chin on his cane while watching you sip the water. “I’ll go back to bullying residents and making interns cry the second you stop looking like a Victorian ghost.”

You sighed, melting back into the chair. “I was fine”

“No you weren’t, sweetheart”

You blinked at the endearment - voice sounding much more softer than usual. It always came up low and tired, like he couldn’t help himself. Like it slipped out from somewhere unguarded.

“I’m not fragile you know” You murmured, averting your gaze from him, focusing on his cane.

He gave you a look, deadpanned but affectionate. “You fell asleep on my chair, wrapped up in my coat like a burrito. Forgive me for assuming you’re not at full strength”

“Such a sap, Greg”

“Yeah, I’m such a catch” he drawled. “You’re staying at my place tonight”

“What? Why?”

“Which part of “you can’t stand up straight without help” don’t you understand? I’m not leaving you alone. You might spiral into working again”

“I have an apartment,” You said softly, even though deep down you wanted to be with him.

“Sure. But I have better snacks”

You tried to protest—really, you did. But your head was still heavy, your limbs achy, and the thought of curling up in his too-big clothes, in his bed that smelled like him, was more comforting than you’d admit.

“Okay, doctors orders,” you said, giving in. “But I’m taking your Princeton sweater”

He stood up, putting his cane aside just to help you up and take your bag. “Fine. But the movie’s on me. And if you fall asleep, I promise to take a picture and save it as my contact photo”

You sighed, pressing your fingers on your temple to stop the throbbing in your temples. “You wouldn’t dare”

“Sweetheart” He whispered when he saw your face contorting in pain. “I would”

He opened the door for you, watching every single reaction you had. And despite the pounding in your head and the burn in your throat, you smiled. Because somehow, being lovingly bullied by Gregory House was the safest you’d felt all week.

By the time you reached his apartment, you’d been dozing on and off in his car, head lolling with every turn he took. He didn’t comment on it. Just glanced every now and then, turning the music down.

Inside, the lights were low. His place smelled like burnt coffee and old books, and maybe… comfort. Tossing your bag on the couch, he headed to his room - emerging with a soft, worn-out t-shirt. No way he’d give you the Princeton hoodie. That would be saved for special occasions.

Without a word, House helped you sit on the edge of the couch - hands on your waist to steady you. “Arms up” he instructed.

He moved carefully—fingers brushing lightly over your fever-warm skin, gaze never straying lower than your face. When he slipped the shirt over your head, he smoothed it down your arms like he was folding something delicate.

You didn’t bother with pants—he wouldn’t care, and you were already sinking into the couch as your bones had dissolved. He followed a second later, dropping beside you with a quiet grunt. His hand found your back automatically, warm and steady, tracing gentle circles like it was second nature.

“You gonna pass out on me again?” he asked, voice quieter now.

“No, unless you feed me anything. Maybe soup and oh - maybe grilled cheese?”

He snorted. “You’re getting a cold sandwich and you’re gonna love it”

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. “You’re insufferable” you spoke, breath fanning over his skin. It almost made him shiver.

“And yet,” he said, grabbing a blanket and draping it over your body. “You’re here, on my couch, in my clothes… In my arms”

“…and kind of in love with you”

It wasn’t meant to slip out. It just did. Fever loosened your tongue, and your heart as well.

His breath hitched - and the cogs in his brain started running. It was the medicine, wasn’t it? It was making you bleary… and saying things you didn’t mean.

But what if you did mean it?

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just looked at you, really looked at you. Your lashes clumped from sleep, cheeks flushed and lips plump - all in your feverish state. You looked as if you hadn’t realised what you’d just said. He found it adorable.

It would be easier to laugh it off. Deflect. Say something cruel and clever, to ruin the moment.

Instead, House reached up - carded his fingers through your hair, noticing how you let out a quiet, but content sigh.

“You’re kind of high on ibuprofen,” he said finally, voice rough.

“Maybe. I meant it either way” you said, words muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

A beat passed.

Then another.

House didn’t look at you when he answered—just let his hand trail down your arm before lacing his fingers with yours.

“I’m kind of in love with you too,” he muttered. “Unfortunately.”

You huffed sleepily, snuggling closer to him. “Tragic. Can’t have you become a softie now”

“Oh, you’re an evil woman,” he said teasingly, squeezing your hand.

For a moment, you didn’t move. His free hand continued its soothing motions on your back, making you feel safe, kept. Like even if he wasn’t good with words, he was still choosing you, quietly, in all the ways that mattered.

Eventually, he shifted - manoeuvring you so you were lying on his chest with your legs entwined.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he said in a hushed tone, pressing a kiss to your warm forehead. “Maybe I’ll make you grilled cheese tomorrow”

You smiled against his chest, the warmth of his body lulling you under again.

“You better” you whispered.

And he didn’t say anything else—not out loud, at least. But the way he held you closer said everything.

[airybcby]

hi hii! could i get a chai with vanilla syrup and cinnamon iced with ushijima pls🙈 THANK U ILY

order up!

iced chai add vanilla syrup and cinnamon!

જ⁀✦ i will wait

( ushijima wakatoshi x reader )

♡ a/n — for my for here or to go event! find the menu here! (masterlist coming soon)

♡ word count — 2.3k

♡ content — ushijima x reader, supposed to be gn but prob reads more fem?, unrequited love, comfort after pain, fluff, angst, childhood best friends, maybe ooc ushijima?, not proofread

♡ synopsis — Ushijima was like the Earth. Deep. Rooted. Serious. And as much as you loved the earth, all you wanted was fireworks.

── .✦ so i will wait for the next time you want me

The one thing that never changed about Ushijima Wakatoshi was that he never made promises.

Not out loud.

But you always believed he kept them anyway.

You met when you were six. 

Your family had moved into the house next to his — a plain two-story with a pear tree out front and a wooden fence separating your yards. 

He stood there on your first day, just… watching. No greeting, no smile. 

Just those heavy green eyes following you like he’d already decided he’d know you for the rest of his life.

You waved first. He didn’t wave back.

But when you fell and skinned your knee running in the yard later that week, he came over with a Band-Aid. 

Didn’t say a word, just held it out and waited until you stopped crying.

You always remembered that. 

Not because it was special — but because he was.

Time passed, and Ushijima stayed exactly how he was. 

Quiet. Grounded. 

Oddly adult for a child. 

He didn't understand sarcasm or jokes very well, and whenever your parents made small talk with his, he'd just nod along like he had somewhere better to be.

But he never missed a single time you asked:

“Wanna walk to school with me?”

 “Yeah.”

“Do you want to help me with this project?”

“Yes.”

 “You don’t even know what it is.”

“That’s okay.”

Even when he made it onto the volleyball team in middle school — when he got taller, stronger, more serious — he still found you in the crowd after every game. 

You weren’t sure if it was habit, or if he meant to do it. You didn’t ask. 

You just waved at him, smiling like you didn’t notice that he never waved back.

And when life hurt — when you got your first heartbreak in junior high, when you didn’t make the team you tried out for, when someone talked about you behind your back — he didn’t know what to say. 

But he sat next to you in silence. That was always his way.

You’d rest your head on his shoulder and whisper,

“Thanks for being here, Toshi.”

He never answered. But he never moved away either.

It was stupid, maybe, to think he’d always be there like that. But when you’re young, you think forever is a real thing.

You think love is simple — that it’ll come wrapped in a bow, loud and obvious.

But love wasn’t loud with Ushijima.

It was quiet. Rooted deep. So still you didn’t even realize it was growing until it was too late.

And for a while — for years — you didn’t know that he loved you at all.

Because he never said it. 

Because he never had to.

You fell in love at fifteen with a boy who played guitar and smelled like pine.

He kissed you behind the school once, tasted like mints and nerves, and told you he loved your laugh. 

You floated through those early days of affection like it was enough to fix the aching parts of yourself you didn’t yet know existed. 

And Wakatoshi? He was there. Like always.

He walked you home when pine-boy forgot. 

He stood beside you when you cried about the breakup in the back of the classroom. 

He didn’t say much — just handed you a clean tissue and sat beside you until the bell rang.

Then came the next boy. And the one after that. 

You chased butterflies and promises, hearts carved into tree trunks and first dances. 

You looked for something that you didn’t know you already had — loyalty, silence, a presence so unwavering it almost didn’t feel real.

But Wakatoshi never said anything.

Never told you how his chest tightened every time he saw someone else’s name in your phone.

Never confessed that sometimes, when he stood next to you, he imagined reaching for your hand — but didn’t.

Because he didn’t know how to say it. Because words had always failed him.

And because watching you happy, even if it wasn’t with him, still gave him something to hold on to.

You would vent to him. Complain. Laugh.

“Why can’t I just fall for someone who actually cares about me?”

He’d look at you, eyes quiet, expression unreadable.

And say, simply:

“I don’t know.”

But he did. He just knew it wouldn’t matter if he said it.

You never noticed that he remembered everything.

How you liked your coffee. 

The way you always double-knotted your shoelaces. 

The exact expression you made when you were trying not to cry. 

The way you curled into yourself when you were tired.

He memorized you like it was a language only he was fluent in.

And still — you didn’t see it.

Because you were looking for fireworks, not roots.

And Ushijima? He was the earth. Steady. Quiet. Deep.

And oh god, so in love with you.

You were seventeen when you swore you finally understood love.

You didn’t even knock.

The screen door of the Ushijima residence creaked like it always did — a little too loud, a little too familiar. 

You kicked your shoes off in the entryway like it was your home, called out his name like he was yours.

“Toshi!”

He was upstairs in his room, seated on the edge of the bed like he’d been expecting you. 

His legs shifted automatically, spreading just enough to make room for your arrival as you flopped back against the sheets like a gust of summer wind, breathless and warm.

He didn’t say anything, just looked at you — the corner of his lips twitching slightly, like maybe, just maybe, you’d say his name again the way you did when you were kids. 

But instead, you grinned, holding up a slightly wilted rose and a cheap box of chocolates, the kind that come from the clearance bin near the register.

“He’s the one,” you said, breathless and laughing. “Like for real this time.”

He blinked. Slowly. His back straightened.

“He sang to me,” you added, like that was the most magical thing anyone could do. “Right outside the gym. And then he kissed me, like—like in the movies, y’know? Like fireworks.”

You tucked the rose behind your ear, still giggling, eyes cast toward the ceiling as if reliving it would make it even sweeter. 

You looked happy. Radiant, even. And it made something in his chest begin to shrink.

He didn’t say anything.

Just nodded once.

Watched your fingers as they fiddled with the chocolate box.

Watched your lips as you painted a picture he couldn’t be in.

Because he wasn’t the boy who sang. 

He wasn’t the boy who kissed you in school hallways.

He wasn’t the one who bought you gas station flowers or said cheesy things that made your eyes sparkle.

He was the one you always came back to after the sparks burned out.

The one who knew your mom’s work schedule and your favorite ramen flavor.

The one who saved your favorite blanket during a thunderstorm when your power went out.

You were looking for fireworks again.

And he was still the earth.

As you kept talking, the sound of your voice began to blur at the edges — not because he wasn’t listening, but because it was starting to hurt in ways he’d stopped letting himself acknowledge.

So instead, he thought about the upcoming qualifier.

About footwork drills and serve receives.

About winning.

About how maybe, just maybe, if he was good enough at something, it wouldn’t matter that he wasn’t good enough for you.

He loved you. He had for years. 

But he realized, in that moment, sitting silently beside you while you hugged a dying rose like it was gold, that love wasn’t enough to wait forever on. Not when the only thing he ever seemed to do was watch you fall for someone else.

And you?

You didn’t notice the way his shoulders sank.

Didn’t catch the way his jaw tensed, just slightly.

Didn’t see the way his hands gripped his bedsheets like he was holding himself together.

Because you were in love. Or so you said.

With someone who wasn’t him. Again.

It had taken you longer than you were proud of.

All those nights you spent lying awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering why your heart didn’t race when the boys you dated said they loved you. 

Why you kept finding your way back to the same person, year after year. Why every small moment with him — the silence, the steadiness, the kindness — meant more than any dramatic gesture anyone else ever gave.

You didn’t fall in love with Wakatoshi Ushijima in one moment.

You fell in love with him through a hundred small ones.

The way he never flinched when you were angry.

The way he always remembered the things you forgot.

The way he never once asked you to be anything other than what you were.

And when you realized — really realized — it was almost embarrassing how fast you ran to him.

His house. Again. Always his house.

The door was already open. His shoes were by the mat, his bag tossed by the kitchen counter.

You followed the sound of a quiet shower upstairs, waited with shaking hands until he stepped out, towel around his shoulders, eyebrows raised in quiet confusion.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

You swallowed hard. You didn’t want to cry. You weren’t sad. Not yet.

“I think I love you,” you said — and for the first time in your life, the words didn’t feel like fireworks. They felt true.

You meant it.

You meant it so much it ached.

He stood in front of you, completely still. You searched his face for something — anything — some twitch of a smile, some flicker in his eyes.

But instead, he nodded.

Not surprised. Not warm. Not cold.

Just… Ushijima. The one everyone else knew. Not the one you knew.

“Volleyball,” he said, quietly. “Will always be my top priority.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat. He didn’t say he didn’t love you. He didn’t say he couldn’t. But he didn’t say anything else, either.

“So… that’s it?” you whispered. “After everything?”

“You’re still important to me,” he said. “You always have been.”

And then, like it was the simplest thing in the world:

“We can still be friends.”

You stared at him.

And suddenly, every memory you had of him — the birthdays, the late-night calls, the way he’d listen when no one else did — it all felt like it cracked apart, one jagged piece at a time.

Because you realized something awful, something honest.

You had always been waiting for him to love you back. Love you loud. 

But that wasn’t who he was.

And you never understood that.

He had never been waiting for you.

And now, with the quiet finality of his voice, you knew he never would.

You’ve dated other people.

Some were kind. Some were forgettable. Some tried to love you the way you wanted Ushijima to — deeply, endlessly, as if their hearts were made to fit yours.

But no matter how far you went, or how long the relationship lasted, no one ever really stuck.

You stopped pretending to be surprised by it after a while.

Now, you’re older. Wiser, maybe. Definitely more tired. 

Ushijima plays for the Schweiden Adlers now. He’s on posters. Highlight reels. 

When he visits, it’s a handful of days — if you’re lucky. And even then, it’s mostly just dinner and movies, the same easy rhythm you’ve shared since you were kids.

It’s always felt like that with him. Timeless. Safe.

Even if it never became anything else.

Tonight, the game ended a few hours ago. He’s freshly showered, hair still damp, sitting next to you on the couch. 

A movie plays on low volume — you’re barely paying attention, legs curled beneath you, your hand dipping into the popcorn bowl between you both.

The silence is warm. Familiar. His presence never needed filling.

And then — so casually it almost doesn’t register — he says:

“I used to love you.”

You freeze.

Your hand hovers in the popcorn bowl, and when you turn to him, he’s not even looking at you. His eyes are still on the screen, his face unreadable — that same calm expression you’ve spent your whole life trying to decipher.

“What?”

He blinks once, then glances at you.

“Back in high school. I think it started when we were sixteen.”

Your chest tightens. “Why are you telling me this now?”

There’s a beat of silence — no drama, no hesitation.

“Because I don’t feel it anymore,” he says. “I just wanted to tell you.”

And then he settles back into the couch like he hadn’t just cracked something wide open in your chest. 

Like he hadn’t just reached into your past and rewritten it with words he should’ve said years ago.

You stare at him. At the line of his jaw. The slow rise and fall of his chest.

He’s so calm. So composed.

And for the first time in your life, you feel what he must’ve felt all those years ago — sitting beside someone who would never look at you the way you looked at them. 

Listening to stories about other boys. 

Being everything but the person they wanted.

It hits you like a wave.

Not with rage. Not with regret.

Just... sorrow.

Because this is what it feels like — to finally understand too late. To ache for something that’s already passed.

You press your lips together, trying to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He nods, and the movie plays on.

You don’t say anything else. There’s nothing left to ask. Nothing left to change.

You sit beside him for the rest of the night — quiet, still, and completely heartbroken.

But this time, the pain is yours alone to carry.

And somehow, you know you’ll survive it.

Just like he did.

ugh this mannn

i hope you liked it!!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆

[multi-fandom-imagine]

“𝖨’𝗆 𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖬𝖾, 𝖲𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍.” || 𝖤𝖽𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝖬𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗈𝗇 ||

AU where Eddie was changed into a Hybrid creature thanks to the Demobats

A/n: Let me know if you want more creature Eddie👀

The rain was deafening. It hammered against the windows like a warning, and you nearly missed the tap.

Another crack of thunder.

Then—again. Tap. Tap. Tap.

You froze, still clutching the warm mug in your hands, your heart stumbling in your chest. It was nearly 2 AM. No one should be outside your bedroom window. No one alive, anyway.

You approached with hesitant steps. The storm blurred everything beyond the glass, but when a flash of lightning lit up the yard—you saw him.

Or… what was left of him.

Eddie.

Your Eddie.

The one who was supposed to be dead, the one you've been crying over every night because you believed you lost the love of your life.

But here he was,soaked to the bone, shaking. His hair plastered to his face, clothes torn. But it wasn’t the blood or the filth that sent your breath catching—it was his eyes. Bright crimson. Unnatural. The same kind you’d seen in the Upside Down.

And his hands… claws, just slightly. Just enough to be wrong.

You didn’t scream.

Instead, you slowly unlatched the window.

He flinched at your movement, drawing back like an animal expecting to be struck.

“Eddie?” you breathed. Your voice trembled. “Is it really you?”

You almost refused to believe it, that this was some cruel strange dream.

“I—” His voice cracked. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not—I’m not scared,” you whispered. Your fingers reached out, brushing the wet curls off his cheek. “Just… come inside.”

“I shouldn’t be here.” He looked away, jaw tight, eyes full of shame. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. I—I wasn’t supposed to come back.”

His fangs flashed as he tried to talk through the lump in his throat.

You guided him in with both hands, shutting the window behind him. He stood dripping on your carpet, looking everywhere but at you. His breathing was shallow, panicked.

“I’m not human anymore,” he muttered. “They turned me into some… thing. And I thought—maybe if I could get to you, I’d remember who I was. But I don’t know if I can anymore.”

His voice cracked again, broken and raw.

And still, you stepped forward.

You cupped his face gently, even as your fingertips brushed over the slight ridges at his jawline that hadn’t been there before. “Eddie Munson,” you said firmly, “you are not a thing. You’re mine. And you’re still you.”

He shook his head, lips parting like he wanted to argue—until you pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I don’t care about claws. Or fangs. Or eyes that glow. You came back to me. That’s all that matters.”

His breathing hitched. He leaned into your touch like a man starving for affection, like he didn’t believe he deserved it. “I’m so scared,” he confessed. “What if I hurt you? What if I lose control?”

“Then I’ll help you fight it,” you whispered, guiding his trembling hand to rest over your heart. “This—this is ours, Eddie. Yours and mine. You are not alone in this.”

He stared at you, jaw clenched, fangs peeking through parted lips. “You really mean that?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Lightning lit up the room again.

And this time, Eddie kissed you.

It was messy, desperate, needy—but real. His claws curled behind your neck so carefully, so reverently, as if he thought he’d break you. His lips were cold from the rain, but they softened against yours, shaking with every pass.

You wrapped your arms around him, tugging him closer despite the soaked clothes and lingering scent of death.

Because underneath it all… you still felt him.

The boy who read you fantasy novels. The boy who called you his ‘sorceress’ like it meant something sacred. The boy who once swore he’d never leave you behind.

And maybe now, even twisted by the Upside Down…

He was keeping that promise.

And he is still Eddie Munson.

Yours

[c1phra]

hiii since you're asking for hugo reqs. may i request for hugo being affectionate to calm his lover who gets anxious very easily? perhaps she has a severe anxiety disorder (only if you're fine with the topic, ofc!)

... ❝ HOLD ME CLOSER. ❞ ft. hugo x reader

𝒾. ⠀IN WHICH : hugo notices something is wrong, and handles it the way he knows best.

꒰ contents ꒱ reader has anxiety, mentions of panic attacks. established relationship. gn!reader. hurt/comfort. wc : 874

꒰ notes ꒱ hi anon!! no problem at all, hope you're doing well and ty for requesting!! <3

Hugo knew the signs. 

He noticed, when the rhythmic tapping of your nail against the armrest grew from idle to restless. It was all the little details that spelled out a complete, grim picture, and he saw them all. His eyes tracked every slight shift; the way your shoulders seemed to tense up more each passing second, the way your face was settled into a forcefully neutral expression, like you were barely holding back a grimace. 

You were never loud about it, never noticeable. Perhaps, having dealt with your own tumultuous nature for years—emotions rising, crashing, and receding like currents—you were simply used to it. Accustomed, adjusted, able to hold back the outward signs that you were anything but calm.

You might be good at fooling others, but you weren’t able to fool him. He was well aware of your tendencies, your mannerisms and idiosyncrasies. You’d even laid out the details of your affliction for him, before the two of you had even started dating—just in case, you’d said. He deserved to know, you’d explained hesitantly, in case you ever fell into a panic attack while he was around. You were jittery with your delivery of the warning, but he was perfectly calm; understanding with his words, and reassuring with his assertion that he would be more than accommodating with helping you, however that might be.

The first few times were… difficult, to say the least. Before he had gotten a grasp of the way you ticked, it came as a shock each time, the way you seemed to fall apart out of nowhere. It took him time, but he learnt to pinpoint the telltale signs that your anxiety was spiking—all of which you were trying to mask right now.

“My dearest,” Hugo chuckles, sliding his arm over the backrest of the couch. “Why are you all the way over there? Avoiding me, are we?”

“Hm?” You hum, as if you only half-heard him. That was a sign, a good one at that. At the very least, you weren’t too far-gone to hear him, even if it seems you aren’t paying full attention. It was enough.

He inches closer, letting his arm fall around your shoulders. The movement makes you jolt, abruptly snapping you back into focus. You look back at him with wide eyes, as if you’ve only just realized he was there, instinctually leaning back into his touch. “Sorry… what was that?”

“Tch. Should I be hurt that my beloved isn’t listening to me?” Hugo coos, leaning forward to sloppily kiss your temple. The affection is met with only a slight bit of eye-rolls and muttered protest, but not enough for you to tear yourself away fully.

You scrunch up your face, some of the tension in your shoulders melting away. “I’m not… not listening, I’m just… uh, tired today, I guess.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” He raises an eyebrow, as you carefully avoid his scrutinizing gaze. “What is troubling you, dear?”

“Nothing.” You mutter, almost bitterly. “It’s nothing, really.”

“I’m not sure if I believe that one.”

“I mean it, though.” You bite out. In your lap, your hands clench into fists, eyes squeezing shut. Hugo’s brows furrow. “There’s nothing wrong, nothing has happened, I don’t even know why I’m feeling this way. I.. I just am, and I can’t stop—”

“Hey, hey—” Hugo gently takes your hands, easing them out of the tight fists to intertwine your fingers together. “Enough of that. Just breathe for me, won’t you dear?”

Your mouth snaps shut, but you oblige, drawing in a few breaths through your nose. Hugo watches as your ragged breathing grows steadier, idly rubbing circles into the sides of your thumbs. “There. Just... slow down. Slow down for a minute.”

“I don't know what's wrong with me.” You mumble. He gives your hands a gentle squeeze. “I don't know—Mm!”

Your words are suddenly cut off with a swift peck to your lips, stealing the breath right out of your lungs. Hugo pulls away after a moment, the slightly dazed expression on your face sending a thrill down his spine. He chuckles, his face a perfect picture of faux-innocence. “Don't mind me. You're just too beautiful to resist. Keep talking, I'm listening.”

“I... What are you—” Your sentence is once again interrupted with another kiss, this time pressed to the corner of your mouth. Hugo briefly lets his hold on your hands fall, moving to drape them around your waist instead, hands resting on top of your hips. Despite your half-hearted protests in between kisses, you melt into his hold easily. “H-Hey!”

“Like I said, too beautiful.” He croons. One more kiss, to your cheek. “Such a gem. A treasure. My treasure. Have I told you how much I love you, my dear?”

“Just a bit.” You murmur, laughing lightly as his lips brush the crook of your neck.

“Good. Don't forget it.” One final kiss, this one firm and planted in the centre of your forehead. It says more than he ever could weave into words, because he knows. Hugo knows he can't stop the webs of your mind from tangling, but he can be there.

And as long as he lives, he will always be there.

©castorizz 2025 : do not copy, translate, repost, redistribute, or use my work to train ai. reblogs are appreciated <33

[reit0o]

soft, slow mornings with caleb... ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

—slight nsfw, fluff drabble

based on these CalebWeek prompts 🍎

You blink slowly at the red digits on the alarm clock: 5:47 am. A little too early for his alarm to have gone off. A little too early to be awake. And yet, his arm is heavy over your waist, holding you close.

It’s rare being up before Caleb, rarer even that you get to see him like this, so unguarded. You shift slightly, stretching your arms above your head in a lazy arch before rolling over, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt as you go, until you're tucked against his bare chest, limbs tangled under the blanket, face to face with the man beside you.

“Mmh, warm.” You nuzzle into his chest like he’s your personal radiator, staying there until his alarm finally goes off.

He didn’t make a move for the clock—just held you close, like he wasn’t ready to let go. In his half-asleep voice, he murmured, “As much as I’d love to keep you like this, I’ve got a meeting with the fleet first thing this morning.”

You just tightened your arms around his chest.

“Five more minutes,” you mumbled.

He let out a soft breath as his head sank back into the pillow. He was too tired to push back. He just dropped his hand to the back of your head, stroking slowly under his shirt.

“Alright, five more minutes.”

That was enough. You nestled your face into the warm curve of his neck, breathing him in. He smelled like comfort, like the smell of freshly washed laundry.

His hand slid down the length of your back, resting securely at your hip. His skin was soft and warm. You let your hands wander, knowing exactly where to touch, where he tensed when you dragged your fingers over his pressure points. He twitched slightly, betraying just how well you knew him.

“You enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice still thick with sleep.

“Mhm,” you hummed, smiling.

Your fingers moved slowly over the ridges of his chest, then your lips followed. You kissed the same path, planting feather-light kisses along his skin. His breath hitched just enough for you to hear. That soft reaction made your stomach flutter. It made you want more. Made you want to see what else you could get out of him.

You kept going, brushing your mouth along his skin, slipping under the neckline of his shirt. Kisses pressed against the base of his neck, creeping up under his jaw. His eyes were still shut, soaking in every second, either unaware of what you were doing—or pretending to be.

Your hips shifted under his, slow and deliberate. So slow it could’ve passed as innocent. But the way his breath caught again said otherwise. The quiet grind of your body against his was doing exactly what you hoped it would.

He groaned, low in your ear.

“Is this your plan for keeping me in bed?” One eye cracked open, watching you now.

“Maybe,” you teased, mouth tracing along his jaw until you hovered just above his ear. Your hands trail down his chest, palming the growing bulge pressing up against your hips.

“It’s not like they can’t start without you,” you whispered, nipping at his earlobe. You rub him slowly through his pants, savouring the way he writhes under your touch, hips bucking ever so slightly toward you. It was almost too agonising for him to bear.

“I wish I could just stay here with you.”

“So stay,” you murmured, pressing your hips down harder. “Or do I need to convince you a little more?”

His hands gripped your hips tight, stopping your movement. That alone told you how close he was to caving in. His voice came out strained, hanging by a thread, “Not right now.”

It almost hurt him to say it.

If he let you keep going, he’d have flipped you onto your back already and let everyone in that meeting wonder his whereabouts.

“If you keep doing that,” he muttered, “I don’t think I’ll ever leave.”

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his mouth.

“It’s your day off, isn’t it?” he said. “How about I make you breakfast in bed. You rest. And when I get back…” He tugs you out from under his shirt, then shifts you beneath him, pinning you down with a hungry look.“Maybe I’ll let you finish what you started.”

“I don’t think I can wait that long.”

“Trust me,” he said. He slides his knee between your thighs, slowly easing them apart until he’s pressed against your warmth. A low groan slips from him the moment he feels the damp spot waiting for him.“I’ll make it—even if I have to break every traffic law out there. It’ll be worth it if it means I get to come home to you.”

He finally pulls away, but not before capturing your moan in a slow, lingering kiss—like he needed to take a piece of you with him. Then he groans, dragging himself out of bed for a cold shower, the only thing that might help ease the massive hard-on you left behind.

[sugardollcurse]

𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 | paul mccartney x reader

𐙚 summary ; after a show, paul's arms are full of fan gifts and he offers you a single daisy in passing, thinking nothing of it. but the next time, he hands you another. and another.

𐙚 note ; a bit lazy but enjoy anyway! i think i hate this but i worked too hard on it </3

The hallway smelled like sweat, hairspray, and adrenaline.

You’d been working behind the scenes long enough that you didn’t flinch when the band came charging offstage like a pack of wild animals, shirts clinging to their backs, laughter echoing against the walls. Someone nearly ran into you, Ringo, maybe, and offered a breathless apology as he disappeared down the corridor.

Paul was the last to come off, arms full. He was cradling what looked like a ridiculous amount of offerings from the press? Fans? You didn't know. Just bouquets in wild arrangements of lilies, roses, some floppy thing you suspected was a peony, along with plush animals, and a pink feather boa that had gotten tangled around the corner of one box. His arms were full like a bad magician mid-performance. He looked like he was trying to laugh without dropping anything.

You caught the door before it swung shut on him, palm flattening against the metal with a hollow thunk. It would've smacked him right in the shoulder otherwise.

He turned his head, brushing hair out of his eyes with a sharp puff of breath and gave you a grateful, crooked smile. His cheeks were flushed from the stage lights, or maybe the sprint. "Ta."

“Busy night?” you asked, eyes flicking to the growing tower of gifts he was awkwardly balancing against his chest.

“They keep throwin’ 'em,” he said with a dramatic little huff, nudging a teddy bear back into place with his chin.

You laughed, stepping aside so he could shuffle through the door. “Occupational hazard.”

“Tell me about it,” he muttered, barely holding on as a crinkly paper-wrapped bouquet started to slide from the pile. He jerked to catch it, nearly dropped the whole lot, and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “bloody circus.”

You reached out instinctively, grabbing one of the envelopes before it could flutter to the ground. He glanced over in surprise, then grinned. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I try.”

He jostled the armful of gifts higher, then paused, gaze darting to the floor.

Something had slipped out of the mess, barely a whisper of motion, but he caught it fast. A daisy. One lonely little flower, thin-stemmed and perfect in its simplicity, lying on the scuffed tile like it had been placed there on purpose.

“Bugger,” he murmured, crouching fast despite the precarious load. You could see his leg wobble a bit from the sudden bend, but he still moved like someone used to being watched, carefully, casually, aware of his own rhythm.

He almost dropped everything in the process, wobbled, caught it against his chest with a hiss of victory, and then pinched the daisy delicately between two fingers. He stared at it for a beat longer than expected, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

Then his eyes ticked up to you, unreadable for just a second.

“They gave me too many flowers,” he said simply, voice dry but light. “You want one?”

You blinked, slightly caught off guard. “Oh. Sure.”

Without another word, he slipped the daisy into your hand. It was still warm from his fingers, the stem bent slightly from being crushed under everything else. A little lopsided. A little bruised. You couldn’t stop staring at it.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He was already halfway down the hall by then, muttering something about needing a bigger bloody crate as he bumped open the dressing room door with his hip. It swung wide, letting out a sudden burst of noise, George laughing, someone’s voice raised in a terrible falsetto, and then it thudded shut again, muffling the chaos.

You stood there for a moment longer, the daisy pinched between your fingers like it might dissolve if you held it wrong. You looked at it again. Just a flower. One of dozens.

You didn’t think much of it.

━━

The next city, it happened again.

Detroit. Cold and humming. The venue was some cavernous theater with echoing stairwells and the constant hiss of the heating system kicking on and off. You were mid-haul, lugging a coiled cable loop around your neck like a necklace of thorns and dragging a speaker on a dolly that squeaked just a little too much with every bump in the floor. The concrete corridor smelled of coffee and old leather seats, and your shirt was sticking to your back in patches from the effort.

You were rounding the corner near the back corridor, one of those dim halls that always looked the same no matter the city, gray paint, flickering bulb overhead, some forgotten metal door halfway down with peeling paint around the knob. You weren’t expecting to see anyone.

But then Paul came striding through the shadow like something out of déjà vu, arms full again. A crumpled bouquet was tucked under his chin, pressed precariously between his collarbone and jaw. He looked like he'd just escaped another shower of gifts and barely survived the onslaught. There was a feather boa hanging off his shoulder, again. A beaded bracelet clung to his wrist that definitely wasn’t his. And confetti, you noticed, tiny scraps of red and gold still clinging to his hair.

He spotted you before you had time to duck out of the way.

He slowed, barely, but he paused long enough to look at you. That same little smile spread across his face, the one that curled at the corners like he was keeping something to himself.

Then, without ceremony, “Here.”

His hand dipped into the mess, fingers searching through the foliage and paper like he knew exactly what he was after. A second later, he emerged triumphant with a single flower, bright yellow, slightly battered, petals turned up like a sun in mid-sneeze. A daisy again. It was almost comical how direct it was, how unthinking, like it was simply what he did now.

He handed it to you with the same familiarity as someone giving you a pencil or passing the salt at dinner. No big gesture. No winking.

You stared at it in your palm, thumb brushing one soft petal.

“Getting a collection,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, voice half-swallowed by the creaking of the dolly behind you.

And maybe you imagined it, but he glanced back and grinned.

━━

After the third time, you stopped pretending it wasn’t a thing.

You never brought it up, never teased or joked or tried to make it into anything bigger than what it was. You didn’t need to. It had a rhythm of its own now, quiet and reliable, unspoken but unmistakable. A ritual, almost. Every city, every show, without fail, he found you. Just once. Just briefly.

Always when your hands were full, or when you were mid-task, coiling wires, hauling a mic stand, checking setlists against taped-up venue maps. He’d appear like the second act of some play only you two knew the script for, arms full of stuff, always carrying too much, and somehow still managing to unearth a single daisy like it had been waiting just for you.

“Too many flowers again,” he’d mutter offhandedly, eyes flicking to yours as if the moment wasn’t worth more than a shrug.

“This one looks like you,” he said in Toronto, completely deadpan, even as a stuffed parrot slipped from the pile and bounced off his boot. It didn't look like you, by the way, he just didn't know what to say... leaving you utterly confused.

In Atlanta, he passed you the daisy one-handed while balancing LPs and a gift bag. “It was either this or another pink bra,” he said, and kept walking like he hadn’t just detonated your entire pulse.

It was never anything but a daisy.

He never made a show of it. Never lingered too long after. He’d press the stem into your hand and vanish, leaving you standing there with something small and bright.

You started keeping them.

You didn’t really decide to. They just… stayed. The first ended up pressed into the back flap of your notebook, forgotten until you flipped the page and there it was, pale, dry, but still whole. The next got tucked into the zipped mesh inside your suitcase, fragile against your socks. One made its way into your wallet, slipped between two receipts and a folded stage pass. Another, you pinned absently to the edge of your mirror in the dressing room, and then never moved it again.

You didn’t mean to collect them like that. But you couldn’t throw them away!

At some point, you started to expect them.

One night, after a show in San Francisco, you caught him before he could vanish again.

The venue that night was tight and clattering, the backstage maze-like, dressing rooms practically on top of each other. Everyone was buzzing after the set, George strumming something nonsensical, Ringo tossing grapes into someone’s cup, John howling with laughter at a joke no one else had heard. You could still feel the leftover bass in your ribcage, the electric thrum of it sticking to your skin.

Paul had just given you the daisy, delicate and already wilting a little at the edge like it had been picked too early.

He turned, ready to vanish again into the churn of bodies and post-show static.

“Wait.”

He paused. Turned slowly. One brow arched, eyes soft with post-performance adrenaline and the curl of a half-smile already in place.

You held up the daisy between your fingers.

“Why daisies?”

He blinked once, then shrugged. “They’re easy,” he said.

You gave him a look. “That’s it?”

“Yeah,” he said again. But then something shifted, his expression softened, more earnest now, and he took half a step closer without seeming to realize it. “And I like seein’ you holdin’ ’em.”

Something fluttered in your chest.

“Oh,” you said.

He smiled and walked off.

You stared down at the flower.

Oh.

━━

By the time you reached Chicago, you’d started anticipating it.

Not just hoping, expecting. That quiet flutter in your chest had become something steadier now, a soft, persistent pulse that kept time with the rhythm of the road, the venues, the cities changing like scenery in a dream. You didn’t look for Paul outright, but your eyes wandered whenever a show ended. You lingered near places he might pass... cord-strewn back corridors, loading zones that still echoed with amps, corners behind dressing rooms where the buzz dulled into silence. Always just long enough. Just in case.

He found you anyway. Sometimes backstage, sometimes near the vans, once while you were half-asleep with your cheek resting against a crate, half-dreaming of someone tuning a guitar in the next room. You hadn’t even registered the sound of his steps until he crouched down beside you and slipped a daisy into your hand, like a passing ghost. You’d blinked at him in a daze, and he’d only smiled and touched your wrist briefly before standing and disappearing again.

And each time, your heart did something stupid and soft and involuntary in your chest, a gentle stutter that made your fingertips tingle and your thoughts blur into static.

The others started to notice.

“Paul givin’ you those on purpose?” Ringo asked, peering at the daisy behind your ear.

You shrugged, fighting the warmth crawling up your neck. “I think he just doesn’t know what to do with them.”

But even you didn’t believe that anymore.

One night, late, after a show that had run long and left everyone strung out and scattered, you found him sitting alone in the hotel lounge. The lights were low, casting the room in amber and gold, and the air buzzed faintly from the vending machine humming by the ice buckets. The others had vanished, some to bars, some to sleep, some into city streets with cigarettes in their mouths and hotel keys in their pockets.

Paul was nursing a drink. A small one. Clear. His fingers curled loosely around the glass as he stared off toward nothing, humming something tuneless under his breath, head tilted slightly like he was listening to it evolve as it formed.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, then walked over.

He looked up when he saw you. His eyes lit the way they always did when you were near, like he’d been waiting without realizing it.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Too tired to throw flowers tonight?” you asked, slipping into the seat beside him.

He laughed, that soft-edged laugh he only used when the world was quiet. “Ran out of daisies.”

“Unthinkable,” you murmured, and he grinned into his drink.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It never was. There was something easy about being next to him when everything else had fallen away, the shouting, the setlists, the heat of stage lights and the cold slap of wind outside the van door.

After a long pause, he spoke again.

“Do you keep 'em?”

You turned your head slowly. His eyes were still on his glass, but there was something a little tight in his voice. Hopeful. Hesitant.

You hesitated too. Then: “Yeah.”

He smiled into his drink again. A small, private smile like a secret had just been confirmed.

“Thought maybe you would.”

You watched him, watched the way his hands flexed around the glass, the slight blush of color on his cheeks from the lingering buzz of alcohol or maybe something else entirely.

“Why do you give them to me?” you asked, soft, but steady. Not teasing. Not pushing. Just wanting to understand the language he’d been speaking to you one petal at a time.

He was quiet a long time.

“I dunno. I think… I just like knowin’ they go somewhere. Not sure what I'm gonna do with 'em.”

You nodded slowly, eyes dropping to your lap. Your fingers brushed together, aching to hold something, maybe another daisy, maybe him.

“And I like you,” he added, suddenly. The words came out quick, like a breath he hadn’t planned to release. A confession unspooled before he could decide if he meant to say it out loud.

Your heart flipped. Actually flipped. Not just a flutter this time. It somersaulted in your chest like it had been waiting weeks to do so.

You looked at him again. His eyes met yours, steady, clear.

You didn't know what to say.

━━

The two of you hung out outside the hotel that night. Just the two of you, half-perched on a curb like teenagers killing time, your knees brushing every so often. There was a soda between you, half-finished and going flat. You passed it back and forth without saying much.

It was soft. A little uncertain. The way your elbows bumped when you shifted. The way he leaned back on his palms and looked up at the sky like it might give him something. The moon hung low, pale and quiet, like it was trying not to listen in.

You tasted daisies on your breath. Not literal, of course, but that same feeling, fragile, green, oddly sweet. Like you’d swallowed a secret without realizing.

After that night, something shifted.

He didn’t give you the flowers in passing anymore.

Now he placed them behind your ear, brushing your hair back with careful fingers. He’d grin to himself like he’d just set the final piece in some inside joke only he understood.

Sometimes he’d slip them into your bag when you weren’t looking. You’d find them hours later tucked between your notebook and a balled-up t-shirt, a little bent but still holding shape. He’d pretend not to know anything, but you’d see the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth when you caught him looking.

Once, while you were balancing a clipboard and half a sandwich, he just stepped close and slid a daisy right into your hair without saying a word. You didn’t move. Just kept chewing while he adjusted it slightly, like he was framing a painting.

You still never really talked about it. There wasn’t a need. One afternoon, a few cities later, you found another daisy tucked into your coat pocket. Still fresh, still warm. He was watching you when you pulled it out.

“You know,” you said, holding it up, “this is starting to feel like a coordinated attack.”

Paul snorted. “You say that like it’s not workin’.”

You rolled your eyes and slipped it behind your ear anyway. “If I start sneezing constantly, it’s your fault.”

“I’ll buy tissues. I’m very responsible.”

“Are you?”

“Within reason,” he said, grinning, “for a man who carries plush toys and bras in his arms most nights.”

You laughed, breath catching on something warmer than just amusement.

And he leaned closer, voice lower. “You’ve got a petal stuck in your hair.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That your way of trying to touch my face again?”

“Very bold of you to assume I need an excuse,” he shot back.

You shook your head, but you didn’t move away. Neither did he.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels, @wisepainterprince, @emz2092

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

Pop Up Pleading

Synopsis: You surprise your girlfriend Wonyoung with a Detective Conan mystery box, only for her to pull her least favorite figure. Twice. Heartbroken but hopeful, she looks at you with pleading eyes—and you cave. The next day, you return with the entire set, just to see her smile again.

Word Count: 988

Wonyoung X Male Reader

You hadn’t planned anything special. No anniversary, no celebration—just a normal day. But something about Wonyoung lingering in your mind while you were out made you want to do something sweet. You passed by a small pop-up stand selling Detective Conan and Shinchan mystery boxes, and you instantly thought, She’d lose her mind over these.

So, you got her one of each.

That night, as soon as she saw the bags in your hands, her eyes lit up like a city skyline.

“Wait… wait, are those what I think they are?” she gasped, hurrying over with bare feet padding across the floor.

You nodded, holding the boxes behind your back with a small smirk. “Guess who found a little pop-up today?”

She bounced in place, hands clasped in front of her chest like a kid on Christmas morning. “You’re kidding—Detective Conan and Sinchan? Babe!” Her voice pitched up like it always did when she got excited, and it melted you.

You held them out. “One of each, for the princess.”

“This is why I love you.” She grabbed them, immediately inspecting the sides. “Okay okay, for this one— she pointed at the Conan box, “I really hope I get Conan. Like, the Conan Conan. But if I get that,” she pointed to a creepy-looking plant figure with googly eyes, face twisted in mock disgust, “I’m actually gonna cry.”

You chuckled, dropping onto the couch as you watched her open the first box with the kind of reverence most people reserved for jewelry or new phones.

The moment her fingers brushed the figure inside, her expression dropped.

“Oh no.”

You already knew.

Her smile, once beaming, slowly withered into a pout, eyebrows knitted together like storm clouds.

“Poor baby,” you cooed, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You got the one you didn’t want?”

“Yeah…” she muttered, voice soft, disappointed. “Was really hoping for Conan too.”

“It’s okay. You’ve still got Sinchan.”

She nodded, lips pressing into a small line, clearly trying to hold onto hope. “Yeah. If I get Sinchan, all is forgiven.”

You could almost hear the universe laugh.

She opened the second box and paused—like her soul left her body.

“No,” she whispered.

It wasn’t Sinchan. It was the angry pig character she couldn’t stand. And this time, she didn’t even say anything. She just slowly looked at you, holding the tiny figure like it personally offended her.

“…That’s not Sinchan.”

“Nope.”

“…This is worse than the plant.”

You bit back a laugh. Her expression was somewhere between heartbreak and comedic betrayal. And then came the look—those big puppy eyes, bottom lip slightly jutted out, her head tilting as she scooted closer to you like a lost child.

“Babe…”

“Yeah?”

“Can you please… maybe… just one more box?”

You sighed, already reaching for your phone.

“You realize you’re the most spoiled girlfriend in existence, right?”

She beamed instantly. “It’s not my fault I’m cute. Also, it’s your fault for being weak.”

“Unbelievably weak.” You leaned over to press a kiss to her temple. “Fine. But just one more set.”

“Two,” she bargained.

You gave her a look.

She giggled. “Okay, one. But if I get Conan, you have to get me ice cream too.”

“Deal. If you get the plant again, I’m framing it.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t!”

“Watch me.”

And as she nestled next to you, still hugging the wrong figurine but glowing with anticipation for the next one, you thought to yourself: yeah, you’d do this a hundred more times—just to see that smile again.

The next day, you showed up at her place with a suspiciously large bag in hand. Wonyoung, still in her oversized pajama shirt and fuzzy socks, squinted at you from the couch.

“Why do you look like you just robbed a toy store?”

You dropped the bag in front of her gently. “Because I basically did.”

She leaned over the armrest, peeking inside—and froze.

Inside were not one, not two, but the entire box set of the Detective Conan mystery figures. The full display. Sealed. Untouched. Ten boxes. No repeats. Guaranteed one Conan.

“…Y/N.”

You plopped down beside her. “Yes?”

She looked back into the bag, then back at you, blinking slowly like she couldn’t believe it.

“Y/N.”

“Yes.”

“You got the whole box set?”

“I did.”

She stared at you. Then stared at the box. Then back at you. Her lip trembled—dramatic, playful, but with just enough sincerity to make your heart stutter.

“You’re so stupid,” she whispered, throwing her arms around your neck and burying her face in your shoulder. “You’re actually so stupid.”

“Stupid in love,” you teased, arms wrapping around her waist. “And stupid for your smile.”

She pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, then grabbed the entire set like it was holy treasure. “I better get Conan in the first box, or the universe is just evil.”

She peeled the first one open with trembling fingers.

And there he was—Detective Conan himself, tiny glasses and all.

Her scream could’ve broken glass.

“I GOT HIM! BABE, I GOT HIM!”

She was dancing in place on the couch, figure clutched to her chest like it was a long-lost friend.

You just watched her, laughing softly to yourself, like her joy alone could light up the whole room.

“See?” you said, voice gentle. “Told you I’d make it right.”

Wonyoung turned to you, cradling the figure like a precious gem.

“You really did. You’re the best boyfriend in the world.”

“I know,” you smirked.

Then she gasped dramatically.

“Wait. I have nine more to open.”

You just sighed and leaned back as she tore into the next box, muttering things like “If I get the plant again, I’m throwing it into the sun.”

And honestly? You’d buy her a hundred more boxes—just to hear her laugh like that again

After A Week.

[bxunyx]

Meet the Moores

Pairing-ModerndayAU-Elias*Stack*Moore x Black reader

Summary-you meet stacks family

A\N-Instead of working on my smoke ff i decided to write stack since I haven’t done it in a while

You swore you weren’t nervous. But the second you pulled up to Smoke Moore’s house—a mansion draped in security cameras, low-rumbling music, and enough high-end cars to pass for a dealership—your stomach did a flip.

Stack reached over and squeezed your thigh, that cocky smirk on his lips. “Relax, baby. They not gonna bite.”

“You said that about your damn dog,” you muttered, adjusting your dress. Tight. Short. Stack-approved. “And he still barked like I owed him money.”

He laughed, head thrown back. “That’s ’cause King can smell fear. Just like my family.”

You shot him a look. “Not funny.”

Stack just leaned over and kissed you, slow and full of heat, like he had all the time in the world to ease your nerves. “You my girl. They gon’ love you. And if they don’t—who gives a fuck? You with me.”

That should’ve calmed you. Instead, it made your heart race worse.

⸻

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐨𝐮𝐭

Smoke’s backyard was damn near a block party.

Music boomed from oversized speakers, smoke curled from a grill manned by a guy who looked like he could break bones with one hand and flip ribs with the other. Bottles of D’USSÉ and Casamigos lined the bar. Women laughed. Kids ran around. You clocked more than one Glock bulge under fitted shirts.

Stack guided you through the chaos like it was nothing, dap-tapping guys with gold chains and hand tattoos. But the moment y’all hit the patio, it felt like the music dimmed.

There he was.

Smoke.

Stacks’ older brother. The name carried weight in the city. Gunshots stopped when Smoke walked into a room.

He stood beside the grill, shirtless under an open designer button-up, arms covered in tattoos, puffing on a cigar. And next to him, Aliyah.

She was beautiful. That kind of “soft but don’t try me” beauty. Lace front laid, nails sharp, her little waist snatched in some designer two-piece. She clocked you the second you stepped up.

“Oh, so this the one you keep sneakin’ out for?” Smoke said to Stack, looking you up and down. He turned to you. “You got a name, pretty girl?”

You held your ground. “(Y/N).”

“Mm.” Smoke nodded slowly. “Cute. You from around here?”

“Uptown,” you said carefully.

Aliyah raised an eyebrow, sipped her drink, then gave you a slow once-over. “You rich-rich, huh?”

You smiled tight. “I am.”

“You got any priors?” Aliyah asked, crossing her arms, curious now.

“Just heartbreak,” you said smoothly. “But I’m sure your husband knows all about breaking people.”

Smoke let out another laugh. “She bold.”

Aliyah finally smiled, a slow, approving smirk. “I like her.”

Stack damn near lit up like Christmas. “Told y’all.”

⸻

𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

You were sitting on the deck with a plate of ribs and baked mac, catching your breath, when another voice spoke from behind you.

“You know you’re the first girl he ever brought around.”

You turned to see Sammie, all gold teeth and babyface charm, a blunt in one hand, red cup in the other.

“Is that supposed to be comforting or a red flag?”

He laughed. “Could go either way.”

Then came the other one—Delta Slim. Smiling, tall, old drunk. “Just don’t hurt him,” he said, looking you dead in the eye. “Stack acts tough, but…he loves hard. And stupid.”

You raised your brow. “And I don’t?”

Sammie whistled. “Ooooh. She feisty.”

Delta grunted, smiling. “She good.”

That’s when Stack came up behind you, slid into the seat beside you, and threw an arm over your shoulders.

“Look at my girl makin’ friends,” he teased.

“Your girl got hands,” Sammie said. “Aliyah told me she almost squared up with that one chick by the cooler.”

“She bumped me on purpose,” you said.

Stack grinned. “That’s my type.”

⸻

The party was still going, but you’d stepped away for a moment. The beat of the music thumped through the ground, bass rumbling in your chest as kids ran around with Capri Sun and adults swapped shots like currency.

You were leaning against the balcony railing off Smoke’s upstairs den, nursing a drink Sammie mixed for you—heavy on the liquor, light on the warning.

Stack slid up behind you, arms coming around your waist like he couldn’t help it. “You good?”

You nodded, watching the scene below. “Yeah. Just needed a second.”

“Too much South Side energy for your uptown blood?” he teased, kissing your shoulder.

You smiled. “No. Just watching. Thinking.”

“’ Bout what?”

You pointed with your chin. “Them.”

Below, across the backyard, Aliyah was curled up on Smoke’s lap under a canopy, laughing at something Sammie said. Smoke was holding her like the world might try to snatch her at any moment. His hand was on her thigh, protective. Possessive. But soft. Like he knew her in and out, and loved all the ugly, anyway.

“They been like that all night,” you said. “Even when she talks shit to him—he still looks at her like she hung the moon.”

Stack followed your gaze, jaw ticking like he was thinking deeper than he wanted to admit. “That’s Smoke. Always been like that when it came to her. Don’t matter what’s goin’ on—some raid, some drama, some fuck-up with one of the crews—Aliyah come in the room? Everything else fades out.”

You took a slow sip of your drink. “She holds him down.”

“She built him up,” Stack said, tone low. “Back when he was still wild as hell. Back when he ain’t have the name he got now.”

You looked over your shoulder at him. “You ever want that?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What? A ride or die?”

“No. That kind of love. That…safe kind. The kind where it feels like y’all against the world.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “You think we ain’t already there?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because maybe you hadn’t thought about it that way.

Maybe you’d gotten so caught up in the diamonds, the drama, the “are we or aren’t we” energy he carried like cologne… that you didn’t notice he’d already been showing up like you were his.

“Smoke wasn’t always soft with her,” Stack said, eyes fixed on his brother. “They fought. Loud. Walked away, came back. But he never let her go. Even when she tried to leave, he followed.”

You bit your lip. “And you?”

He smiled slow. “I don’t plan on lettin’ you go either. So, run if you want, baby.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to face him fully. “You don’t even know if I’m staying.”

Stack cupped your jaw, his voice barely above a whisper. “Then why you still here?”

You didn’t have an answer.

Didn’t need one.

He kissed you slow, the kind of kiss that said he already knew.

𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞’𝐬 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐲

You leaned against Stack’s Range Rover as the night wound down, watching the glow of the backyard fade into soft streetlights. Stack stood in front of you, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You good?”

You nodded, surprised by how good you felt. Welcomed. A little roasted. But solid.

“They’re a lot,” you murmured.

“They’re mine,” he said. “And now…so are you.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck. “Then I guess I’ll have to hold my own.”

He kissed you slow, heat humming between you even under the moonlight.

From the porch, Smoke’s voice boomed, “Y’all bet not be makin’ me no uncle tonight!”

Stack flipped him off without breaking the kiss.

You laughed.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe this chaos—chaos-this wild, loyal, dangerous family—might just be home.

As you and Stack got ready to go 

Aliyah caught your eye across the yard, a sly little grin tugging at her glossed lips. She raised her cup to you like a silent I see you.

You smirked, raising yours back.

Because if anybody understood what it meant to love a Moore boy—dangerous, loud, loyal, stubborn—it was her.

And tonight? You realized you might just be starting to understand it, too.

[eldritch-spouse]

Me and some of the other nuns peeping at Caius working.

“Dear virgin Mary I want him to pick me up, he's so muscular.”

You should know better.

To think a monster with such large ears wouldn't hear nearby murmuring.

While some of the others continued to whisper little comments, the moment one of those dark ears flicked, you froze.

If he did hear you, Caius makes no real indication of such, beyond a pause in his motions that is.

Something brief enough to discard.

The monster finally picks up a stack of grocery delivery boxes. You've lived here long enough to know exactly how heavy those things are, oftentimes two of you have to make an effort to bring several inside.

And yet, the monster lifts them easily, not an "oomf" of pressure as he readjusts them to see better.

The second he looks stable, you shush all your sisters and nudge them out of the wide doorway, the flustered women quickly dispersing around the entrance to seem less suspicious.

Still, when Caius passes by, generously unloading the groceries to the kitchen, a deafening silence reigns. Side eyes scheme his dark form in guilty indulgence. Some of them could barely stutter a greeting when the monster addressed them.

You could swear something about his usual smile felt satisfied.

The kerfuffle seemingly died down, and by the time dinner came around, you had all mostly moved on from the event.

Although Caius had insisted on helping you and another sister cook today, he declined to join you all at the refectory.

This is standard by now. Magister Draug claims his feeding habits are much too different than that of your kind, his meals are unstructured because his feasts are mostly comprised of the impure blood he withdraws, so it would be rather pointless for him to be present.

The table was silent, but tension dripped from the walls like desperate condensation, a soundless need to keep discussing the sore thumb even when he's not present.

Of course, Caius came back to help clean up as well.

" Magister Draug, with all due respect, I don't understand why you're so insistent on helping us around the kitchen. "

You speak to break the silence mostly, handing him a plate to dry. The other sisters listen intently, some of them pretending to clean up at this point.

" Hm? " The monster peeks at you momentarily. " Why shouldn't I be? You and your sisters are purified on occasion. It's imperative that you fill the void your impurities left by fueling your body with new blood. It's only natural I help. "

While it sounded to you like that was a glorified way of saying he wants to keep his living blood bags healthy, many of the nuns present hum and nod as if having just heard sage wisdom.

" I... I see. Thank you for the consideration. "

He smiles, bold fangs shining.

The ensuing calm is spent taking care of dishes, wherein you try to abstract from the repeated brush of bare claws against your own fingers.

It's almost jarring when Caius says your name.

" Could you fetch another towel, please? "

A simple request calms your racing heart, and you move to quickly reach the cabinet past Caius.

However, your foot catches on something thick and heavy, an unknown object that swipes from beneath you much too fast for any reaction. The moment your balance falters, a startled yelp leaves your lips while your forearms brace for impact.

An impact that never comes, because one moment you've closed your eyes, the next you're being physically cradled.

There's no mistaking it, the meaty hands holding you up belong to none other than Caius.

" Sister... " He warns playfully. " Let's not be so clumsy. "

Frantic eyes look everywhere as you tense like a coil in the monster's hold. It's been... Far too long since you were picked up, much less held to someone's chest so easily, the palm on your lower back and the fingers beneath the fold of your legs feeling alien and somewhat cold.

" P- Pardon, I- "

" I believe you're overworked. Please, allow me to escort you to your chambers. "

Mortification freezes your entire body. You sense the stares of the other nuns on you, unsubtly excited about the events unfolding.

" Ah uh- There's really no need, I'm quite fine- "

" You have my word I won't step inside-" He smiles.

" No no, I would never accuse you of such! I'm just heavy and- "

" Really, this is hardly strenuous to me. "

" Magister Draug- "

" I insist, sister. "

It's a wasted effort.

You can only focus on trying not to tense more, aware that those flicking ears are either listening to the rabid murmuring behind him, or the frantic beat of your startled heart.

Caius lingers when he gets to your cell, and in the midst of the anxiety eating you alive, you didn't even realize that the monster hadn't asked you for directions.

He sets you down at the doorway, just as he promised.

Those meaty hands clasp around one of yours, there's no ignoring the flirt of claws against your wrist.

" You know you can ask anything of me, yes? I don't mind indulging small curiosities in the name of bringing us closer. "

" I uh- " You have no courage to answer him.

" Y-You must have been right, Magister Draug. I'm very tired... Have a good night. "

No doubt, the way you closed the door on him was rude, but you can only feel relieved when footsteps grow distant. Phew.

You could swear not a minute passed before a sister carefully parts your door open. The grin on her face is, ironically, nothing short of impish.

You will be forced into gossip for the rest of the night.