#and she is loved FOR who she is not in spite of

[windyengel]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Every bat has a cat.

There’s an old phrase in Gotham: every Bat has a Cat.

Like most things whispered through Gotham’s smog, it’s only mostly untrue. Technically, the only Bat who ever really had a Cat was Batman himself—and even that’s been more of a tug-of-war than a love story. Not for lack of effort on Catwoman’s part. She’s tried everything: seduction, threats, borderline kidnapping. At one point, she swore she’d adopt all of Batman’s kids just to spite him. She’s teamed up with the Birds of Prey—where a few of the Bat-daughters moonlight—and once even tried to snatch up Little Timothy Drake back when he was still Robin, dangling the offer of being her “pet stray.” It didn’t take. Timmy was too invested in feathered spandex and daddy issues.

And then there was that… incident with Nightwing. But Gotham doesn’t talk about that. Gotham forgets. Gotham represses.

Still, the saying stuck around, mostly as a joke. A rite of passage, the locals would wink: “Once the birds become Bats, they’ll find their Cat.” Like puberty, but with more rooftop flirting and potential felony charges.

It was all fun and folklore—until it wasn’t.

No one really knows when the joke stopped being a joke. When the line between myth and prophecy started to blur. All anyone can remember is the night it finally got everyone’s attention.

It happened at the grand reopening of the Gotham Museum, debuting a new exhibit on Ancient Sumerian artifacts. Bruce Wayne showed up with two-thirds of his grim duckling trio—Tim and Damian in tuxedos, sulking appropriately (Jason, the other brooding duckling has refused to come, and everyone knew Duke and Dick to be too much of sunshine boys to be part of the brooding bunch). The opening night was invitation-only, with patrons shuffled between exhibits like a very wealthy cattle drive: first Sumerian, then Medieval, then an optional wine bar where the Chardonnay was too warm.

It was during one of these exhibit rotations that Tim saw it. A flicker. A whisper of motion at the corner of his eye. Something feline, something familiar, slipping back into the shadows of the Sumerian wing.

He didn’t hesitate. He turned to Bruce and Damian, voice clipped and sharp.

“Catwoman’s here.”

As soon as Tim muttered the alert, the Bat Family trio slipped into action with the kind of silent efficiency that only years of crimefighting, trauma bonding, and tactical group chats could provide.

Bruce gave a curt nod. “We’re changing. Now.”

It took them less than five minutes to disappear from the gala and reappear as the Bat, Red Robin, and the Robin—silent shadows in kevlar and purpose. They moved through back corridors, slipping past distracted security and tipsy patrons, until they reached the Sumerian exhibit once more.

Only this time, the lights were off.

Tim frowned behind his mask. “That's not ominous at all.”

“Should we announce ourselves?” Damian asked, already reaching for his sword.

“No,” Bruce answered curtly, gesturing for silence.

That’s when the voices drifted through the shadows. Muffled, conversational, and—oddly—playful.

“I dunno, Kitty,” a teen male voice said, exasperated but not particularly hurried. “Mama said not to overindulge, and we already got most of the artifacts we wanted.”

Tim blinked. Mama? Oh great. A new Cat-themed villain with actual parental boundaries.

“Sure,” replied a teen girl, voice bright with amusement. “But look at this diamond, Stray. Tell me it’s not gorgeous. Wouldn’t it look perfect in our collection?”

There was a dramatic sigh, the kind of sigh that implied someone had already lost this argument many times before.

“Mmhhmm... you know what? Fine. What’s one more diamond in the bag?”

That was their cue. The trio advanced, silent as breath, until they reached the edge of the display hall and got their first clear look at the culprits.

It… wasn’t Catwoman.

It was a girl, sure—dressed in what looked like a Catwoman suit, but styled after a tuxedo cat, complete with white accents at her gloves, boots and torso. Her partner, taller and broader, wore a sleeker suit—blacker than night and painted to his skin, save for white hands and feet—and had a calm posture that said yes, I do this a lot and no, I’m not impressed by any of you. Both wore green-tinted goggles that glowed faintly in the dark, and both had visible tufts of snow-white hair peeking from their hoods.

Tim stared. “Okay, so… not Catwoman.”

“No,” Bruce confirmed, grim.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “They are amateurs.”

“Amateurs who just stole a priceless diamond,” Tim muttered. “And called it ‘pretty.’”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “We move. Now.”

Batman dropped down in front of the display case like thunder in a cape, his shadow stretching long and ominous over the marble floor.

Red Robin and Robin flanked him a beat later, dramatic and ready—Tim in full tactical mode, Damian practically vibrating with the urge to stab something.

“Step away from the artifacts,” Batman growled.

The two teens froze mid-theft. The girl blinked behind her green goggles. The boy raised an unimpressed brow that none of them could see but everyone could feel.

“Oh no,” the girl deadpanned, dramatically clutching the diamond to her chest. “It’s the law.”

“Panic,” the boy muttered with a lazy smirk.

“You’re trespassing on federal property,” Batman continued, all gravel and menace. “Surrender. Now.”

“Hmm,” the girl—Kitty—tilted her head. “No thanks.”

“Yeah,” the boy—Stray, apparently—shrugged. “We’re kind of indoor ferals. Surrendering isn’t in the skill set.”

Tim lunged first. He was fast, calculated, and nearly caught her.

Nearly.

Kitty somersaulted backward over a Sumerian statue with all the grace of an Olympic gymnast raised by a jungle cat. She landed en pointe on the exhibit railing, wiggled her fingers in a “ta-ta” motion, and vanished into the shadows like smoke.

Damian growled and went after Stray. “I will neuter you.”

“Big words, Bird Boy,” Stray laughed, ducking and weaving as Damian’s staff sliced through empty air. “But you gotta catch me first.”

Batman threw a batarang—clean, perfect arc, museum-quality aim.

It bounced off the floor as Stray backflipped over it, landing in a low crouch. “Mama warned us about this. Rule number one: Don’t play fetch with the Bat, you aren't a dog, you are a cat and cats has stabdards.”

“Not that she has anything to talk about” answer Kitty, sitting over a display. “She is the first one who plays cat and mouse with him”

Tim leapt from above, a textbook ambush.

Kitty twisted in midair, caught his cape mid-descent, and used it to swing him into a wall.

“Ow,” Tim muttered from the floor, sprawled in an undignified tangle of limbs and regrets. “That’s—okay. That’s fair.”

“Gotta admit,” Kitty said, lightly jogging backward while juggling the diamond between her hands, “you guys are way more coordinated than the usual mall cops.”

“But you still can’t catch us,” Stray added cheerfully, cartwheeling away from Damian’s latest sword swipe and Batman batarang. “Seriously, has anyone ever told you three you try really hard?”

“They’re cute,” Kitty said with mock affection. “Like, ‘aw, they think they’re scary’ cute. Specially the little one, you think I can add him to my display? I always wanted a bird”

“I call dibs on the one who smells like coffee!!”

Batman’s eyes narrowed. “Who trained you?”

They shared a glance. Then, in perfect unison:

“Mama did.”

Robin skidded to a stop, scowling. “You mean Catwoman.”

Stay grinned, sharp and smug. “We call her Mama. You probably call her when you're lonely.”

“Ooooh,” Kitty winced. “He’s gonna stab you for that.”

“Let him try.”

Another dive. Another swipe. Another miss.

They danced around the trio like mischievous spirits in catsuits, leaping, tumbling, and disappearing behind columns and curtains, always just out of reach.

By the time security finally wandered in—late, confused, and holding tiny flashlights—the Sumerian wing looked like someone had hosted a parkour-themed wedding in it.

The only thing left of the mysterious teens?

A single calling card, perched atop the display case like a signature.

It was shaped like a white paw print.

Tim picked it up and read aloud, “From Mama’s kittens, with love.”

Damian scowled. “I hate cat rogues.”

Batman just stared at the shadows, his voice low. “She trained them.”

“Yeah,” Tim muttered, rubbing his sore shoulder. “And apparently, she trained them too well.”

[ghouljams]

THE ICECREAM BIT, THE WAY HE WOKE READER UP OH MY GODDDD THEY’RE SO CUTEEEE 😭

Give it up for John Mactavish, the superior john, everyone!

you're a lucky wife and John is a doting husband. It's actually funny, his unreasonable affections for you have become the norm in your household. Your children will never know a home that isn't full of love, and you are never more appreciative of that than when you meet John Price.

You have never met a man you hated immediately. Until you met your husband's Captain. You first meet him when Johnny invites him to one of your family cook outs. His wife --lovely girl, completely misguided in a way that makes your heart sick to see- is far too young for him and his face is far too sour. He barely speaks to you, ignores you so completely that you feel Johnny sour beside you. You're sure that John is used to women who don't stand up to his posturing, well, you're not that woman.

You're not polite when you lay into him. Quiet hissed voice, making sure the kids don't hear you swear at this man up and down that if he can't behave in your house then he can leave and never come back. Or better yet, you can put him over your knee the way you're sure he's dying to do to your children --the way he keeps looking at your littles, their shrieking joy and messy hands, like they're animals running amok in need of correction-- and see how he likes it.

You don't see his wife again, but John is better behaved the next time you see him. You're loath to invite him back to your home, and you don't but you accompany Johnny to his next wedding with glee. At least this wife is a slightly more appropriate age, and you tell her that at the wedding, already eager to get her out. You give her your card and invite her to your family's cook-out.

You know John won't come.

And you spend the afternoon offering your home to a woman you don't know, purely out of spite for a man you do.

You're overjoyed to drive to the hospital with her when she divorces him, and happier still to let your wee ones crowd close to look at her new little. Johnny scribbles his name on the birth certificate with a resolved grumble, and you rest easy in the knowledge that you sabotaged a man's marriage so handily.

You've always wanted a sister, who knew you'd get one from another man's marriage.

[xoxochb]

early birds — 💌 ⋆˚࿔

a/n: the girl dad! percy brainrot has taken over I fear………

quietly, slowly, silently.

you had been unfortunate enough to hear your four month old daughter’s crying in the early morning. the sun had just barely been peeking out through the lacy curtains when her whines were growing audible.

on the other hand, percy had been fortunate enough to sleep through it entirely. your husband sleeps soundly in your shared bed, like a baby himself. his arms tucked beneath the pillow he drools all over.

you’d noticed, other than their green eyes, that was another similarity he shared with your daughter, lily.

since percy had slept in this morning, you would not allow him that peace for very long. you step into the bedroom with meticulous efforts to keep silent.

lily, however, squeals as she sees her father laying in bed, outstretching her hands in that direction. you nod eagerly at her, whispering an, “I know, I know,” before sitting down beside percy.

you allow him only a few seconds more of rest before you curl back into the blankets and place the baby between the both of you.

with the most happiness you may have ever seen, lily begins (in an attempt) to crawl over percy’s bare back, pressing her hands down against it to lift herself up.

he begins to squirm beneath her, his face rubbing tiredly against the pillow. the infant squeals again in glee, falling back against the sheets.

you pick her up, setting her propped against you to watch as her father wakes from his slumber. percy’s eyes flutter open as they adjust to the morning light. he turns his head in your direction, meeting your eyes before finding lily’s.

his lips turn upwards when he realizes the culprit behind his waking. in one swift movement, percy takes his daughter within his arms, hugging her against his chest.

she smiles similarly, nuzzling into his tanned chest. percy presses a kiss against the top of her head.

“good morning, sunshine.”

the infant did not respond, instead babbling absolute nonsense. her chubby hand wraps around his necklace made of seashells, trying to shove them into her slobbery mouth, but percy backs away before she can.

while the baby is occupied, percy returns his gaze back to you to linger longer. he takes in your appearance from your messy hair to bare thighs just wear your nightdress slips up.

“you should have woken me up.”

you shrug. “lily did. she likes doing that.”

“was she crying?”

“for a little bit.” you take her free hand into yours, softly rubbing your thumb over her tiny knuckles. “but she was fine as soon as she saw me.”

percy looks down at lily who has no interest in you anymore. but heaps of attention for him. his eyes return to yours with a smirk.

“I said was,” you defend. “past tense.”

“at least you’re self aware.”

you groan and attempt to slip out of the bed in hopes of a shower before lily’s first morning feeding. but percy has other plans and pulls you back down to lay as close to him as possible.

which isn’t very much since lily takes up the portion of space between the both of you. she laughs at the sight of her parents entrapping her, kicking her feet.

she doesn’t spare you a second glance before she buries herself in her father again. that’s fine. it was clear she had a favorite. percy basks in the attention from his daughter, clearly in spite of you.

you squint your eyes at him, shaking your head slowly. “I’ll leave you two be then.”

“see ya.”

“I love you too!” you throw out exasperatedly, making your way, multitasking, on your way to the connected bathroom.

“I love you!”

[pearlessance]

this pic of tommy😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

the mustache the hair the vein in his neck the HANDS

IM SUPPOSED TO BE WRITING CHAPTER THREE OF CC BUT THIS MAKES ME WANT TO WRITE FOR CRAZY BLOOD THIRSTY POST OUTBREAK TOMMY RAAGGHHHHHH SOMEBODY SEDATE MEEE

[butchsucker]

WANNA BET?

pairing: ellie williams/abby anderson

contents: 18+ content!! bottom!ellie, service top!abby, fucking out of spite?, pussy eating, fingering, finger sucking, hair-pulling, slight edging, squirting

word count: 4,967

It’s always a fight between Ellie and Abby. Always. Not the serious kind, but the kind that feels incredibly immature and incredibly fun. And, keeping it honest, it’s pretty much always Ellie’s fault. She thrives on competition like it’s oxygen. Loves to win. Loves it even more when she can lean back, all smug and triumphant, and shove that win right in Abby’s face.

She’ll turn literally anything into a contest—arm-wrestling, five-second trivia, how long they can go without blinking. On occasion, she's even childish enough to stoop to the random breath-holding contest. The thing is, Ellie doesn’t really care what they’re doing. She just wants Abby’s full attention, undivided and locked on her, like a spotlight. She wants to feel like she’s the center of the goddamn universe, even if it means being obnoxious to get there.

Naturally, she doesn’t always win. Honestly, she suspects she loses more often than she realizes—Abby has that frustrating little half-smile she wears when she’s holding back, letting Ellie have the victory like she’s a kid who needs it more. And that makes Ellie absolutely feral. If Abby’s letting her win, it doesn’t count. It’s not real. It just lights a fire in Ellie’s chest and makes her double down, desperate to prove she’s got the edge fair and square.

Which is how she ends up in her current predicament: flat on her back at the mercy of Abby Anderson.

It had all started earlier that evening. Joel had gone off on one of his trips with Tess, and Ellie—left alone in the big, echoey farmhouse—texted Abby like reflex. Come over. I’m bored. Abby showed up less than an hour later, because of course she did.

They made dinner. Or rather, Abby made dinner while Ellie hovered, stealing bites straight from the pan and offering commentary like a backseat chef. Abby grumbled but let her do it, because she always does. Afterward, they sprawled on the couch in the den, half-watching a movie neither of them were really paying attention to. It was comfort. Familiar. Normal.

Then, inevitably, things derail because Ellie can’t help herself. It's a talent, really. One minute they’re trading stories and half-watching a movie, and the next, the conversation takes a sharp left into explicit territory. It’s just what she does. She could say it’s because she’s sexually liberated, a modern woman unafraid to talk about her desires. Abby, however, tends to chalk it up to Ellie being a huge pervert.

“I refuse to believe you’re fucking more than me,” Ellie declares, throwing her head back onto the couch with theatrical flair. “I bet you suck at it anyway. That’s why you have so many lovers.”

Abby snorts, low and indulgent. “Oh yeah?”

“Don’t feel too bad, Abs,” Ellie says, patting Abby’s arm in a mock-sympathetic gesture. And if her hand lingers just a second longer than necessary, if her fingers press lightly into the definition of Abby’s bicep like she’s taking mental notes? That’s her business. “Some people just aren’t good at making girls come. It’s a skill. Not everyone’s got it. I do, though. You be safe out there.”

Abby turns toward her, slow and deliberate. The kind of shift that feels like it changes the air pressure in the room. Her gaze sharpens, unreadable and dark, eyes narrowing like she’s solving an equation Ellie doesn’t even know she posed.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Abby says, voice calm but with just the barest edge of amusement, “I’d think you’re fishing, Williams.”

Ellie barely manages to suppress the smirk that tugs at her lips. She angles her face toward the ceiling, wide-eyed and faux-innocent. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Abby leans in slightly—close enough for Ellie to catch the faint scent of her shampoo, something clean and vaguely woodsy. Her smile is razor-sharp and wickedly patient.

“If you want me to make you come,” she says, voice dropping into something low and rich and dangerous, “you can just ask.”

And just like that, Ellie’s brain short-circuits.

A logical, intelligent person would hit pause here. Maybe consider the ramifications of sleeping with your friend—of crossing a line that once blurred won’t easily go back. But logic has taken a backseat, and her brain is currently mush. Abby’s voice has gone husky, oozing with intent, and Ellie is struggling to remember her own name, let alone any sound reasoning.

Still, she can’t give in. Not all at once. That’s not how this works. There are rules to the game. Posturing. Banter. Pride.

“As if you could make me come,” she fires back, with the kind of cocky bravado that’s meant to provoke. Because it always has to be a fight.

"Wanna bet?"

Ellie can't help the shit-eating grin that spreads across her lips. "Oh, you're on." She has never wanted to lose more in her life.

There’s a beat where neither moves, but everything shifts. And then they’re moving, like a dam’s burst open and both of them are caught in the flood.

Abby’s the first to stand, and Ellie scrambles up after her, grabbing Abby’s wrist with a breathless, “Come on,” as she tugs her toward the stairs.

They barely make it through the doorway before Ellie’s kicking aside the piles of laundry cluttering her floor. She grabs a shirt, a pair of jeans, maybe a sock—who knows—and tosses them all toward the corner in a desperate attempt at clearing space.

“Jesus, Els,” Abby says with a grin, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind her. “You live like this?”

“Shut up,” Ellie huffs, a little out of breath, “you’re lucky I even have sheets on the bed.”

Abby wastes no time. She crosses the room in three easy strides and suddenly she’s there—right there—crowding Ellie back until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. Her presence is impossible to ignore, all heat and height and solid muscle. Ellie swallows, defiant and breathless all at once.

And then Abby kisses her.

It’s not a soft, testing kind of kiss—it’s all confidence and hunger, her hands already on Ellie’s waist, her mouth insistent and sure. Ellie meets it with fire of her own, hands fisting into the front of Abby’s shirt like she can anchor herself there, like she needs something to hold onto or she’ll float off the planet entirely.

Abby pulls back just long enough to smirk. “Going soft already? You must really like losing.”

“I’m not losing,” Ellie snaps, cheeks flushed, lips kissed pink. “You wish.”

But her voice trembles slightly, and Abby doesn’t miss it.

“Oh, baby,” Abby murmurs, low and indulgent, brushing her fingers under the hem of Ellie’s shirt. “You’re already squirming.”

“I’m not,” Ellie lies—bold-faced, trembling, backed up against her own bed while Abby towers over her. It's a difficult sight not to be moved by. “I just didn't know you'd be so aggressive.”

Abby laughs, that slow, dangerous laugh again. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

She tugs Ellie’s shirt up and off in one smooth motion, Ellie raising her arms automatically, like her brain’s too busy short-circuiting to protest. Abby’s hands are on her immediately, calloused and warm, slow enough to be thorough, fast enough to make Ellie’s knees feel like a suggestion.

“You gonna keep running your mouth,” Abby murmurs, pressing her thigh between Ellie’s legs as she lowers her gently onto the bed, “or are you gonna let me win for once?”

Ellie grabs a fistful of Abby’s shirt, yanking her down for another kiss that’s more teeth than lips. “M'not like you. I never let you win.”

“Oh, I know,” Abby says, mouth trailing kisses down Ellie’s jaw, then lower still, “But I don’t need you to let me.”

Ellie’s breath catches. Abby grins against her skin.

“God, you’re responsive,” she says, voice low and awed and way too smug. “You act all tough but the second I touch you…”

“I swear to god,” Ellie hisses, fingers digging into Abby’s shoulders like she’s trying to anchor herself back to that last shred of dignity, “if you keep narrating—”

“What?” Abby grins, biting lightly at Ellie’s collarbone. “It’s cute. You’re cute.”

“Shut up.”

Ellie’s demand is only granted because Abby, mercifully, finds a better use for her mouth.

She closes her lips around Ellie’s nipple, warm and wet, flicking her tongue over the hardening bud with maddening precision. Ellie’s breath hitches. Her hips twitch. Abby anchors her with one firm hand splayed across her stomach, keeping her grounded, steadying her like she knows exactly how close she is to unraveling already. And maybe she does.

Her free hand trails downward, fingers tracing the bare skin of Ellie’s stomach with infuriating slowness, dancing just above the waistband of her sleep shorts. She doesn’t even slip her hand beneath them—just grazes along the edge, lazy and teasing, and it’s shameful how much that alone affects Ellie. She bites her lip hard, trying to choke down the sound trying to claw its way up her throat.

Abby hums against her skin, lips dragging to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention—this time adding a gentle bite that makes Ellie gasp aloud, sharp and helpless.

“That was a pretty sound,” Abby murmurs, her voice low and smug against Ellie’s chest, breath hot and heavy. Her fingers finally slip beneath the soft cotton of Ellie’s waistband, knuckles brushing lower. “Got any more for me?”

“Fuck you,” Ellie breathes, voice trembly and defensive and far too raw to sound convincing.

“That’s not very nice,” Abby says, straightening just enough to pout. Pout. Like she hasn’t already wrecked Ellie’s ability to form complete thoughts. “And here I am being so generous.”

Ellie opens her mouth to throw something back—something cutting or flippant or clever—but Abby’s already sliding down, mouth dragging hot kisses lower and lower, along her ribs, the curve of her belly, across the sensitive dip of her hip. Her fingers hook the waistband of Ellie’s shorts and panties, tugging them down slowly as she goes, her lips following every inch of skin revealed like it’s a damn pilgrimage.

By the time the shorts are halfway down her thighs, Ellie’s practically vibrating with tension, propped on her elbows and watching with wide eyes, like if she looks away she’ll lose her grip on whatever control she thinks she still has.

Abby kneels at the edge of the bed and makes a show of dragging Ellie’s shorts all the way off, tossing them somewhere behind her without so much as a glance. Then she slides her arms beneath Ellie’s thighs, lifting and pulling her forward with ease—like she weighs nothing, like Abby’s body was built for this exact moment. Ellie lets out a surprised, involuntary breath as her back hits the mattress and Abby settles between her legs on the floor, close and steady and entirely too composed.

“Jesus,” Ellie mutters, trying to sound annoyed instead of wrecked. “You having fun manhandling me?”

Abby grins, her hands spreading over the outside of Ellie’s thighs like she’s staking a claim. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Ellie snaps, then immediately realizes how that sounds. “I mean—I wasn’t not—ugh, shut up.”

Abby chuckles, low and satisfied, like Ellie’s fluster is a gift. She presses a kiss to the inside of one thigh, then another, working her way in slow, teasing circles, watching Ellie squirm above her.

“You know,” Abby says between kisses, her breath hot and maddening against sensitive skin, “for someone who talks so much, you’re awfully quiet now.”

Ellie glares down at her, chest heaving, hair wild. “Maybe you should take a page from my—fuck.”

The rest of the sentence dissolves into a ragged moan as Abby licks a long, purposeful stripe through her center and buries her face like she’s been starving for this. Her arms hook tighter under Ellie’s thighs, dragging her closer with the kind of strength that makes her head spin. There’s no patience, no pretense—just Abby, utterly gone for it, moaning into her like she’s tasting something sacred, rocking slightly like she can’t help herself.

Ellie fists the sheets at her sides, back arching off the mattress. “Holy shit,” she breathes, voice cracking at the edges.

Abby doesn't let up. She’s messy with it, relentless. Her tongue works in slow, devastating patterns one second, then flicks quick and eager the next. She’s loud—obscene, even—the wet sounds, the soft groans of appreciation, the way she keeps muttering things into Ellie like she’s praying into her.

“So fucking good,” Abby mumbles, barely audible but desperate, needy. “Tastes so good, baby. Can’t get enough.”

Ellie feels like she’s going to combust. Her pride, her wit, her well-practiced bravado is slipping through her fingers like sand. She tangles one hand in Abby’s hair, tugging sharply, and Abby groans in response—like she likes that, like it only eggs her on.

Ellie tries to keep her voice steady. “You're such a try-hard.”

Abby doesn’t even look up. “You love it.”

Ellie lets out a frustrated, fractured sound, thighs tightening around Abby’s shoulders. She’s getting close, closer than she’s willing to admit, her hips rocking helplessly, chasing the rhythm Abby’s set. Her other hand clutches Abby’s wrist like a lifeline.

“God—fuck, Abby—don’t stop, don’t—”

But she does. Just as Ellie’s about to tip over the edge, Abby pulls away with a slick mouth and flushed cheeks, looking far too pleased with herself.

“Gonna come already?” she asks, smug and breathless. “Ready to lose already?”

Ellie glares down at her, panting. Her legs twitch in protest, every nerve still thrumming.

“No,” she bites, trying to sound indignant instead of wrecked. “I wasn’t.”

“Oh?” Abby’s eyes sparkle as she kisses her inner thigh again, slow and teasing. “Sounded like it.”

“I wasn’t,” Ellie insists, dragging her fingers through her own hair, trying to collect herself and failing. “You stopped before anything happened.”

Abby tilts her head, resting her chin just above Ellie’s knee. “So you’re saying I should keep going?”

Ellie narrows her eyes. “I’m saying you better.”

Abby grins, pleased beyond measure. “Say please.”

Ellie groans. “I hate you.”

Abby clicks her tongue, amusement dancing behind her eyes as she stands with a slow, predatory stretch. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and for one harrowing second, Ellie thinks she’s going to stop. But then Abby’s gaze drops back down, dark and knowing.

“Looks like you just need a little more,” she says, voice rich with promise. “You’re not gonna make this easy for me, are you?”

“Gotta make you work for it,” Ellie fires back, trying to sound flippant—but the tremor in her voice gives her away.

That smug grin on Abby’s face only sharpens. Without breaking eye contact, she peels off her clothes with calm, deliberate ease, letting each piece fall into a careless pile. Ellie tries not to stare. Fails spectacularly. The muscle, the sheer presence of Abby is overwhelming. Broad shoulders. Defined arms. Solid core. It’s all too much and not enough all at once.

Abby climbs back onto the bed like she owns it—like she owns her—and drags Ellie with her. There’s no room for protest, not when Ellie finds herself suddenly straddling Abby’s hips, bare skin pressed to bare skin, heat radiating between them like an open flame.

Ellie swallows hard, pulse hammering in her throat. Her hands instinctively find Abby’s shoulders, clinging there like they’re the only solid thing left in the world.

Abby lifts one hand, cradles Ellie’s jaw with unexpected tenderness, thumb stroking over the apple of her cheek. “Be good,” she murmurs, voice low and intimate. “Open for me.”

She traces her finger along the seam of Ellie’s lips.

They part with a shameful sort of eagerness.

Abby’s smile deepens—something soft but wicked. “Good girl,” she praises, and Ellie nearly melts on the spot.

Then Abby slips two fingers past her lips, slow and sure. Ellie lets her, her mouth closing around them automatically. Abby doesn’t thrust—yet—just lets them sit heavy on Ellie’s tongue, warm and slick with the faint taste of her. Ellie breathes through her nose, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Then Abby begins to move.

She fucks Ellie’s mouth with her fingers in lazy, controlled strokes—gentle at first, coaxing her open, then deeper, filthier. Her other hand rests on the back of Ellie’s neck, holding her steady, thumb brushing the nape of her neck in an oddly grounding rhythm. The whole thing is maddeningly slow, and Ellie can’t tell if she’s being teased or tamed.

“You look so good like this,” Abby murmurs, watching her with open hunger. “Mouth full. Eyes all hazy.”

Ellie glares at her—well, tries to. The effect is somewhat undercut by the fact that she’s choking slightly around Abby’s fingers, breathing hard through her nose, cheeks flushed with heat.

“Still gonna pretend you’re not into this?” Abby teases, fingers pressing deeper. “You’re dripping. I can feel it.”

Ellie whimpers, just barely, and hates herself for it.

Abby pulls her fingers free with a soft pop, dragging them slowly across Ellie’s bottom lip, wiping up a mess she made.

“There she is,” Abby whispers. “Still gonna be stubborn, huh?”

Ellie licks her lips, refusing to look away. “You haven’t earned it yet.”

Abby grins—sharp and devastating.

“Oh,” she says, voice rough with anticipation, “I will.”

At a maddeningly slow pace, Abby works her middle finger into Ellie’s warm heat. Ellie’s thighs twitch where they straddle her hips, her whole body instinctively clenching down around the intrusion.

“You’re so fucking wet, Els,” Abby murmurs, utterly transfixed by the slick glide. Her voice is low, reverent, almost awed. “You can take another, can’t you, baby?”

“Yeah,” Ellie breathes, already nodding, hands clutching at Abby’s biceps. “Fuck. Yeah.”

Abby obliges, sliding a second finger in with deliberate care, watching the way Ellie reacts—her eyes fluttering, lips parting around a sharp, desperate gasp. Abby flexes her fingers inside her, curling up just enough to make Ellie jerk, her hips stuttering without her meaning to.

“There it is,” Abby says with a grin. “Thought I felt that spot.”

She keeps her fingers still for a moment, just inside, letting Ellie get used to the stretch—but also letting the anticipation build. Her free hand travels up, calloused fingers skating over Ellie’s ribs before cupping one breast, thumb brushing lazily over the nipple.

Ellie moans—quiet, but unmistakable.

“Ride ’em,” Abby says, her voice slipping into something firm. Commanding. “C’mon. Show me how bad you want it.”

Ellie hesitates for half a second—then obeys, sinking down onto Abby’s hand with a shaky breath. The stretch, the fullness—it’s too much and not enough, and the angle has her grinding forward without even thinking. She rocks her hips again, then again, building a rhythm that makes her whole body tremble.

“That’s it,” Abby coaxes, her thumb pinching Ellie’s nipple just enough to make her gasp. “God, you’re so fucking hot like this.”

Her other hand slides between them, finding Ellie’s clit with a practiced touch that’s almost cruel in its precision. The moment she brushes it, Ellie’s hips falter, a broken whimper escaping her throat.

“Sensitive, huh?” Abby teases, fingers curling again deep inside her. “Thought you were gonna win, baby.”

“I—shut up,” Ellie pants, aiming for stern. Her breath is coming in uneven bursts now, every nerve in her body strung tight.

“Oh, I like you like this,” Abby whispers. “All loud and needy. So much for keeping quiet.”

Ellie chokes on a sound that might be a moan or a curse—she doesn’t even know anymore. Abby keeps up the pressure, circling her clit in time with the thrust of her fingers. Every curl inside her makes her thighs shake. She tries to keep control, tries to hold on, but it’s slipping—fast.

“Abby—fuck—Abby, please.”

Abby’s lips curve in smug delight. “There she is. Begging already.”

“Shut up,” Ellie groans, but it’s breathless, wrecked, her hips chasing Abby’s hand like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Say it again.”

Ellie shudders, her pride crumbling around her. “Please. Please don’t stop.”

Abby rewards her with a rougher thrust, curling her fingers deep and brushing right up against that devastating spot inside her. Ellie cries out, head thrown back, mouth open.

Ellie’s rhythm starts to stutter, her breath catching with each snap of her hips. Abby’s fingers are relentless now—slick and steady, curling just right, rubbing against that unbearable spot inside her while her thumb circles her clit with maddening precision.

“You close, baby?” Abby murmurs, gaze locked on Ellie’s flushed, wrecked face. “You gonna come for me?”

“Fuck...you,” Ellie gasps, which isn’t a no.

Abby grins, cruel and delighted. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Ellie tries to hold on. She wants to hold on. But her body betrays her—hips jerking erratically, thighs trembling, a guttural sound clawing its way out of her throat as her climax tears through her. She crashes forward into Abby, moaning into her shoulder as she rides it out, her whole body taut and shaking.

Abby slows her hand, easing her through it, fingers still buried inside her. When Ellie finally collapses, boneless and breathless against her chest, Abby chuckles low in her throat.

“So,” she says, cocky as ever. “Looks like I just made you come.”

Ellie lifts her head, hair wild, eyes still half-lidded and hazy. “Nu-uh.”

Abby blinks. “What?”

Ellie smirks, voice hoarse but triumphant. “You can't prove it.”

Abby narrows her eyes. “You cannot be serious.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Ellie says, trying to shrug even as her limbs are jelly. “It's your word against mine.”

Abby withdraws her fingers slowly—so slowly that Ellie shivers at the loss—and holds them up between them. They glisten in the low light, absolutely soaked. Abby raises one brow as she licks them clean, savoring the taste with an exaggerated hum.

“Well,” she says, tone dripping with faux sweetness, “this tastes like someone came.”

Ellie bites her lip, not quite hiding her blush. “Well, when you really think about it, I was the one doing the riding. That orgasm was pretty much self-inflicted.”

“Oh, is that right?”

Before Ellie can blink, Abby grabs her by the hips and flips her over with terrifying ease, pinning her to the mattress with one strong arm braced above her head. Her body hovers over Ellie’s, all heat and muscle and unyielding presence.

“You just love making things difficult,” Abby growls, dipping her head to nip at Ellie’s jaw. “Guess we’ll just have to go again.”

Ellie stares up at her, lips parting like she’s about to protest—only to let out a breathless squeak as Abby presses her back into the mattress with her hips, grinding slow and heavy against her still-sensitive core.

“I'm not stopping until you know it was me,” Abby whispers, grinning against her throat. “No more technicalities.”

Ellie swallows hard, already breathless again. “Fine,” she mutters, trying to sound unaffected.

Ellie doesn’t even get the chance to gather her breath before Abby’s trailing kisses down her body, slow and deliberate, all heat and teeth and quiet little promises. Ellie tries to keep her face neutral, tries not to look as undone as she feels, but her heart is hammering and her thighs are already trying to close.

“Don’t even think about it,” Abby warns, pushing them apart with ease. Her strength is casual, effortless, but Ellie feels it like a pulse in her core. “You wanted to be stubborn. Now you get the full treatment.”

Ellie snorts, or tries to. It comes out as more of a shaky exhale. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re so wet,” Abby shoots back, dragging her tongue along Ellie’s inner thigh. “Which means I get to be.”

She licks a path up, purposefully avoiding where Ellie wants her most. Ellie groans, rolling her hips upward in a silent plea, but Abby presses a firm hand to her stomach to keep her pinned.

“Nu-uh. Use your words.”

“Are you serious right now?” Ellie huffs.

Abby gives her a look. “I haven’t even started being serious.”

Then, without warning, she leans in and finally takes Ellie into her mouth. She flattens her tongue and drags it slow and heavy up through her folds, lingering on her clit just long enough to make Ellie whimper.

Ellie’s hand flies into Abby’s hair, fingers tightening, not guiding so much as holding on for dear life. Abby moans against her, the vibration shooting straight through Ellie’s spine.

Then, just as Ellie’s starting to fall into it, Abby pulls back.

“Beg.”

Ellie blinks down at her, eyes wide. “Are you kidding me—”

Abby raises a brow, her fingers already teasing at Ellie’s entrance. “You wanna come again?” she asks, all saccharine cruelty. “Then tell me what you want.”

“You are such a fuckin' asshole.”

“That’s not a request.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. Abby please make me come with your stupid mouth and your big, stupid fingers.”

Abby looks at her for a long moment, clearly not amused by her lack of effort. Heat rises to Ellie's cheeks as she chokes down what little bit of her pride remains. "Abby," she says, voice impossibly soft. "Please...please make me feel good. I want you to make me come."

Abby grins, savage and satisfied. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

And then she’s on her again, mouth latching onto Ellie’s clit with unrelenting purpose. Her fingers slide in—three this time, easy from how wet Ellie is—and immediately curl, hitting that same devastating spot that made her fall apart the first time.

Ellie’s whole body arches off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from her lips. Abby keeps the pressure perfect, sucking and flicking her tongue while her fingers work a steady rhythm that has Ellie falling apart at the seams.

“Abby. Abby. Abby! Don't stop...fuck, please don't stop.”

Abby doesn’t. If anything, she doubles down, one arm thrown across Ellie’s hips to hold her down as she fucks her with mouth and fingers in perfect, brutal tandem. Every flick, every thrust sends sparks up Ellie’s spine, her vision going white at the edges. She feels like she's going to die.

“Abby—Abby. Fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” Abby growls, pulling back just enough to speak. Her breath is hot and damp against Ellie’s skin. “You’re gonna. Come on, Els. Give it to me.”

That’s all it takes.

Her hips buck, legs trembling violently as her orgasm hits like a tidal wave. It’s too much, her body going tight, then loose, then tight again as a gush of wetness spills out around Abby’s fingers. Abby groans, watching it happen like she’s witnessing something holy, and doesn’t stop until Ellie is gasping for air, her voice hoarse and broken, hands fisting the sheets.

Abby finally slows, drawing her fingers out gently and licking them clean without shame.

“Well,” she says smugly, collapsing beside Ellie with a self-satisfied sigh. “I think that one was definitely me.”

Ellie, still blinking up at the ceiling like she’s trying to remember what year it is, manages a breathless, “...Fuck...my sheets.”

But her voice is ruined.

Ellie isn’t sure how long she’s been lying there, half-sprawled and vaguely boneless, but she's more concerned with corralling her soul back into her body.

Abby finally climbs off the bed, tugging on a pair of sweatpants and walking like she just won the fuckin’ Olympics.

“Stay put,” she says, voice a low rumble as she leans down and presses a kiss to Ellie’s forehead. “I got you.”

Ellie hums something between a groan and a purr as Abby disappears into the bathroom. She hears water running, a drawer open and close, and then Abby’s back—gentle, focused, and annoyingly competent as she helps Ellie clean up with a warm, damp cloth and soft hands.

“I can do that,” Ellie mutters, face burning even as she melts under the attention.

“Yeah?” Abby raises an eyebrow, dabbing at Ellie’s thighs with exaggerated care. “You seemed pretty out of commission a second ago.”

Ellie flips her off weakly. Abby grins and kisses the tip of her finger before heading back to the bathroom.

When she returns, she tosses Ellie a cold bottle of water. “Hydrate or die-drate.”

Ellie fumbles it but gets it open. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to hit you with this.”

“I’ll take that as gratitude.”

Ellie doesn’t answer. She’s already rolled off the bed and curled herself into the squishy embrace of her oversized beanbag chair, wrapped in nothing but Abby’s shirt—which swallows her whole and still smells like detergent and sweat and Abby.

Abby starts stripping the bed of its very damp sheets without complaint, balling them up and tossing them into the laundry bin in the corner like this is just…everyday shit.

“Jesus,” Ellie mutters, watching her. “You’re so domestic.”

Abby glances over her shoulder and winks. “Just for you, Els.”

When the bed’s remade with fresh sheets and everything’s clean again, Abby scoops Ellie right out of her beanbag like she weighs nothing. Ellie squawks but doesn’t fight it, just buries her face in Abby’s shoulder and lets herself be carried like a very grumpy, very pleased kitten.

They settle under the blanket, tangled together, and it’s warm and quiet and soft. Abby stretches out on her back, Ellie half on top of her, tracing idle lines on her stomach with one finger.

“Just admit it,” Abby murmurs, her hand brushing lazily along Ellie’s spine. “I won.”

Ellie snorts. “You’re really proud of yourself, huh?”

“Extremely.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Oh?”

Ellie shifts, just enough to glance up at her. There’s still heat in her eyes, but now it’s tempered by sleep and something that might be affection. “I could probably make you come harder.”

Abby’s eyes spark with interest. “Wanna bet?”

Ellie grins, slow and sharp and sleepy. “Always.”

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest May Mayhem Bingo event.

a charity case

Prompt: Hate at First Sight | Word Count: 3450 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Underage Drinking, Canon Injuries | POV: Steve | Relationship(s): Steve & Everyone, Pre-Steddie | Tags: Set at the End of S3, Post Mall Fire, But Before the 3 Month Time Jump, Everybody's Coddling Steve, Except for Known Menace Eddie Munson

It starts out normal enough. As most things involving the little shitheads do, but it predictably only spirals from there. Dustin lures him home with the promise of Claudia's lasagna, and Steve's not one to ever turn down Claudia's home cooking. He's no fool. Even if his face hurts. Even if his head is pounding. Even if it hurts to turn his neck. Maybe he has whiplash from that car wreck.

It doesn't matter. He still goes, and they sit and eat in the living room, watching TV. Claudia worrying over the state of his face. Steve reassures her over and over that he's okay. That it looks worse than it feels. Honest.

Steve's not sure that's true, but it's just a little white lie. There's no reason for her to know what kind of danger Dustin had been so close to in the depths of hell in that cursed mall. That he did something stupid, reckless and really brave to save Steve and Robin. He's fine. They're all fine.

He shakes some aspirin out of the bottle in his glove box when he gets in the car, the same bottle from after that fight with Jonathan. The one that threw him into this whole mess in the first place. If he hadn't provoked Jonathan, if he hadn't been such an asshole, he'd probably never know anything about the Upside Down. He thinks about that a lot. 

But he'd also probably not know Henderson. He probably wouldn't have a new friend in Robin.

That's not a trade off he'd make. He wouldn't change anything. He wouldn't. But he does think about the what-ifs more than he'd ever admit to anyone else.

Steve tosses the pills in his mouth, and swallows them. He never paid Tommy back for them. He thinks that makes them work better, the spite somehow adding some extra strength to them. He'll be good for a few more hours, the ache in his skull hopefully waning long enough for him to fall asleep.

The next night Nancy calls and tells him to be ready, that Jonathan's gonna pick him up in twenty minutes. That they're going out for burgers. No kids allowed. They swing by and get Robin, and it's kind of fun. Just the four of them. Sure, his face still hurts from the Russian torture, but it's nice to get back to a bit of normal. They don't even talk about the Upside Down or the Russians or that godforsaken mall.

Under the bright lights of the diner, he can see the scrape on Robin's knee, the bruise surrounding it that's worse than it was that night. He touches the skin near it gently.

She bats his hand away, but smiles at him, "I'm fine, dingus."

If she's fine, he's fine, too.

On Sunday, Robin says he has to come to family dinner and meet her parents. They're demanding it, apparently, and won't take no for an answer. They want to know who saved their daughter from the fire. He didn't save her from anything, she saved herself. But he does great with meeting the folks, they usually love him, so he doesn't mind going. He puts on his best polo and makes sure his hair is combed a little neater than usual.

Turns out, her mom is a pretty damn good cook, and they're really kind. Warm. If a little overprotective. But it's nice. Robin's really lucky.

He thinks they assume he's her first boyfriend, and he doesn't make any corrections. Just stretches his arm across the back of her chair, and plays the part. This is familiar, well-trodden ground. Steve Harrington: Boyfriend. That's normal. He can do normal. So, for this moment, he's the old Steve Harrington again. The one before monsters fucked up his whole world. 

Charming, delightful and beloved. 

It's not until Monday that they all tip their hands. Steve figured it out when Erica was on the phone, inviting him to dinner at their house. He's never set foot in the Sinclair house. And he quickly realized he was being passed around like a hot potato. A charity case.

Poor Steve Harrington, with no parents at home to make sure he's okay.

He's fine on his own. He's been fine on his own for a long time.

But he still can't tell the kid no, not after everything they went through together. Scoops Troop Forever, and all that. And she's just doing her part. He's not sure who put her up to this, probably Henderson. So, he shows up and sits through the most awkward meal ever, with Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair not quite understanding why this older teen, especially one with a gnarly black eye, is friends with their children. 

He's Dustin's babysitter, Erica explains, and Steve pretends he doesn't hear Mrs. Sinclair calling Claudia on the phone to verify this story she's being fed. Claudia must vouch for him, and of course she would, because Claudia loves him.

After the dishes are washed, Steve walks down the driveway, and gets in his car, rolling the windows down. It's too warm, even after dark. But the summer breeze feels good against his still sore face, and he cruises through neighborhood after neighborhood. Smelling the lingering charcoal cookouts, and hearing a smattering of fireworks still being set off. He's not sure he'll ever be able to look at the Fourth of July the same again. Not with the kind of fireworks he experienced in that mall.

When he pulls up to a stop sign, he hears a band playing live music. It's a little rough, but he pauses in front of the house when catches sight of the open garage door, and sees four or five guys rocking out. A blur of motion and jumping around.

They're definitely entertaining themselves.

He doesn't recognize the song they're playing, but he's not sure if that's because they're bad or if he just doesn't know the song. He thinks it's the latter. 

Easing along the curb, he brakes so he can listen a little longer. In no hurry to get home. He squints, but he's not sure who they are. His vision has been kinda fucked since the other day, and he's getting concerned that it might not ever go back to normal.

Oh well. He'll deal with it, as is. His hearing is a bit iffy in his left ear, and he's figured out how to compensate for that. He can do the same with his eyes, if need be.

When they shift into AC/DC he's positive he just didn't know the last song. They really aren't half bad. 

It's not until there's a streak of black running across the lawn, that he realizes it's Eddie Munson's band he's been listening to play. Shit. 

Steve doesn't flee, he just waits for his tongue lashing for daring to do whatever Eddie's gonna excuse him of, just for being on the same street. Eddie has hated him from first sight, ranting about jocks and popularity and for some reason, his hair. Steve's never made any move to change his mind. It's useless. Eddie Munson has no give, no bend, it's his way or no way at all.

Best to avoid him whenever possible.

Eddie leans down into the passenger window, "Well, well, well, if it isn't Steve Harrington rapping on my chamber door."

Steve doesn't think he was rapping on anything, but okay. It's a free country. He's on a public street.

"I didn't realize this was your place," Steve says, because he didn't. He actually had no idea where Eddie lives. You don't seek out Eddie Munson. You cross the street to not deal with his big mouth bullshit whenever possible. Everybody knows that.

Eddie laughs, "This is Gareth's house. I live out at Forest Hills. You know. The trailer park. For the trailer trash."

Steve didn't say that. Steve didn't even think that. But there'll be no convincing Eddie Munson of anything. He thinks what he thinks, and says what he says. The rest of them just have to let it happen. So, Steve doesn't take the bait.

"You guys are pretty good," Steve says instead. A peace offering that'll never be accepted. But it's the truth, and you should tell the truth. Russian truth serum coursing through your veins or not. 

"So you decided to spy on us. Like a little pervert," Eddie accuses, then tugs on the door handle, plopping right into the passenger seat. He immediately starts going through the glove box. Steve doesn't have the energy to stop him, and really? What's he hiding in there? Aspirin? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. Let him look.

Eddie seems a little disappointed that he's not riling Steve up more, but Steve can't help that. He's too tired to argue about petty shit with Eddie Munson.

"Take me out to Fair Mart, will ya," he says, but it's not a question. More like a demand. "We need a six-pack."

Steve doesn't argue, just pulls away from the curb, and heads out towards the highway, Eddie Munson in tow.

And there he just thought eating an uncomfortable dinner with the Sinclairs was going to be the weirdest part of his night.

When he wheels up in front of the store, Eddie holds out his hand, "Got any money I can borrow?"

Steve sighs. He knows he won't get a damn dime back from Eddie Munson if he hands anything over, but he still fishes out the bills.

"How 'bout a fake ID? They won't sell to me. You go in."

"Fine," Steve says.

Eddie leans his head out the window, "Get two!"

Steve sighs. Leaving Eddie Munson alone in his car is a recipe for disaster, but he does it anyway. He comes back with two six-packs under his arms, and hands them to Eddie. Eddie immediately cracks one open in the car, putting his feet on Steve's dash. 

The old Steve would have protested. The new Steve's not sure he's got the energy for it. His head already hurts, and listening to Eddie Munson rant and rave about the injustice of being asked to not be rude and destructive isn't worth it. So he just backs out, pulling out onto the highway.

Back in front of their practice garage, Eddie bails out, without so much as a thank you. Leaving his empty beer bottle on the floorboard, slamming the car door as he goes. 

"You're welcome," Steve mutters under his breath, and pulls away from the curb.

Turns out, Eddie Munson is like a tick. Once he's attached, good luck getting him off cleanly without leaving the head behind. A constant, irritating itch, just beneath the skin.

Everywhere Steve goes, there he is, popping out from behind a bush. Wanting something. Needing something. 

He gets it. Find an easy mark, and bleed him dry. Steve's not sure he can actually be a mark if he knows what's happening. Just a sucker for letting Eddie repeatedly try to push his buttons.

"Harrington. We need a favor," Eddie says, standing on Steve's front step, and Steve crosses his arms, but is listening. 

"What?" he asks as he sees the three other members of Eddie's band stomping down the driveway. Swim trunks on, towels slung over their shoulders.

"We are under the impression that you have a pool," Eddie says, smiling like a goddamn wolf.

"The city has a pool. It's like a dollar to get in," Steve says.

"And you have a pool we could use for zero dollars," Eddie argues, and Steve sighs, but opens the door, letting them all inside. He doesn't even know their names. Well, one of them is Gareth. Which one is anybody's guess.

It doesn't matter. He's not using the pool, hasn't for a long time, not really. Not since Barb. 

But if they want to, more power to them, he supposes.

"Might need to skim it," Steve says, "the pool house is over there."

"Oh, sure, make the poor kid be your free labor, Harrington," Eddie bellyaches, but does fetch the pool skimmer. Only, he decides to thrash it against the water, beating it against the surface, splashing, being a general nuisance until one of the other guys grabs it from him and actually starts removing leaves.  

Steve sits in one of the lounge chairs, and is basically ignored as if he's not even there. That's fine. He didn't really expect anything else. It's not like they're his friends.

He watches as they shotgun beers, pilfered from the garage icebox, and smoke cigarettes poolside. Steve feels like he's been thrown back in time. He isn't this guy. Not anymore.

There are monsters in the world. 

He's been tortured. It's hard to take a deep breath, because his chest feels bruised, down deep. His head hurts all the time. His neck is stiff. His eyesight is a little blurry. There's still an annoying ringing in his ear.

Splashing around in the pool that Barb disappeared from isn't at all appealing.

But he learns their names by listening to them talk. Jeff. Goodie. And he figures out which one is Gareth. 

He stands, intending to head back towards the house, when Eddie comes out of nowhere, grabbing him around the waist, yanking him down into the pool with him. 

The old Steve would have loved this, would have enjoyed the roughhousing. Would have been the one to think of it first.

The new Steve shakes out his wet hair and thinks about his now soaked wallet.

He climbs out, and after changing his clothes, Mike shows up on his bike. Steve is ninety-four percent positive Mike's there to drag him off to whatever house has surely been forced into hosting him for dinner tonight.

No more. He's good. He appreciates it. But the babysitter doesn't need babysitting.

"Is that Eddie Munson in your pool?!" Mike screeches.

And Steve nods, at least Eddie Munson is good for something, "Yep. I have company. I can't come to dinner tonight. Sorry."

He's not sorry at all.

Eddie Munson is a nuisance, most definitely, but he just came in handy for an excuse to get out of having to suffer through a dinner with Ted staring at him all night long, looking at him like he knows the ways Steve's touched his daughter. He's not wrong.

Parents love him. Ted Wheeler does not.

"He runs Hellfire Club," Mike says, and Steve doesn't know what that is, "Introduce me. Introduce me. Do it, Steve. Do it. Maybe he'll let us join next year."

So, Steve does. What does he care? Mike can do whatever the fuck he wants as long as it's not a danger to himself or others.

Over the next few days, Steve evades, and the dinner invites eventually peter out. Steve's grateful. He gets what they were doing. He does. But it's not needed. He can take care of himself. Even if he has a headache today. The worst one he's ever had, maybe. Maybe even worse than the one after Billy tried to crack open his skull with that plate. 

He feels nauseous. And that's not being helped by someone ringing the doorbell incessantly. 

Billy's funeral is today. He should go, for Max. The guy tried to kill him, even before he was possessed or whatever. He was an asshole. But he also died fighting on the same side as them. He stood up, and helped them fight back.

That's not nothing. Helping when you can, Steve gets that. He's just lucky he didn't end up getting himself killed in the Byers' house when he took that first stand, picking up that bat, not at all knowing what the fuck he was getting himself into.

Steve can't get out of bed, though. 

The doorbell stops. Then starts up again. 

Henderson, probably.

Steve can't navigate the stairs. He can't. Not right now.

Instead, he yanks open the upstairs window, and the sunlight is too bright. He squeezes his eyes shut, squinting them open a crack.

"Hey! Cut it out."

It sounds weak, but that's the best he can manage right now.

Eddie steps back far enough from the house that Steve can see him, screaming, "What's up, Harrington? I need a favor!"

Of course he does.

"Not so loud. And not today, man," Steve calls back down, squeezing his eyes shut. He can't look at him while they talk. "My head's killing me."

Eddie's quiet. Too quiet, and Steve cracks open an eye. He expects a fight, but Eddie just holds up his hands, saying, "Okay. My bad."

That was far easier than he expected, but Steve closes the window, and yanks the curtains closed again, crawling back into bed.

Steve must have dozed off, because he jerks awake when he hears tapping on his window. He looks over. Through the small sliver the curtains aren't covering, Eddie Munson is holding a sack, waving him over.

Jesus Christ. He must have climbed up the side of the house.

As loath as he is to get up, he does it anyway, pushing up the window and shuffling back to the bed. Eddie will have to take care of the rest.

Eddie does, climbing over the now open window sill. He immediately starts removing stuff from his sack, and the smell of food hits Steve.

"You brought me food?" Steve asks, arm slung over his eyes.

"Don't read too much into it, Harrington," Eddie says, and Steve chuckles. 

"I'm not really hungry," Steve admits.

"I know. Eat it anyway," Eddie says, "Sit up."

Steve does.

Eddie hands him a bowl, and a spoon. Steve hurts too much to argue. He eats.

"Are you poisoning me?" Steve asks as he takes another bite. It's really good, but he's a little suspicious. This is too nice for Eddie Munson.

"Uncle Wayne would never," Eddie says.

"But you might?"

"I'm a loose cannon. Promises can't be made," Eddie says, lounging in Steve's chair, feet up on the desk. "Just eat it." 

Steve does. But he can't help but be curious.

"Why'd you bring me food?" Steve asks. It's very out of character for Eddie. Steve gives, Eddie takes. That's the standard.

This is an anomaly.

Eddie just shrugs, but finally says, "My mom had migraines."

Steve doesn't have a migraine. He has a headache. 

"I don't have a migraine," Steve says.

Eddie laughs, "Okay. Sure."

As soon as he's finished eating, Eddie takes the bowl, and then presses a knee into the mattress, leaning close to Steve's face. Steve swallows, eyes trained on him, waiting to see what he's gonna do next.

He has orange ear plugs pinched between his fingers, and he presses one into Steve's left ear, then one into his right. Steve has to adjust them, has to press them deeper, but Eddie gives him a thumbs up.

Then Eddie slides a black satin sleep mask over Steve's head, resting it over Steve's forehead. It feels like something his mother would wear, and Steve kind of laughs.

"Shut up, it's all they had at Melvald's," Eddie says, and then retreats right back out the window. 

Steve rolls over, pulls the mask down over his eyes and sleeps better than he has in weeks. 

Maybe Eddie Munson isn't all bad.

A few days later, Steve is the one that seeks Eddie out. He finds them in Gareth's garage, where they spend most days. He puts in his earplugs, taking a bit of the edge off, as he sits down to listen to Eddie and his band play. Eddie kicks open a cooler, an offer, and they don't really pay much attention to him after that.

They play. Steve listens, the sound slightly dampened by the earplugs. 

Corroded Coffin, the banner in the garage declares. 

When they wind down, sweaty and tired, Eddie comes over and plops down on the closed cooler lid.

"We play at The Hideout on Tuesday. Wanna come?"

Yeah, Steve thinks he does, actually. He nods, and the smile Eddie shoots him gives Steve unexpected butterflies in his stomach. 

"I'll be there," Steve agrees.

"Good, we need a roadie. It doesn't pay," Eddie says, and Steve rolls his eyes as Eddie cackles, slapping him on the knee. He's kidding. 

Steve knows he's kidding, now. He kind of wonders how much of Eddie Munson has always been misunderstood. Yes, he's abrasive. And kind of rude. But maybe some of it has just been for his own entertainment.

And if an Eddie that hates you is hard to shake, Steve's pretty sure an Eddie that likes you might be even worse.

To his shock, he's kind of interested in finding out.

And if you want to write your own, or see more entries in this pop-up, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to see other entries for the May Mayhem Bingo Event!

Notes: I know we all (myself included!) often tend to run with the idea that nobody worries about Steve, because Steve's not the squeaky wheel, begging for grease. But I thought, what happens if they ALL worry about him after the mall. 🥺

Fun fact: I originally wrote in after the fourth fireworks being illegal (not true in Indiana) and the illegal open container (also not true at the time in Indiana) before thinking to google those details. It was the wild west over in Hawkins. 🤣

[housemdork]

house md rewatch: 1x07, "fidelity"

they took a bunch of soap opera tropes and stuffed them full of painful ethical qualms about love. i love it.

i love this episode for many, many reasons; it shows the writers' skill in adapting preexisting medical drama tropes into much more rewarding and complex viewing experiences. but, more shallowly, i gotta admit that i'm thrilled by the Walking Ethical Qualm who kicks things off:

him and his fuck-ass "i want to look pretty at work" green tie. gone are the days when he is nothing but house's conscience! wilson does all the exposition work by foregrounding the moral issue of the hour: infidelity, and how it can be twisted by those who commit it and those who suffer the consequences. i'll save my wilson-centric yapping section for the end of this post lol. for now, let's take how house describes wilson's endemic cheating problem informs the rest of the episode: "you love everybody. that's your pathology."

the adulterers in the episode - wilson and the patient, elyse - both claim that they love their partners in spite of their behavior. house seems either A) unconcerned because he's seen his best friend have this problem a dozen times before or B) disinterested because he needed elyse's truth to solve the puzzle of her illness, not the downfall of her marriage. he's content to leave things where they lie - everybody lies.

cameron, however, is abundantly not content with this. and though they never share a scene together in this episode, cameron is profoundly affected by wilson's fidelity question in 1x07. house doesn't let cameron engage with elyse and her husband, ed, because he doesn't think she's prepared for those hard conversations post-1x04, the baby crisis. i think it's a valid concern, and it's one that wilson notoriously highlighted when he had to take the fall for cameron in 1x04. by all accounts, she isn't ready.

which is why it's shocking (and a little satisfying) to hear cameron tell ed that he is a shitty person for hoping his wife dies because she cheated on him. because house md loves to prod at the uncomfy parts of ordinary life, they've honed in on a moral grey area - surely it's not okay to wish death on someone for cheating...

and while it sorta feels like, on the surface, cameron is being something of a girls' girl here, she's actually sabotaging her own belief system and coming to the meta-textual defense of someone she's been shown not to agree with: wilson (hear me out on this lol). in the subsequent scene, cameron confides in house that her husband died at around 21 years old of thyroid cancer after they were married for 6 months (sidebar: this is arguably one of my very favorite pieces of backstory for all the characters). this is why she's so impacted by things like loss, betrayal, and lying. she acted on such pure intentions that it's especially jarring for her to witness cruelty, despite being very familiar with how hard Life (capital L) can be.

house is fascinated by this contradiction, and draws it out of cameron that she knew her husband was dying when they got married. then, my favorite exchange between house and cameron transpires: "and you married him anyway. you can't be that good a person and well-adjusted." "why?" "because you wind up crying over centrifuges." "or hating people?"

i said before that house can never take what he dishes out, especially to cameron, and this truly was the gag of the century that will follow house until the very end of the series. she sees such kindness in house, is so dedicated to seeing and unveiling it, that it actually breaks my heart.

but back to cameron and wilson. cameron's devotion to her husband was completely absolute. it's astonishing to house (and to the audience, i'm sure). so when, by the episode's end, she's pleading with ed to stay with elyse despite the betrayal, cameron has evidently experienced a huge readjustment of not her morals, per se, but her way of seeing those morals in the world.

she still believes in the absolutism of love. i don't think anything will take that away from her. but cameron forces the audience to confront the idea that love is imperfect right as she's confronting it, too. if house asserts that wilson's pathology is loving everyone, can love itself be a problem? cameron is wrestling with this: can something inherently good and pure be so destructive?

in wilson's life (and in his evil little adulterer way), yes, love is destructive. he's so far down the adulterer pipeline that he's bastardized the hard reality cameron is trying to grapple with in 1x07. but house himself has established, textually, that both cameron and wilson are defined by how much they love. one is clearly sick and twisted and based on lies, the other not so much, yet this doesn't mean the world gives preferential treatment to either.

the face of someone well accustomed to how twisted relationships can be vs. someone who's learning about that fact for the first time:

not to read too deeply, but wilson being in a dark suit coat for the duration vs. cameron's white lab coat seems significant, too.

above all, i love how house presides over this dilemma. he remains as distant as possible, just observing another one of wilson's relationship flops and the dissolution of a fraught patient relationship, until cameron. cameron draws vulnerability out from house in a way only wilson has thus far, and caps it off with a profound understanding of why he's Like That. the goodness lurking in house is as painful for him as it is for cameron. she can see that.

now (more) about wilson :)

that fuck-ass green tie being compared to a breast augmentation. the breast augmentation that was intended to get the clinic patient's husband to sleep with her. the breast augmentation that failed because her husband was already POISONING her to decrease their sex drive. the green tie therefore dooming wilson to another failed affair because it's about Needing, not fulfillment, not anything long-lasting. the green tie/breast augmentation parallel being tied to someone's sex drive. wilson being so far in the closet that -- *gunshot*

let's not even mention the fact that house intuitively knows that wilson's current wife (who tf is julie lol) would never get him a green tie in the first place.

later we hear what becomes, in my opinion, one of the most vital character traits in all of house md: wilson's need for neediness. or, to use house's words about the new oncology nurse wilson has so kindly been ~having lunch with~ - "she would certainly have the neediness you need." doctor james evan wilson you make me crazy!!!!!

viewers at this point have no clue why wilson needs neediness. it sounds very superfluous and highly misogynistic/manipulative (not that it isn't in the long run, but we learn about the deep pathology as time goes on ofc), probably a callback to how they just ogled the clinic patient together. big yikes. with some imagination, however, we can guess that this Need For Neediness coincides nicely with his oncology practice - those patients will always need him. and he will love all of them (somehow), as house points out: "you loved all your wives. probably still do. in fact, you probably love all the women you loved who weren't your wife...as long as you're trying to be good, you can do whatever you want."

i remember watching this for the first time and being like "holy baggage. is wilson the villain?"

all that is to say this was a HELL of a fun episode with an insane patient plot twist - ELSYE CHEATED ON ED WITH HIS BEST FRIEND! WHO WAS JUST ASKING ABOUT ED'S SEX LIFE! i love the cameron centrism, was thrilled to hear her backstory reveal, etc., etc. this made up for 1x06.

my last bit here is very divorced from this episode but spoilers the series finale:

6 months. she married him anyway. "i watched my husband die of cancer." cameron seeing the same good in house that inspired her to love and stay with her dying husband. staring down a clock together and living the best life they could. i know the series finale was not planned. i hear that parroted all day, every day. but seriously. how tf did all these parallels happen.

[anon-188]

mini series: wicked games 🥀 — epilogue

pairing: AJ x f!reader

series summary: it was supposed to be simple. no feelings. no fallout. but when tempers flare and lines blur, simple turns dangerous fast. because AJ plays just as dirty outside the bedroom as he does in it—and you? you’re not afraid to match him move for move.

warnings: explicit content (18+), strong language, drunk!AJ, emotional vulnerability, unresolved relationship tension, soft angst, mild physical intimacy, confessions, hurt/comfort, mentions of alcohol use.

a/n: here’s the final part!! 😭 writing this one hurt in the best possible way. ughhh. i really hope you guys like it! ♡

also—thank you so much for reading and for all the love on this mini-series!!! it truly means the world to me 🫶

⟢ wicked games 🥀: part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 

The next few weeks passed in that strange, disorienting way where time felt both impossibly slow and unfairly fast. You hadn’t spoken to AJ since that night, and didn’t expect to. Still, the two of you moved in the same circle, brushing against the same air, sharing the same rooms. But even then, his eyes never met yours. And it wasn’t like before, when he avoided you out of pride or spite. This time, it felt different. Like looking at you would undo something in him. 

Tonight, you left the bar early again, mumbling to Lili that you had a morning to get ready for. She didn’t question it. No one really did anymore. You’d been using that excuse all month, cycling through it like clockwork. And you weren’t ready to stop. Not while he still lingered in your space—in your mind. 

As the night stretched on, you found yourself curled up on your couch, wearing an oversized shirt and a pair of soft shorts. One of your favorite shows played on the TV, the volume low, more for background noise than anything else. You weren’t really watching—just letting it fill the silence, as if that could soften the way your chest tightened every time the quiet got too loud.

You were drifting off, eyes heavy, when a knock came at the door. It wasn’t loud but it was enough to pull you from the edge of sleep. You sat up, blinking yourself back into focus. A glance at your phone told you nothing. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing that would explain who was on the other side of the door.

Another knock. This time it was softer, almost hesitant.

You moved toward the door, sleep still lingering in your limbs. Your fingers grazed the frame for balance just as your hip clipped the side table. A sharp clatter echoed through the room, loud enough to betray your presence. You cursed under your breath, and then—

“It’s me.”

His voice.

Low, familiar, frayed at the edges.

AJ.

You stood there for a moment, frozen, staring at the door. Part of you wanted to ignore it, pretend you didn’t hear. But your hand moved anyway, undoing the lock and turning the handle. The door creaked slightly as you pulled it back, and before you could even register what was happening, AJ stumbled forward—like he had been leaning against it the entire time.

You caught the movement fast, your hand instinctively twitching forward to catch him, but AJ managed to straighten up on his own—just barely. His weight shifted clumsily, and for a second, you thought he might topple again. Instead, he ended up sagging against the doorframe, one hand gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

That’s when you knew. He was drunk. Not just tipsy, not a few-drinks-in kind of drunk. He was hammered.

“I didn’t think you were gonna answer,” he mumbled, the words hardly clinging to shape.

You opened your mouth to ask what he was doing here, what possessed him to show up like this—but he fell forward again. His body tilting too fast and this time, he didn’t catch himself.

You did. 

“Hey,” you said, arms bracing him as your breath hitched, trying to steady him. It didn’t do much. He was heavy, too tall, and clearly out of it.

This wasn’t what you expected. Not even close. But instinct took over, and without a word, you helped him to the couch, kicking the door shut behind you. With each unsteady step, you adjusted his weight, shifting the arm draped over your shoulders.

Whatever was or wasn’t going on between you didn’t matter—not with him like this.

When you got him to the couch, he let himself fall into it like the night had finally caught up with him. His elbows braced on his knees for a second, head hanging low before he finally sat back. It wasn’t anything dramatic, only a small, exhausted lean, his head tipping back against the top of the couch as he closed his eyes.

“Hey,” you said, tone gentler now. “How much did you drink?”

You weren’t accusing him, just trying to gauge where he was. AJ could handle his liquor better than most, but this was different. His movements were slower, sloppier. 

He turned his head towards your voice, eyes still shut. “I don’t know,” he muttered, almost too strained like he had to force it out. 

That’s when you saw them—his keys, clutched loosely in one hand.

Your heart dropped a little. “Please tell me you walked here,” you said, already reaching to take them from him. “You didn’t drive, right?”

He let them go without a fight, head lolling slightly as he gave a lazy chuckle. “I’m drunk, not stupid.”

“Debatable,” you said, the response slipping out faster than you could stop it.

That made him laugh again. And for the first time all night, his eyes found yours. The look that passed between you wasn’t clear, but it was something. Something that made it hard to look away.

Everything inside you pulled taut again.

“I’ll, um… I’ll get you some water,” you said, your voice breathy and light. You started to turn, trying to give yourself space, distance, air. But before you could take a full step, his fingers closed around your wrist. Not hard, not rough, but firm. Steady.

He tugged, catching you off guard as he sat up straighter. Your feet scrambled, balance slipping, and he used the momentum to pull you in until you landed in his lap.

You straddled him, knees awkwardly braced against the couch cushions, hands on his shoulders—the only thing keeping you from fully crashing into him.

“AJ,” you breathed out, heart hammering in your chest as his hands settled on your hips.

His grip didn’t tighten, but it didn’t loosen either. He just sat there, looking up at you like he hadn’t really thought it through—like his body had moved before his brain caught up.

But the way his thumbs brushed over your waist? That didn’t feel accidental. It felt like memory. Like longing.

You swallowed hard, breath shallow. 

This had to be the alcohol. It had to be.

“You need water. And then I can drive you home,” you said, trying to get whatever this was back on track. Your voice was calm, careful, like speaking too loud might tip the moment into something you couldn’t come back from.

But he shook his head. Slow. Stubborn. “I want to be here,” he murmured, leaning forward until his forehead pressed against your shoulder. 

“Please.”

It was one word, but it landed heavy.

You didn’t move. Didn’t even know what to say—not that it mattered. Because once AJ opened that door, whatever was behind it came spilling out, like he didn’t know how to stop it anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he said, breath warm against your skin as he turned slightly, his mouth near your neck now. “For everything.”

You felt his fingers twitch just barely at your sides, but you stayed still—your hands resting gently on his shoulders.

“I know I fucked up,” he said, lifting his head to look at you, eyes heavy with regret. 

“I shouldn’t have said any of that shit. I didn’t mean it, and you didn’t deserve it. I’m sorry.”

Your breathing faltered, and you tried to keep it steady. Even. But your heartbeat only grew louder with every second you stayed in his lap.

You swallowed the knot in your throat, the words fighting to rise.

When you finally spoke, it was quiet, but clear.

“I just don’t understand why,” you said, eyes searching his face for something—anything—that would make it all make sense. “If there was something wrong… or even someone else… you could’ve just told me.”

That would’ve been easier. That kind of hurt had a name. A shape. You could have dealt with it. Would have.

But he didn’t let the thought hang. He shook his head firmly. “No,” he said, voice rough but sure.  “I haven’t been with anyone else. Not since you.”

The words hit you harder than you expected.

It was a confession. A real one. You could feel it in the way his grip on your hips tightened the smallest amount. Could hear it in his tone—how serious he suddenly was. How fast he wanted to shut that door before it could open.

Your lips parted, but the only thing that came was your next question, the one that had been clawing at the back of your mind for too long.

“Then why did you?” you asked.

Your voice was quieter now. Less fire, more ache. Because underneath everything, this was the only thing that mattered.

He paused, and you honestly thought that was it. That this was where the wall would go back up. You watched his face closely, waiting for the shutdown—eyes dropping, mouth tightening, the usual deflection.

But then—

He let out a breathy sound, something caught between a sigh and a laugh. It was quiet, hollow around the edges, and his gaze dropped to the floor like he hated what he was about to say. He rubbed a hand over his face before finally looking back at you.

“There was this moment during the last job…” he started, voice deep and raspy, like this had been sitting on him for a while. “Your comms went out. I don’t know if it was signal, interference—whatever. Either way, I don’t even think you noticed."

Your brow furrowed, the memory slow to return. You remembered the static, the brief silence, but nothing that had felt urgent at the time.

“I thought something happened to you.” His eyes flicked away again, jaw tensing. “Just for a minute.”

He took another breath, slower this time, and when he looked at you again, his voice was softer. “Then I realized you had covered John. You moved out of position for him. Which… I mean, anyone would’ve done it. I know that. I do. And I should’ve just been glad you were okay.”

His words hung in the air, suspended like he didn’t want to say the rest out loud. And he didn’t have to.

“You were worried about me?” you asked, your voice low, careful.

“Yeah,” he said. Just that. But the way he swallowed hard after, the way his hands flexed slightly where they rested on your hips—it said the rest. Worried wasn’t even the beginning of it.

And that was when it clicked.

All of it.

The distance. The anger. The way he lashed out after the job, throwing around accusations that had no logic behind them. You’d thought he was being cold, jealous, careless. But that wasn’t it.

He’d been scared.

Terrified, in fact.

Because for one split second, when he lost your voice in his ear and couldn’t find you in the mess of it all, he thought you were hurt or worse. And when he saw where you’d gone—covering someone else, putting yourself in danger—it didn’t register as loyalty. It didn’t even register as bravery.

It just registered as loss.

You made him feel something too deep. Too real. And he didn’t know how to carry that.

That’s what this had always been about.

“I was a coward, I know,” he said, the words coming out thick. “Throwing insults like that, like it would undo anything. Like if I said enough bullshit, it would cover up what I really felt.”

He paused, his jaw flexing briefly. “It was wrong. I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

Your chest tightened, the sting creeping in behind your eyes. You blinked fast, trying to will the tears back.

Then he spoke again.

“And to answer your question,” he said, voice lower now, rougher—like it scraped on the way out. “I didn’t take the money because… I—” He stopped, just for a breath, just long enough to find the words and force them forward.

“I can’t do that to you,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to take from you. That’s not who you are to me.”

And while it might’ve seemed simple on the surface, you knew it wasn’t.

You were takers. That was the life. That was the code. You took because it was what you did—what he’d done for years. AJ lived by it, breathed it, built his entire world around it. Hookups, heists—whatever served the mission or the moment. He took without hesitation, without apology. And he was good at it.

But now, he had drawn a line. 

And that line was you.

The tears came then.

Not all at once. Just one at first, slipping down your cheek in silence.

He leaned into you again, resting his head against your chest—tentative and cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he’d be allowed to stay there.

You didn’t stop him. Instead, your hand moved on instinct, fingers running gently through his hair.

For the first time in weeks, you believed him. Or at least… you wanted to.

But the other part of you, the bruised and bitter side, wasn’t done. That part of you wanted to know how much of this was real. How much would survive the alcohol, the night, the morning after.

Your fingers began to slow. Thoughts creeping back in, one after another, until the questions started stringing together. Too many of them. The kind without easy answers.

“Whatever it is, just ask,” he said, the edges of sleep and alcohol softening his voice. He didn’t even lift his head. Didn’t need to.

“How did you know—”

“You pause before you ask a question,” he murmured, breath steady against your skin. “Almost every time.”

That stopped you.

Even now—out of it, worn down to the bone—he could still read you. Still knew your pauses, your patterns, your tells. Always observant, to his core. And it twisted something deep inside you. Something that hadn’t gone quiet, no matter how hard you tried to silence it.

Because you knew him too. Just as well. Maybe better than he was ready to admit.

Your voice came quiet. “I want to believe you,” the words slipping out, unfiltered. Honest. Raw. “But you’re drunk. Very drunk at that. So how am I supposed to know that it’s real?”

He lifted his head from your chest, eyes settling on yours—steady, despite the haze that clung to him. His brows drew together slightly, and for a moment he just looked at you. Really looked at you, like he wanted to make sure you didn’t miss a single word of what came next.

“Then I’ll tell you again first thing in the morning,” he said, voice low, slurred at the edges but certain. “And a hundred times after that. However many times you need me to.”

You stared at him, unsure if the pounding in your chest was relief or fear or something else entirely.

Because all you saw was him—stripped down and bare in a way he rarely let himself be. No armor. No act. Just AJ, sitting there in front of you, asking for one more chance to be believed.

You wanted to give in. Let the doubts go. Pretend the past few weeks hadn’t happened—forget the silence, the fights, the way he made you feel like an afterthought. Erase every moment you spent wondering if you ever really mattered.

But you couldn’t do that. Not yet.

Not when the bruises he left weren’t gone. Not when the words he said still echoed in places you hadn’t even realized were tender.

So instead, you nodded—soft, gentle.

“I’ll hold you to that,” you whispered, voice warmer now as your fingers brushed lightly against his jaw.

His mouth twitched, the beginning of a smile tugging at the corner like that old smirk wanted to make an appearance. But even it seemed to know better. It faded before it could fully form.

And that was where you left it. Not forgiven. Not forgotten. But maybe—just maybe—a beginning.

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[joansiesbeloved]

happy heavenly birthday to the man america and the rest of the world lost far too soon. the late president john "jack" fitzgerald kennedy. he would have been 108 today, had he lived.

Happy Heavenly Birthday to the one and only JFK. May 29th, 1917 - November 22nd, 1963.

"A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on." — John F. Kennedy

“Now, I think that I should have known that he was magic all along. I did know it— but I should have guessed it could not last. I should have known that it was asking too much to dream that I might have grown old with him and see our children grow up together. So, now he is a legend, when he would have preferred to be a man. I must believe that he does not share our suffering now. At least he will never know whatever sadness might have lain ahead. He knew such a share of it in his life that it always made you so happy whenever you saw him enjoying himself. But now he will never know more — not age, nor stagnation, nor despair, nor crippling illness, nor loss of any more people he loved. His high noon kept all the freshness of the morning, and he died then, never knowing disillusionment.” - Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

“There was a wit in a man neither young nor old, but a wit full of an old man’s wisdom and of a child’s wisdom, and then, in a moment it was no more. And so she took a ring from her finger and placed it in his hands. There was a man marked with the scars of his love of country, a body active with the surge of a life far, far from spent, and in a moment, it was no more. And so she took a ring from her finger and placed it in his hands. There was a father with a little boy and a little girl and a joy of each in the other, and in a moment, it was no more. And so she took a ring from her finger and placed it in his hands. There was a husband who asked much and gave much, and out of the giving and the asking wove with a woman what could not be broken in life, and in a moment, it was no more. And so she took a ring from her finger and placed it in his hands, and kissed him and closed the lid of a coffin. A piece of each of us died at that moment.” — Senator Mike Mansfield, November 24, 1963

“Last night the New York Philharmonic and I performed Mahler’s Second Symphony—The Resurrection—in tribute to the memory of our beloved late President. There were those who asked: Why the Resurrection Symphony, with its visionary concept of hope and triumph over worldly pain, instead of a Requiem, or the customary Funeral March from the Eroica? Why indeed? We played the Mahler symphony not only in terms of resurrection for the soul of one we love but also for the resurrection of hope in all of us who mourn him. In spite of our shock, our shame, and our despair at the diminution of man that follows from this death, we must somehow gather strength for the increase of man, strength to go on striving for those goals he cherished.” — Leonard Bernstein, November 25, 1963

“He gave us of a good heart from which the laughter came. He gave us of a profound wit, from which a great leadership emerged. He gave us of a kindness and a strength fused into a human courage to seek peace without fear. He gave us of his love that we, too, in turn, might give. He gave that we might give of ourselves, that we might give to one another until there would be no room, no room at all, for the bigotry, the hatred, prejudice, and the arrogance which converged in that moment of horror to strike him down. In leaving us these gifts, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, President of the United States, leaves with us. Will we take them, Mr. President? Will we have, now, the sense and the responsibility and the courage to take them? I pray to God that we shall and under God we will.” — Senator Mike Mansfield, November 24, 1963

[impossibleprincess35]

In my feels about Luthen and Kleya thoughts:

In spite of the carefully calculated distance between them, Luthen loved Kleya like a daughter.

The business of taking on personas was vital to their survival, yes, but it served them both in individual ways.

Luthen had been a soldier and he knew how bad things were but also how much worse they could get. He knew what horrific things men would do in the act of "taking orders," and with this in mind, he wants to protect not only Kleya, but also himself.

Out of love for her, because she had already lost everything, he constructed that distance so that she would never suffer that kind of personal loss again; and it would prepare her for a lifetime of further losses that were bound to happen as the Empire's reign continued.

But that distance served him, too, because had he not established a line of delineation between "family" and "colleague," he knew he would have blurred the lines.

As their partnership grew and Kleya proved herself to be cunning and gifted, and she showed natural proclivities to lead, he retired his ego and let her. He took direction from her. He followed her lead. He trusted her.

Because Kleya has always been the catalyst.

Without her, Luthen might have remained a sergeant in that ship, chanting for the death and violence to stop as he questioned his morals and the validity of his soul until he was found out and court martialed.. then sent to his death for insubordination.

Kleya, without knowing her importance, rescued him, delivering him from the horror he knew. She gave him a new purpose that served as his redemption.

In the end, Luthen loved her so much that he overrode her plans and made them switch places. He refused to let her lead in the very last decision of their partnership. It wasn't strategic. It wasn't even clever. It was him sacrificing himself for her, like a father would for a daughter.

And in his final moments, as she rescued him one last time from the Empire's interrogation and torture, you could see the conflicting feelings on her face.. the way she had to reconcile the way she loved him with the distance that had been constructed between them.

She doesn't lose control. She doesn't fall apart. She understands it, she accepts it, and she moves forward.

Because Kleya was always going to survive whatever came her way.

But Luthen would not have survived losing her.

If they aren't the best "distant dad" and "ultra independent daughter" combination ever written, I don't know who is.

[wrenthedruid]

Tagged on my main so I suppose I’m obliged to talk about my beloved oc here too >:] here is Evune and she is an AU version of gorions ward not a tav/durge but she’s here anyway!!!

I interpreted some of these very loosely lol

Killed Someone Under Orders | Had Someone Killed On Their Orders | Killed Someone In Self Defence | Spared Someone’s Life | Invented Something | Been Hungover | Kissed Someone | Slow-Danced | Been In A Long-Term Relationship | Had Sex | Had Sex And Regretted It | Had A One-Night Stand | Had A Threesome | Experimented With Their Sexuality | Had A Kid | Adopted A Kid | Wanted To Have A Family With Someone | Done Something On Impulse They Regretted | Gone Traveling | Had A Bounty Put On Them | Eaten An Insect | Been Groped By A Stranger | Been Groped By Someone They Know | Been Dumped | Dumped Someone | Smoked | Gotten High | Flirted With Someone To Get Free Drinks | Put Someone In A Headlock | Won a Bet | Lost a Bet | Forgiven Someone Who Wronged Them | Indulged In Petty Revenge | Hallucinated | Has A Noticeable Physical Defect | Gotten A Noticeable Scar | Been Permanently Disfigured Through Injury | Kneed Someone In The Groin | Had An Unattainable Crush | Laughed Themself To The Point Of Tears | Been Kidnapped | Been Sexually Assaulted | Been Brainwashed/Hypnotised | Had A Recurring Nightmare | Been Bullied | Bullied Someone | Experienced Survivor’s Guilt | Been Tied/Chained Up | Given Someone A Massage | Received A Massage | Been Backed Up Against A Wall | Shot Someone | Stabbed Someone | Saved Someone’s Life | Cheated On Someone | Been Cheated On | Been In An Open Relationship | Had A Friendship With Benefits | Been In A Queerplatonic Relationship | Had A Stalker | Been Betrayed | Been A Traitor | Been Possessed | Been In A Bar Fight | Been Thrown Out Of A Bar | Been Arrested | Broken Out Of Jail | Been To A Funeral | Been To A Brothel | Had Surgery | Broken Someone’s Trust | Broken Someone’s Heart | Had Their Heart Broken | Broken/Damaged Something Out Of Anger | Broken/Damaged Something Out Of Spite | Gotten A Piercing | Gotten A Tattoo | Used A Fake Name | Been Beaten Up | Been Tortured/Tortured Others | Been Abused | Been Blackmailed | Gotten Away With A Crime | Framed Someone Else For A Crime They Committed | Shared A Bed Platonically | Been In Love | Suffered From Sleep Paralysis | Been Forced To Flee Their Home | Learned A New Language | Joined A Rebellion | Fought On The Losing Side Of A War | Fought On The Winning Side Of A War | Become A Godparent | Become An Aunt/Uncle

No pressure tags: @naturesaarrow, @🫵

— OC ACTION TAG

cross out what your oc hasn't done yet

Killed Someone Under Orders | Had Someone Killed On Their Orders | Killed Someone In Self Defence | Spared Someone’s Life | Invented Something | Been Hungover | Kissed Someone | Slow-Danced | Been In A Long-Term Relationship | Had Sex | Had Sex And Regretted It | Had A One-Night Stand | Had A Threesome | Experimented With Their Sexuality | Had A Kid | Adopted A Kid | Wanted To Have A Family With Someone | Done Something On Impulse They Regretted | Gone Traveling | Had A Bounty Put On Them | Eaten An Insect | Been Groped By A Stranger | Been Groped By Someone They Know | Been Dumped | Dumped Someone | Smoked | Gotten High | Flirted With Someone To Get Free Drinks | Put Someone In A Headlock | Won a Bet | Lost a Bet | Forgiven Someone Who Wronged Them | Indulged In Petty Revenge | Hallucinated | Has A Noticeable Physical Defect | Gotten A Noticeable Scar | Been Permanently Disfigured Through Injury | Kneed Someone In The Groin | Had An Unattainable Crush| Laughed Themself To The Point Of Tears | Been Kidnapped | Been Sexually Assaulted | Been Brainwashed/Hypnotised | Had A Recurring Nightmare | Been Bullied | Bullied Someone | Experienced Survivor’s Guilt | Been Tied/Chained Up | Given Someone A Massage | Received A Massage | Been Backed Up Against A Wall | Shot Someone | Stabbed Someone | Saved Someone’s Life | Cheated On Someone | Been Cheated On | Been In An Open Relationship | Had A Friendship With Benefits | Been In A Queerplatonic Relationship | Had A Stalker | Been Betrayed | Been A Traitor | Been Possessed | Been In A Bar Fight | Been Thrown Out Of A Bar | Been Arrested | Broken Out Of Jail | Been To A Funeral | Been To A Brothel | Had Surgery | Broken Someone’s Trust | Broken Someone’s Heart | Had Their Heart Broken | Broken/Damaged Something Out Of Anger | Broken/Damaged Something Out Of Spite | Gotten A Piercing | Gotten A Tattoo | Used A Fake Name | Been Beaten Up | Been Tortured/Tortured Others | Been Abused | Been Blackmailed | Gotten Away With A Crime | Framed Someone Else For A Crime They Committed | Shared A Bed Platonically | Been In Love | Suffered From Sleep Paralysis | Been Forced To Flee Their Home | Learned A New Language | Joined A Rebellion | Fought On The Losing Side Of A War | Fought On The Winning Side Of A War | Become A Godparent | Become An Aunt/ Uncle

Tagging @sunrae08 @dreamingofthewild @helynedekarios @doe-eyes-dekarios @gale-force-storm and anybody who wants to try

[hrizantemy]

Advanced Heartbreak Theory

Chapter one

Nesta Archeron is back—new rules, no distractions, and absolutely no Cassian. Too bad her ex is everywhere and Eris Vanserra starts offering her attention like it’s a game she’s already losing. Turns out, heartbreak isn’t something you recover from—it’s something you study.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Nesta Archeron

Rating: M for Mature. Minors DNI.

Warnings: Includes emotional manipulation, toxic exes, depressive spirals, and morally messy relationships. If you love the Inner Circle uncritically… this probably isn’t for you.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading Advanced Heartbreak Theory. You all are my biggest supporters, and I don’t take that lightly. Every comment, every message, I see it, and I love you for it.

— — — — — —

The library was too quiet. Not the good kind of quiet, where pages fluttered and minds spun stories into being—but the kind that made every breath Nesta Archeron took feel too loud. Her pen tapped against the edge of her notebook, a slow, deliberate rhythm she hoped would drown out the roar inside her. She had come back to this campus with one intention: focus. No drama, no detours. A clean slate.

But clean slates don’t mean much when the dirt still lingers in your bones.

Cassian’s laugh had followed her through the courtyard that morning, familiar and sharp, slicing through her like it always did. He hadn’t seen her—she’d made sure of it—but she saw him. Hair still too long, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows like he was allergic to looking put together. And the girls still looked. Nesta had stopped looking months ago. She had to. Loving Cassian had been like drowning in your own fire—destructive and beautiful and utterly final.

So she avoided him. Or tried to. Avoidance was difficult when the universe, or whatever bitchy deity oversaw heartbreak, kept slipping reminders of him into every hour of her day. His name on study group sign-up sheets. His voice echoing from across campus. A half-drunk coffee cup in the student union that looked too much like his—black, two sugars, and a quote scrawled on the sleeve that sounded just like something he’d say.

Nesta fought. Every damn day.

She didn’t cry anymore. Not in bathrooms, not in her dorm, not at 2 a.m. when her playlist betrayed her and queued the song he once danced with her to, barefoot and drunk, in the middle of her kitchen. No. Nesta Archeron didn’t break anymore. She rebuilt.

With caffeine. With deadlines. With spite.

Cassian was a ghost with a living body, haunting a place she’d tried to claim as hers. It wasn’t fair, how little it took to unearth the version of herself she’d buried: the girl who softened for him, the girl who bent. Nesta wasn’t that girl anymore. She couldn’t be.

And yet every time she caught a glimpse of him—laughing, breathing, existing—it felt like failure anyway.

It was too early to feel this drained. Nesta had come back with her chin lifted, her heels sharp, her hair slicked back like armor. She’d rehearsed it in the mirror a dozen times before the semester started: the look of someone unbothered. Someone changed. Someone who hadn’t cracked and burned and almost disappeared when things ended—when he ended her. But confidence was a fragile thing when it rested on exhaustion, and by the time the second week rolled around, she could feel the weight of everything pressing back down. Not just Cassian’s laugh or the memories she couldn’t scrub clean, but the stares.

They looked at her like she was a rumor they hadn’t finished chewing. Whispers slipped around her like smoke—quiet, constant, clinging. She’s back? I thought she dropped out. Didn’t she go a little off the rails? I heard it was over with him. She wasn’t taking it well. She didn’t have to hear the words clearly to know the shape of them. She saw them in the way girls glanced over their shoulders at her and leaned in closer to whisper behind their perfectly painted lips. She saw them in the professors’ subtle pauses when they recognized her name. Even in the silence of the library, their judgment echoed louder than the air-conditioning humming overhead.

Nesta adjusted her notebook again, gripping her pen so tightly her knuckles ached. Her next lecture was in twenty minutes. She should’ve been reviewing her notes. But instead she was thinking about the way the guy at the coffee cart hesitated before asking if she wanted her “usual”—like he didn’t know if she still deserved it.

She didn’t want to be this tired. But she was. Tired of pretending. Tired of clawing her way back to the girl she used to be before loving someone had hollowed her out.

And then—

“NESTAAAAA!”

The scream shattered the quiet like a stone through stained glass. Heads snapped up. Pages froze mid-turn. Nesta blinked, lifting her head just in time to see a flash of orange hair bounding between the rows of books, limbs flailing, a messenger bag bouncing wildly against a cardigan that had never once been worn properly in its life.

Gwyn.

Gwyneth Berdara, in all her blazing, unapologetic glory, was running toward her like it hadn’t been two semesters since they last sat in the same room. And just a step behind her, clearly mortified, was Emerie—stoic, composed Emerie—muttering something under her breath and trying to avoid making eye contact with the stunned students around them.

Nesta barely had time to brace herself before Gwyn launched across the table with a strangled squeal and grabbed her in a hug that smelled like vanilla lotion and mint gum.

“You’re here,” Gwyn breathed into her ear, as if Nesta might vanish again if she didn’t say it fast enough. “You’re really here.”

And for the first time all week, Nesta Archeron didn’t feel like she was trying to crawl out of a grave.

Nesta didn’t hug back at first. She froze—shoulders tense, heart hammering like it didn’t know how to process something soft—but Gwyn didn’t let go. Gwyn never had. Even when Nesta tried to push everyone away, tried to cut herself down to nothing, Gwyn had stood her ground with a ridiculous amount of optimism and far too many baked goods. Now, Nesta let her arms rise, hesitant at first, and then fully around the smaller girl’s back. Something loosened in her spine.

Emerie reached them a beat later, folding her arms and glancing pointedly around at the gawking students who were clearly now invested in whatever spectacle they’d walked into. She looked every inch the composed, steel-spined warrior she always had been, though Nesta knew better—Emerie was as fiercely loyal as she was guarded. And now her mouth twisted into a wry, knowing smile.

“You had to yell?” Emerie said, lifting one brow at Gwyn, who finally pulled away with a sheepish grin.

“It’s Nesta,” Gwyn said, like that explained everything. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes bright and wild. “She’s back. Of course I had to yell.”

Nesta shook her head, a breath catching in her throat that wasn’t quite a laugh but wasn’t pain either. “You could have just texted me.”

“I did. Three times,” Gwyn said, plopping down into the seat beside her like she’d always belonged there, like nothing had changed. “And I figured the fourth one should be in person. You ghosted us all last semester.”

“I didn’t ghost—” Nesta began, but Emerie held up a hand as she claimed the other seat.

“You ghosted.” Emerie’s voice was dry, but there was warmth beneath it. Concern, maybe. That same silent worry Nesta had seen in their eyes before she’d left. Before she’d crumbled and retreated like the coward she swore she wasn’t. Nesta looked down at her notes. At the neat rows of ink that suddenly meant nothing. She didn’t have the strength to argue, not about something they were right about.

“I just needed space,” she murmured.

Gwyn leaned forward, her voice softer now. “You still do?”

Nesta looked at her. At both of them. And for the first time since she’d stepped foot on campus again, she didn’t feel like she was standing at the edge of some glass cliff, one misstep away from shattering.

“No,” she said, voice steadier than she expected. “I need… to not do it alone this time.”

There was a silence between them then, one that didn’t press or judge. Just… was. And Nesta soaked in it like warmth after winter. She didn’t say anything about Cassian. Didn’t say how often she dreamed of him and woke up choking on the ache. Didn’t say how many times she’d almost left before the first week was over, how much she hated seeing her reflection in the glass buildings on campus because all she saw was failure dressed up in eyeliner.

But she didn’t need to say it. Gwyn knew. Emerie knew.

And they were still here. Still reaching for her.

It had only been two semesters since she’d walked away from everything. But now, with them beside her, it felt like she had one thing she could count on. One piece of herself she hadn’t lost.

Maybe that was enough—for now.

They didn’t ask at first. Not really. Gwyn filled the space with her voice, talking fast and bright about everything Nesta had missed—campus gossip, a professor getting arrested for fraud, the new vegan place that had opened by the science building. Emerie rolled her eyes at half of it, added sharp commentary where needed, and Nesta let it all wash over her. For a moment, it was easy to pretend this was normal. That she hadn’t fallen apart. That everything hadn’t burned and taken her with it.

But Gwyn, for all her fire and movement, eventually quieted. Her hand came down gently on Nesta’s notebook, still unopened, still blank. “Nes,” she said softly, eyes steady. “What happened?”

The words were too big to fit in her mouth. They clogged her throat and made her chest feel tight, like breathing had suddenly become a chore. She blinked once, then again, staring down at her own reflection in the gloss of the tabletop. Her face looked older. Harsher. Like the time away had carved her into something brittle.

Emerie didn’t look away. Her voice came low, gentle. “You don’t have to tell us. Not if you’re not ready.”

Nesta inhaled sharply, her lips parting just enough to speak—but no words came. Not right away. Because she wanted to say it. She wanted to explain. But she didn’t know how to tell them that it hadn’t been some dramatic implosion, no final blowout or screaming match. Just… silence. A slow, creeping rot that started in her chest and spread until she couldn’t feel anything at all. There had been a night she sat on her bathroom floor, the tile cold beneath her, trying to remember the last time she’d felt alive. She couldn’t.

She stared at her fingers now, flexing them as if they didn’t belong to her. “I don’t want to,” she said finally, voice so quiet it was barely a whisper. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Neither of them pressed her. Gwyn’s fingers brushed hers in quiet solidarity, and Emerie gave a small, firm nod like she understood exactly what Nesta hadn’t said. That it wasn’t just about Cassian. It wasn’t just about heartbreak. It was about losing yourself so completely that even the people who loved you became unbearable to face.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Gwyn said after a long pause. “That’s all that matters right now.”

Emerie leaned back in her seat, arms crossed loosely over her chest. “When you’re ready to talk, we’ll be here. But until then, you’re sitting with us for lunch. Every day.”

A small laugh escaped Nesta before she could stop it. It sounded foreign in her mouth, like something unused, but not unwelcome. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t have to. They knew.

Gwyn, ever the flame that refused to be smothered, leaned in closer with a grin so wide it nearly split her freckled face. She bounced slightly in her seat, legs jittering beneath the table with a giddy kind of energy that Nesta had always found both exhausting and endearing. “Okay, but seriously—what professors do you have this semester? Please tell me you didn’t get stuck with Professor Baldren for Psych. He’s still convinced Freud was a feminist.”

Nesta raised an eyebrow. “Freud? A feminist?”

“He said the words ‘phallic empowerment for the female psyche,’ I swear on my life,” Gwyn groaned, slapping a hand dramatically over her chest. “Emerie had to hold me back from launching my laptop at him.”

Emerie gave a quiet snort, clearly remembering the moment. “She would’ve been expelled by week three if I hadn’t sat next to her.”

Nesta shook her head, the edges of her mouth twitching up just slightly. There was something ridiculous about it—about Gwyn’s indignation, the familiar banter, the fact that despite everything, these two could still make her feel like she belonged somewhere.

“I’ve got Callen for Foundations of Political Thought,” she said finally, dragging her gaze back to her notebook. “Mira for Ancient Philosophy. And…” her voice slowed, lips curling into something almost bitter, “Anthropology with—”

“Wait—don’t say it—not—” Gwyn gasped, eyes going wide. “Not Briallen!”

Nesta just nodded grimly. Gwyn looked personally offended. “She once gave me a C because I used a semicolon in the ‘wrong emotional context.’ I don’t even know what that means.”

Emerie was smirking now. “It means you pissed her off. You always piss her off.”

“She hates creativity,” Gwyn declared with an emphatic wave of her hand. “She’s like if a tax form became a person. You’re going to die in that class. I mean it. Call us if you need to be carried out of a spiral.”

Nesta let out a soft breath that felt almost like relief. The weight in her chest had started to shift, less like a stone and more like sand—still heavy, still there, but not pressing quite so hard. She hadn’t realized how much she missed this. Missed them. She had spent months trying to convince herself that she didn’t need anyone, that if she cut herself off, she couldn’t be hurt again. But sitting there, watching Gwyn rant and Emerie roll her eyes with an affection that was quieter but no less fierce… it made her ache in a different way. A warmer way.

“Briallen isn’t the worst,” Nesta said dryly, flipping her pen between her fingers. “She’s not Cassian.”

Gwyn choked on air. Emerie’s brows shot up, but neither said anything for a long beat. It hung there, thick and unspoken—the first time she’d said his name aloud since she’d come back. The first crack in the wall she’d built around herself.

Nesta didn’t flinch.

Gwyn, sensing the tension like she always did—bless her overly perceptive soul—seemed to decide then and there that they were not dwelling on Cassian. Not now. Not when Nesta had only just started to breathe again. She clapped her hands on the table with a dramatic flourish that earned a sharp glare from the girl at the next study pod, but she didn’t care. Gwyn never cared.

“Okay, okay, here’s my lineup,” she said brightly, dragging her phone from her bag and flicking through her class schedule like it was a Tinder profile. “Lit theory with Oswin—yes, he still brings his guitar to class. Then I have Visual Mythology with Harris, again, because he won’t let me take the advanced seminar until I’ve sat through his entire ‘decolonizing folklore’ soapbox. After that, I’ve got Music History and—oh!” She grinned like the sun. “Art of Conflict.”

Nesta’s brow lifted. “You’re taking military history?”

Emerie groaned softly beside her. “Don’t even start.”

“What?” Gwyn blinked, all innocence. “It looked interesting!”

“It looked like him,” Emerie muttered, voice dry as sandpaper. “Tall, covered in tattoos, hazel eyes. You only picked that class because of him.”

“There might have been a contributing factor involving hotness,” Gwyn admitted, unabashed. “But he also has the most fascinating forearms I’ve ever seen. Like—do you think he does archery in his spare time? That’s got to mean something. That’s the kind of man who reads poetry in bed and makes you eggs afterward.”

Nesta blinked. “You’ve imagined breakfast with this man?”

Gwyn only grinned wider, unapologetic. “Every morning since syllabus week.”

Emerie shook her head, resting her cheek in one palm like she was already tired. “I’m taking Law and Ethics of Power with Saren—he’s new, don’t get excited, he’s a pretentious bastard who thinks Machiavelli should be the patron saint of leadership. Then Advanced Rhetoric, which is already giving me migraines, and Comparative Theology. Because apparently I hate myself.”

“That explains it,” Nesta murmured, sipping her coffee.

“And no,” Emerie added, giving Gwyn a withering look, “I didn’t pick my classes based on some brooding inked-up fantasy. I’m trying to graduate with honors. Maybe you should try it.”

“I am!” Gwyn protested. “My grades are perfectly average, thank you very much. Besides, emotional wellness is an important part of academic success. Looking at hot people reduces stress. It’s science.”

Nesta laughed—actually laughed—and the sound startled her. It felt too loud, too real. But neither of them flinched. Gwyn lit up like she’d won something and Emerie looked quietly pleased, like the smallest piece of balance had shifted back into place.

Gwyn was in the middle of describing the exact angle at which her tattooed classmate leaned against his desk when her eyes suddenly flicked toward the oversized clock mounted above the circulation desk. She froze mid-sentence, pupils narrowing like she’d just remembered the world was still turning without her. Then, without warning, she gasped—a loud, dramatic sound that made Emerie jolt in her seat and Nesta blink.

“Oh my god, I’m late!” she practically shrieked, scrambling to gather the explosion of papers, pens, and snack wrappers that had somehow erupted around her. “Shit—shitshitshit—it started fifteen minutes ago, I thought I had time! Why didn’t you guys tell me?!”

“You were the one talking,” Emerie said dryly, lifting a single brow as Gwyn knocked over her water bottle in her frenzy. “About his forearms. In agonizing detail.”

Nesta watched the chaos with muted amusement as Gwyn shoved her notes into her bag with all the finesse of a tornado being crammed into a tote. Her cardigan got tangled in the strap, and her keys clattered to the floor with a jingle that echoed like bells announcing doom.

“Professor Oswin hates late arrivals,” Gwyn moaned, eyes wide with dread as she fumbled to untangle herself. “He locks the door after twenty minutes and makes you sing if you want back in.” Emerie rolled her eyes and leaned over to help, her movements efficient and precise—untangling the strap, righting the bottle, and grabbing the hand sanitizer Gwyn somehow always carried but never used. “You’ll live. Just run. Maybe your forearm guy will hold the door for you and you can die happy.”

Gwyn gasped again, but this time it was hopeful. “Do you think he would? Would he do that for me?”

Nesta smirked. “If he has eyes, probably.”

“You’re both enablers,” Emerie muttered, but there was no heat in it.

Gwyn turned back once she was halfway out the aisle, hair flying behind her like a banner of chaos. “Lunch in the courtyard? Text me if you get stuck in Briallen’s class and need an alibi !”

And then she was gone, a whirlwind of boots and caffeine and nonsense, leaving behind the faint scent of mint and the feeling that maybe the world hadn’t ended after all.

Nesta stared at the space where her friend had just been, and the quiet that settled after her departure wasn’t the heavy, hollow quiet of before. It was lighter. Softer.

Emerie didn’t say anything for a long moment, just sipped what remained of her iced coffee with that same unreadable expression she wore like a second skin. Then, with a quiet sigh, she stood and tossed her empty cup into the bin. Her gaze drifted to Nesta’s still-open notebook, then to the time. “I’ll walk you to class,” she said simply, like it was no big deal. Like she hadn’t just offered her presence as a shield between Nesta and the world.

Nesta hesitated for only a second before she grabbed her things—her half-filled notebook, the pen she’d nearly snapped earlier, her bag that weighed more with expectation than with actual books. She stood, tugged her sweater sleeves down as if that might make her look less like someone trying too hard not to unravel, and glanced at Emerie. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They fell into step easily, like old rhythm, down the quiet hallway between rows of students still lost in the silence of their own distractions. The world outside the library felt louder, brighter, a little more real, but Emerie didn’t rush. She walked like she always did—purposeful, controlled, a quiet confidence to her every move that Nesta had always admired and maybe envied. Nesta kept her eyes forward, steps matching Emerie’s as they moved past bulletin boards cluttered with flyers, windows flooded with sunlight, and the shifting murmurs of student life that no longer felt entirely foreign.

“How’ve things been?” Nesta asked eventually, her voice quieter now, uncertain. She wasn’t just making conversation. She needed to know. She needed to hear the answer from someone who wouldn’t lie to make her feel better. “Here. On campus. Since I left.”

Emerie didn’t answer right away. She glanced sideways at Nesta, something thoughtful crossing her face. “Different,” she said at last. “Quieter. A little weirder without you or… everything that happened.”

Nesta nodded slowly, not trusting herself to say anything else.

“But also,” Emerie continued, “still moving. Gwyn’s been throwing herself into every open mic and club that’ll have her. I’ve been working part-time at the student legal clinic. People talk, yeah, but they’ve always talked. It’s like… noise. Eventually, it fades.”

Nesta breathed in through her nose, the scent of fresh-cut grass and paper drifting in from the courtyard ahead. “And Cassian?”

Emerie gave a noncommittal shrug. “He’s here. Around. Not the same, though.”

Nesta’s throat tightened.

“But that’s not your problem anymore,” Emerie added, her tone firmer, eyes flicking to hers. “You’re not defined by him. Or by whatever version of you they think they remember.”

Nesta squinted against the sunlight as they stepped into the courtyard, the sharp brightness casting everything in gold—the rustling trees, the scattered students, the distant chatter of passing conversations. It felt surreal. She hadn’t walked this path in months, and yet her body remembered it like muscle memory, every crack in the stone, every turn in the ivy-lined paths. Her bag felt heavier on her shoulder now, but not with books—with thoughts she hadn’t let herself have until this moment.

If she was being honest with herself—and lately, she’d been trying—she wouldn’t have met Gwyn or Emerie if it weren’t for him. If it weren’t for Cassian dragging her, half-kicking and screaming, to that miserable group therapy session. If he hadn’t sat outside every single time waiting, pretending he wasn’t waiting. If he hadn’t believed, deep down, that there was still something in her worth saving.

And yet… when it all fell apart—when she fell apart—Gwyn and Emerie hadn’t chosen him.

That thought stopped her for a second, right there on the stone path. She hadn’t told them what happened. Not really. She hadn’t spilled the ugly, intimate details, hadn’t weaponized her grief in return for sympathy. Nesta had buried the worst of it in silence, her pride thick as armor. And Cassian—heprobably told his side. Of course he did. Probably painted it in broad, noble strokes: how she pulled away, how she shut down, how he tried, how he hurt. Nesta didn’t doubt for a second that he’d spoken with sincerity… and bias.

Because Cassian had always been the hero in his own story. And maybe in someone else’s, too.

But even without knowing the full truth—even when Nesta had offered them nothing but distance, sharp words, and silence—Gwyn and Emerie had still chosen her. They still showed up. They texted. Called. Left notes taped to her door when she wouldn’t answer. They stood beside her now, like nothing had changed, like she hadn’t been the one to disappear.

It surprised her, really. It still did.

Because she wasn’t used to that kind of loyalty. Loyalty without explanation. Affection without conditions. She’d spent so long believing she had to earn every scrap of warmth with perfection or penance. But they had stayed even when she wasn’t good. Even when she wasn’t easy to love.

She looked over at Emerie, walking steadily beside her, her presence solid and grounding. She thought about Gwyn’s scream in the library and the way it had split her open like sunlight through cracked glass.

And for the first time since she’d stepped foot back on campus, Nesta felt something other than dread pressing against her ribs.

Gratitude.

Quiet. Raw. Startling.

They reached the lecture hall, tall windows casting slices of light onto the polished floors, and Nesta paused just outside the door. The knot in her stomach tightened. It was stupid, maybe, to be nervous about a classroom. But it wasn’t the class—it was being seen. Being back. Being known.

She adjusted her bag on her shoulder, exhaled through her nose, and turned to look at Emerie.

The other girl tilted her head slightly, like she could sense the hesitation Nesta wouldn’t admit to, and offered a small, crooked smile. “Same spot in the courtyard for lunch,” she said, soft but certain. “We’ll even get your favorite.”

Nesta narrowed her eyes, lips twitching. “This sounds a lot like bribery.”

“It is bribery,” Emerie said without missing a beat. Her tone held just enough deadpan to make Nesta huff a quiet laugh. But then Emerie’s expression shifted—softer now, more solemn. “Gwyn’s been worried, you know.”

That hit harder than Nesta expected. Not because she didn’t believe it—of course Gwyn was worried, Gwyn worried about everyone—but because she hadn’t thought she deserved it. Not after shutting them out so thoroughly. Not after how she left.

She looked down at her boots for a long breath before lifting her chin again. Her voice was quiet, but steady. “I’m not disappearing again.”

Emerie studied her for a moment, then nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”

Nesta opened the door to her lecture hall and took a step inside. But just before it closed behind her, she turned her head back and caught Emerie’s gaze one more time.

And she meant it.

She wasn’t disappearing. Not this time.

The door creaked as Nesta pushed it open, the chill of the lecture hall sweeping over her as she stepped inside. Students were already filing in, some hunched over notebooks, others sprawled out in the slouched posture of early apathy. It was a large room, wide rows curving slightly inward toward the front, and already a low hum of conversation buzzed through the space. But it wasn’t just idle chatter—there was debate.

The professor was nowhere to be seen.

Nesta paused, scanning the front of the room where two figures were clearly at the center of attention. One of them—a brown-haired boy with a smug expression and an expensive-looking watch—was gesturing broadly, speaking like he expected applause after every sentence. The other, whose face she couldn’t quite see from this angle, had his back partially turned to her as he stood at the side of the first row, voice smooth, sharp.

“The whole premise of social contracts is consent,” the red-haired boy was saying, his tone so confident it practically dripped onto the floor. “So if the people agree to be governed—even tacitly—then the system is legitimate, regardless of inequality.”

Nesta’s brow furrowed. That wasn’t just wrong—it was sloppy. And arrogant. Maybe it was the fatigue, or maybe the absurdity of someone making such a stupid claim so loudly, but before she could stop herself, she snorted.

It wasn’t loud. Not really. But in a room brimming with fragile egos and the scent of ego-driven debate, it was enough.

Heads turned. The brown-haired boy paused. But it was the red-haired one—the one who had made the claim—who slowly turned toward her.

He was beautiful in a way that was unnerving, with sharp cheekbones, bored amber eyes, and the kind of mouth that looked carved for cruelty. His gaze slid over her like it was peeling her apart piece by piece. “Something funny?” he asked, voice smooth as velvet and just as cutting.

Nesta felt the weight of half the room shift to her, eyes crawling across her skin, and for a heartbeat, all she could think was—This. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid.

“No,” she said, tone clipped, shaking her head as she moved toward a seat in the back. “Not at all.”

But he didn’t let it go. Of course he didn’t.

“Because you laughed,” he pressed, the trace of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth now. He turned more fully toward her, folding his arms like he was settling in for sport. “And I’d love to know what, exactly, was so amusing.”

Nesta didn’t look at him as she slid into her seat. Her jaw was tight. Her heart ticked faster—not with fear, but with restraint. No drama, she reminded herself. No distractions. No Cassian. And definitely no assholes who debate for the thrill of public humiliation.

Still, her voice came cool and flat. “If you have to ask, then maybe you’re not as right as you think.”

A few scattered laughs rippled from nearby seats. It was small. But it was enough.

Before the red-haired boy could open his mouth to deliver what would undoubtedly be a smug and calculated rebuttal, the door at the front of the lecture hall swung open with a creaking groan. The professor finally arrived—an older man in a slate-colored blazer and thick glasses that sat low on his nose, clutching a leather folder with papers spilling out the sides. His presence cut through the tension like a blade. The murmur of the room quieted instantly, the game of academic posturing temporarily ended.

“Apologies for the delay,” the professor said as he stepped to the podium, voice calm but efficient. “Welcome to Foundations of Political Thought. I’m Professor Callen. We’ll begin with roll call while I pass out the syllabus.”

Nesta allowed herself to sink back into her seat, forcing her breathing to slow. The red-haired boy still hadn’t taken his eyes off her—she could feel it like heat on the back of her neck. But he didn’t speak. Not with the professor present. Nesta kept her gaze locked forward, determined not to look at him again, not to let him draw her back into whatever verbal swordplay he clearly lived for.

The professor scanned his list, then cleared his throat. “Archeron, Nesta?”

She raised her hand silently. “Here,” she said, her voice low but steady.

“Vanserra, Eris?”

The name struck her like a slap—Eris Vanserra. She froze, her hand still resting on the edge of her desk. And as if summoned by the gravity of it, the red-haired boy—Eris—turned in his seat and looked directly at her.

“Here,” he said smoothly, with a faint lilt of amusement, like the universe had handed him something far too entertaining. His amber eyes locked with hers, and there was something knowing in his gaze, like he’d known all along this would be a game worth playing. Nesta didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. She merely lifted her chin and turned back to face the front of the room.

She had come back with rules. No drama. No distractions. No Cassian.

But no one had warned her about Eris Vanserra.

[rivereverie]

This is just my interpretation but the fact that Wyll doesn't resent his father for casting him out is really important. He knows his father is a good man who loves him. He knows that it must have been incredibly hard for him to banish his son like that. He doesn't resent his father for not understanding how and why he made the pact, because he never was able to explain. He knows that his father was just trying to protect their people, just as Wyll had done.

I can't help but think that Mizora probably tried to make him resent his father, though. She probably wanted him to feel betrayed. To hurt. I imagine that over those seven years, Wyll refused her goading. He wouldn't give up his love and respect for his father. Mizora wouldn't take that from him, too. Wyll has a right to feel betrayed, upset, and hurt. I think anyone in his position would. But he has so much understanding and grace for people that he just refuses to let what Mizora did to him—and his father's subsequent actions—make him bitter. In spite of everything that was done to him, everything he lost, he stubbornly keeps choosing to love and forgive instead. Sometimes that is to his own detriment, and I do wish we got to see him put himself first for once.

But I just love that his forgiveness of his father feels like an act of defiance against Mizora.

(Edit: all this being said, Wyll's father needed to take more accountability and give his son a better apology.)

[quintessenceofdust88]

Having some bucktommy mpreg thoughts (shocking I know) but this time they aren't really that angsty?!?!

Tommy's doctor didn't really expect him to make it all the way to his due date because of his age (maybe other factors too? Idk not the point) but Tommy is a stubborn motherfucker, doesn't back down from a challenge, and hates being told he can't do something. Obviously Tommy knows there's only so much he can do to try and carry their daughter to term, but you can bet he is doing his damnedest.

And he does it. He makes it to his due date. He's so pleased with himself and Buck is of course insanely proud of him too. Now Tommy feels like he can finally relax, knowing that when their daughter is born, she'll be ready. She'll be okay.

Tommy's due date and a few days after it pass and there's no sign of labor in sight. And he's okay with that. Sure he feels like there's a bowling ball sitting in his pelvis and his ankles are swollen and he can't get up from the couch without help and he needs to use the bathroom every ten minutes but he doesn't mind. Really. She'll come when she's ready. She's safe and Tommy will never be able to protect her as good as he can right now. So he's fine with it.

Then he's a full week overdue. Buck and Tommy are getting a little antsy to meet their daughter but this will just make it that much more exciting when she does make her grand appearance.

Tommy's doctor is shocked that he hasn't gone into labor yet. But the baby is fine and Tommy insists he's okay. The doctor doesn't want to risk anything so with Tommy and Buck they all agree that if Tommy makes it to 42 weeks they'll induce labor. The doctor wanted to do it sooner but Tommy insists he's good to wait.

Except that was three days ago now. Induction date is four days away and suddenly Tommy isn't sure he can wait that long- he's uncomfortable and miserable and he really wants to meet his little girl. But he still doesn't want to be induced. (Maybe he feels like doing so would be a failure on his part.) He insists he wants to let nature run it's course. He's in his 40's afterall, this might be his only pregnancy. Buck can see that Tommy’s getting uncomfortable though, so he does some research, busts out a clipboard and starts Operation Put Tommy In Labor, determined to help Tommy go into labor before his induction date. (Maybe he doesn't even tell Tommy about this plan at first, but eventually Tommy figures it out or Buck comes clean and Tommy is just so grateful that Evan understands what he needs/wants without Tommy having to ask.)

BuckTommy mpreg thoughts?? Liz I am shocked to my very core!! I've never had those before!! 🤭

No, but I love everything you're saying, and you're right, it's not that angsty! Idk what I love more: Tommy carrying their baby to term at least a little bit out of spite and stubbornness or the sheer Buckness of figuring out how to help his partner who just won't ask for help!

And does it work?? I like to think it works and Buck considers himself a labor wizard from that point on!

[sarotati]

Hello Sonna, nice to meet you. I read all your work and guess what, I've fallen in love with your work so I want to make a request where Cheong Myeong x past time! wife x platonic disciples ?.Where is his wife who fell in love first then he fell hard.The wife is more cheerful and always smiles and teases him. Her hobby is cooking for people. However, after Cheong Myeong just wanted to open his heart to his wife, she died (I imagine this idea where Subaru held Rem where she died in his arms )

They meet again after 100 years but this time the wife has no memory or direct memory of him or the past 100 years.

People of Hua Mount Sect know you first before Cheong Myeong arrival because sometimes you'll send them food or medical because you have your own restaurant. So Yoon Jong,Jo Gul,Baek Cheon and Yoo Iseol know you so Hyun Jong tells all disciples that you will come visit when this time you will cook for them.That will be the moment when Cheong Myeong meets you back. Also you're close to Jo Gul making Cheong Myeong jealous without he realize. I want everyone cooperative as you and Cheong Myeong are too oblivious to each other's feelings when they're found so irritated as they're just like ' Just married already!!'🤣🤣🤣..Angst, comedy, fluffy and comfort

The Observing Eyes

[Chung Myung x Reader]

Summary: Chung Myung tried to run away from those curious eyes for a lifetime.

She will find him again, even without the shared memories they had.

WC: 7.5K

Note: I swore to god I'd never go to sleep before finishing this, yet I'm not sure if it's literally what you wanted so let me know pls. There's a light spoiler about one of the war memories so be careful if you don't want that!!

Enjoy!

☆ミ

It was a quiet, moonlit night.

On the high brick walls—elegant despite their simplicity—a shadow could be seen slipping out into the darkness without so much as a whisper.

Every movement was calculated, every step cautious. The blade of a knife, which rose and fell again and again, brushed against the wood with care. The only sound that dared pierce the stillness of the night like a dangerous noise was the bubbling of water and the occasional crackle of fire.

“I knew I smelled a rat.”

The wooden chopsticks nearly fell from her hand in alarm at the unexpected voice behind her. She grabbed the pot—but let go of it immediately when the heat burned her hands.

Chung Myung watched her struggle not to scream, his expression disturbingly indifferent. He almost snickered with spite as he saw her dash about until she found a bucket hidden behind some supply crates and plunged her hands into it to soothe the pain.

She relaxed for a moment, but quickly spun to face him, furious, hissing..

“Sahyung you bastard! Why would you do that?!”

She trembled in frustration, which Chung Myung ignored in favor of inspecting the pot of noodles bubbling away on the stove.

Rubbing her still-stinging hands, she looked at him with a curiosity she couldn’t quite hide as he blew on the noodles and tasted them.

“Is it any good?”

“Meh… I can see some improvement here and there butttt.”

She rolled her eyes, which he ignored, even when she approached close, rested her chin on his shoulder, and wrapped her arms around his waist. Actually—Chung Myung might’ve flinched just a little.

“You—”

He looked at her, a pulsing vein visible on his cheekbone, but the annoyed expression didn’t last long.

He wasn’t sure when it happened, or even why… but a damp, cold smell suddenly filled his nose, somehow overpowering the rich scent of spices. His shoulder was wet where she rested, and she was absolutely soaked—her hair dripping slowly, water tracing glistening lines down her pale skin under the moonlight spilling through the door he’d left ajar.

“Sahyung…”

She whispered playfully, her deep eyes staring straight through him. When Chung Myung shifted slightly, he felt the thin layer of water soaking the floor and seeping into his shoes. The wooden floor, barely visible in the dark, was drenched.

“You say such cruel things, and yet you miss me this much.”

A soft laugh escaped her lips. He could feel her slender fingertips pressing gently into his side through the white fabric, sending a sharp, ticklish sensation over his skin.

“Am I wrong… Chung Myung sahyung?”

“…!”

A sharp gasp tore through his lungs. His body tensed as he tried to comprehend his current position—what he was seeing.

It was nothing but the familiar ceiling of his room.

Chung Myung took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. Instead of cold water soaking his shoulder, it was Baek Ah, drooling on him—likely dreaming about food or something similar.

He sighed, a little annoyed, his eyes scanning the room. The cold sweat clinging to his back and neck was irritating, but that wasn’t the first thing that caught his attention.

“What time is it…”

He muttered to himself, and in the next instant—he was no longer in his bed.

“KIEEEEEK?!”

Baek Ah shrieked, startled, as she flew into the air and landed safely on all fours. She looked around angrily, but Chung Myung was nowhere to be seen. The door to his room wide open.

Chung Myung had shot out of the White Plum Dorm like an arrow, eyes scanning the courtyard intensely. His jaw nearly hit the ground when he saw the disciples already training and sweating.

The first to notice him was Baek Chun.

“Oh! Chung Myung-ah.”

He approached with a bright smile, though it faded slightly with a teasing tone.

“Tsk. There you go, training hard again…”

‘Training?! Hard?!’

Chung Myung couldn’t get a single word out. Anyone seeing him, drenched in sweat like that, would definitely assume he’d been training. Not that it was the result of a dream—or the fact that he’d fell asleep last night after drinking and forgot to change into his nightwear.

“Tsk… How are we ever going to beat this bastard if he keeps getting stronger every day—”

Chung Myung barely recovered from the shock before sending Jo Gul flying into the sky.

He sighed, raking his fingers through his messy hair in frustration, and looked around at the disciples packing away their training gear—apparently already finished for the morning session.

The sun was already high in the sky.

This wasn’t the first time he overslept. It was the second time! And worse than before—this time he’d slept till noon!

The sound of laughter and idle chatter from the disciples helped calm him a little. He had to find a solution to this problem. He couldn’t ask them to wake him up—they’d never let him live it down.

Chung Myung left to shower. It was impossible to focus or even feel human with clothes clinging to his skin like this.

~

He arrived at the dining hall.

The disciples, usually loud and rowdy, were too busy today to panic at his entrance. Part of it was because he kicked the door open with less force than usual.

After grabbing his food, Chung Myung made his way to his usual seat and suspiciously eyed the empty chairs meant for Jo Gul and Yoon Jong.

‘Still bathing?’

Weird. Those kids never be late to a meal.

He shrugged and sat down, ready to dig into his plate and appease his growling stomach.

But Chung Myung paused again after the first bite—chopsticks still in his mouth.

He frowned, eyes shooting daggers at the wall in front of him. Though truthfully, he was too busy analyzing the taste to hate the poor, innocent wall.

It wasn’t that the food was particularly amazing—well, it was—but that wasn’t the case.

Suddenly, Chung Myung began stuffing his mouth with reckless abandon, cheeks puffing like they were about to burst. That finally drew confused looks from the disciples nearby—but he either ignored them or was too deep in food ecstasy to care.

Then suddenly… he stood.

His hands slammed the table—not with rage, but with the force of realization. Silence fell across the hall.

‘What now…?’

That thought passed through every nervous disciple’s mind as they looked at Chung Myung’s sweat-drenched face. He, in turn, stared down at his plate.

“Why does this taste so familiar???”

In the blink of an eye, Chung Myung dashed out of the dining hall, leaving only unanswered questions behind.

His soles screeched against the floor as he turned a corner and barged into the kitchen in a flash. Somehow, the door was still hanging on.

“AHH!! This bastard scared me!!”

“Chung Myung!”

“How many times do I have to tell you?! Use your hands! Your hands!”

Jo Gul clutched his chest as if truly startled. Baek Chun and Yoon Jong scolded him, Tang Soso placed a hand over her forehead, and it was hard to tell what Yu Iseol was thinking. Hye Yeon was quietly trying to hide the alcohol from sight.

Chung Myung didn’t listen to a single one of them. His eyes scanned the room in an instant—and then he saw her.

Among his companions, there was something that didn’t quite fit.

Eyes with a soft curve stared back at him with interest, a hint of curiosity glimmering in her gaze.

And in the most natural reaction possible, Chung Myung pointed at her.

“Who the hell are you?!”

—

Time seemed to freeze for Chung Myung.

Was this a dream? Another one? A dream within a dream? Did the universe really have to mess with him like this?

Of course, he knew what she looked like—even younger, her features unmistakable. How could he not recognize her?

Forget that—

„Your taste in food is weird.“

„Isn’t it great? That means sahyung can always recognize my special touch, hahaha!“

He could. Only her hands could create such complex flavors—strange at first, but impossible to forget once you got used to them.

The first thing Chung Myung learned in this second life of his was that reincarnation was possible.

But even with that knowledge—how could he not be stunned seeing Samae, his previous life's wife, now alive, younger, sitting before him in the flesh?

“Chung Myung-ah!”

His Sasuk’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

Chung Myung turned to him, confused, eyes still skeptically glued to the girl.

“Come here. I don’t think you two have met.”

Baek Chun gestured to the seat beside him, then narrowed his eyes at his Sajil with suspicion.

“…Or have you?”

“No? No! We haven’t met before now!”

Chung Myung nearly shouted, sounding a little too defensive. He glanced at her, trying to read her reaction. He knew instantly—she hadn’t recognized him.

Chung Myung sat with noticeable caution between Baek Chun and Yoon Jong. The disciples quickly returned to their conversation, which Chung Myung paid little attention to. His eyes remained fixed on the girl seated across the table from him.

He skillfully ignored the disciples who kept glancing at him, unnerved by his uncharacteristic silence.

They were worried—and who wouldn’t be, when he was staring at their guest so intently?

Chung Myung, known for his explosive temper and stunning lack of patience, had never treated anyone outside of Kangho with such hostility. He was a nightmare only to warriors and martial artists.

Yet still...

‘He’s not going to hit her... right?’

‘We should be ready to hold him back at any moment.’

“You're the disciple Chung Myung, right?”

The disciples turned toward the voice, realization dawning upon them as they shut their eyes in embarrassment. They’d been so wrapped up in their own thoughts and fears that even an ordinary woman like her had picked up on the tension in the air and even the cause of it.

They looked back at Chung Myung, only to find that he hadn’t responded.

Chung Myung wasn’t sure how to describe what he was feeling. His expression—was it an expression?—was so twisted it made one wonder: Can a face even do that? And clearly, it wasn’t a good sign.

—

Chung Myung remembered the day they first met.

The first time she set foot on Mount Hua, his first impression and behavior was, at the very least, aggressive. Ever since, those sharp eyes had followed him curiously, as if he were some strange antidote to boredom.

He hated it. He hated being looked at as some fleeting amusement. Her presence annoyed him more than it should’ve—it felt like a blow to his pride.

“Go away.”

“No, sahyung~ don’t say that! A samae like me can’t help but stare at such a pretty face!”

She laughed every time he tried to escape her, as though she only bothered him for the fun of watching him curse under his breath while running away.

She wasn’t a genius, nor was she gifted. She didn’t even try hard. Lazy, chatty—yet that was why she was popular in the sect.

All the other disciples knew were swords, training, and Taoist teachings.

She was the only one who spoke about other things, breaking the rigid, solemn air of the place. She didn’t seem to care about swords or Taoism. Chung Myung never understood why she joined the sect at all, if she knew she wouldn’t commit.

“Ehh, who said I knew?”

Chung Myung’s brow twitched as he looked at the woman sitting beside him. Lately, he’d grown lazy about shooing her away, and that had led to conversations like this more often than not.

“I joined because swords are cool. Does sahyung think otherwise?”

She tilted her head, with that smile and those raised brows… Chung Myung, calm down. Control yourself. It was genuinely hard not to swing the sword in his hand right at her head.

“Why does sahyung look annoyed? You skip training more than I do.”

Yes. Hard. He couldn’t help it.

“BUAHAHAHA!”

She leapt out of her seat at the last second and dashed behind a pillar, laughing, as his sword shattered the floor where she’d just been sitting.

“Come back and say that again!”

“Say what? Be specific!”

She ducked at the last moment when the sword came flying at her head, but didn’t back down. She looked at him with a provoking smile.

“Why’s sahyung so angry? Take a joke!”

“Give me back my sword.”

“Sahyung, think for a sec, I mean—”

“The. Sword.”

Her smile twitched as she saw Chung Myung’s hand held out, palm up. With a sigh, she stepped back, yanked the sword stuck in the tree trunk, and slowly walked back toward him.

She stopped a few steps away, eyes darting between the sword and his hand, before looking up at him suspiciously.

Chung Myung rolled his eyes. Her hesitation made it look like she thought he might hit her—what’s worse was that she wasn’t wrong. He had considered it for a moment.

“Hand it over.”

“Tch...”

She clicked her tongue and turned slightly away in irritation. Did she just click her tongue at him?

The moment the sword hit his palm, she didn’t get the chance to move away in time—his hand was too fast. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her slightly toward him.

She gave him a mildly confused look but didn’t say anything. His expression was tight—just enough to be obviously displeased.

“Stop bothering me, samae.”

“...”

“I don’t want to see your face. Your voice is annoying.”

Chung Myung’s sharp gaze scanned her face, searching for discomfort, sadness, or even hate—anything that might show his efforts were paying off.

All he found was a slight furrow of her brows. In fact, she looked like she was analyzing his expression, which made his stomach twist. He let go of her wrist a little too roughly and walked away, heavy-footed, grabbing the bottle he’d left behind.

Maybe… if he kept trying… she’d finally—

“Ughhh, that’s not fair!”

Chung Myung froze mid-step. He turned to look at her over his shoulder, his face twisted in suspicion, cheeks puffed with the alcohol he was still swallowing.

“Sahyung, I didn’t know you were such a selfish guy! Trying to keep this pretty face all to yourself!”

“Pfft—cough—COUGH—!”

Chung Myung choked on his drink. For a second, it felt like a piece of his soul had just left his body.

He turned to her with fury, drawing his sword once more.

“You little piece of shi—!!!”

“HAHAHAHA!”

She howled with laughter as she fled from the man who looked like he was about to start breathing fire.

~

It was a well-known fact that Chung Myung attracted trouble.

The thing was, it was usually the kind of trouble that became a headache for Chung Mun, Chung Jin, or someone else—while he remained perfectly relaxed.

Most wouldn’t even call it a problem. But Chung Myung… he had his own opinion.

He couldn’t push her away.

He hadn’t felt so frustrated in his twenty years of life.

He’d heard the clatter of pans, smelled food cooking. Curious like a child, he crept inside—dinner wasn’t supposed to be ready yet.

And there she was. Of all people, she was the one he found. More irritating than the Baek line disciples. No, not more than them—except for Baek Oh, maybe. That guy is the worst.

He’d nearly turned around, but unfortunately, she’d spotted him the moment he walked in.

“Hungry?”

Chung Myung never turned down free food. Damn it.

But… maybe it wasn’t so bad. Sure, she kept rambling on about some dumb fight between vegetable vendors in Huayin because one of them accused the other of stealing customers. And yeah, the food tasted odd, unfamiliar.

But his stomach was full in the end.

“Do you know how much I hate entitled parents? Like today—this woman kept yelling at the poor vendor for not letting her kid steal. I mean, have people lost their minds?”

“...”

“I honestly think we need a system that stops people from marrying or having kids until it’s proven they’re mentally stable. These selfish types are the ones ruining the world. But sadly, politicians don’t care about that.”

“...”

Yeah. Not bad. Just… deep breaths.

“I don’t get it. If you care so much about the outside world, why are you still on Mount Hua?”

“Ehhh.”

She pouted faintly, pretending to be hurt by his not-so-subtle jab: When are you leaving? But she knew if she played into it, he’d double down. Might even stab her, who knows.

“Sahyung, do you think a delicate girl like me could survive alone in this cruel world?”

“Danger would run away if you winked at it.”

Her lips twitched at that, but she retaliated with a wink. Chung Myung flinched, nearly choking on his food.

“...Don’t do that again.”

“You asked for it, sahyung.”

He clicked his tongue, annoyed. The girl across the table just laughed and leaned her cheek into her palm.

“Why is it so easy to annoy sahyung with a wink?”

“Because you’re suspicious.”

“I am not!”

She pretended to be shocked and offended—only making Chung Myung more irritated.

She wasn’t easy to rattle. Even when she was, she got more annoying—like she knew exactly what got under his skin and used it to get back at him.

God, how he hated that type of person.

The worst part was… he couldn’t be annoying enough for her to finally give up and leave him alone.

~

“Sahyung, don’t hit them so much!”

“Shut it! These punks only learn through beatings.”

He heard her sigh behind him as he slammed his sword down one last time on a Southern Edge disciple’s head. Honestly, he’d planned to hit him again, but seeing the sorry state of him and his companions, he had to admit—maybe she had a point.

Really, just a few strikes and they were all trembling and groaning in pain!

Maybe that’s why Chung Mun scolded him so much. Did these brats just exaggerate their suffering?

“Actually, now that I think about it, I’m even angrier!”

He heard her gasp along with the shocked gasps from the restaurant patrons. Of course they’d panic when he drew his sword. But she quickly stepped in and grabbed his arm that held the sword.

"Sahyung! If you hit him, he'll really die!"

"So what? Martial artists die every day. A martial artist should be ready to face death at any moment!"

Chung Myung was entirely serious, making it all the harder to dissuade him from swinging his sword at the bruised disciples' throats.

"Tsk, cowardly Mount Hua disciples."

The bickering stopped abruptly as both she and Chung Myung turned, surprised, to look at the Southern Edge disciple trying to stand on his swollen legs. He mumbled through bruised lips:

"Why’re you stopping him from fighting, huh? I’ve never seen a more cowardly martial artist in my life."

She and Chung Myung exchanged a puzzled look, then turned back to the guy. She pointed at herself in confusion. Clearly, he’d been beaten so badly that even his spirit had taken a hit—he was spouting nonsense.

"What? Cowardly???"

She roared, drawing her sword without a second thought. This time, it was Chung Myung himself who had to grab her by the collar before she sliced the man into ribbons.

"Aaaah, stop causing trouble!"

"Let go, Sahyung! No one taught this mangy dog how to speak to a lady, so I’ll have to do it myself!"

The crowd watched silently as the swordsman dragged his fellow disciple away effortlessly, while she kicked and flailed, unable to break free.

"Tsk…"

She clicked her tongue in irritation, her foot thumping the ground. She paused momentarily as a drink was placed in front of her, then resumed stomping.

"Drink this and shut your mouth."

She sighed, glanced at him—head tilted back as he downed his liquor—and followed suit, though her movement was far less graceful.

As she set the cup down, she sighed again, face still annoyed, though her foot had finally stopped tormenting the poor ground.

"Tsk, why do I even bother!"

Chung Myung smiled at her irritation and poured himself another cup before setting the jar beside her.

"Upset? Maybe you should just head back to the sect and leave me alone."

"Haha, nice try."

She took the jar and refilled the cup she’d just emptied.

"Leave Sahyung in Xi’an? Ridiculous. The women here are too pretty—what if one of them tries to flirt with you and I’m not around to save you?"

Chung Myung almost spit out his drink, but swallowed and coughed violently instead. He looked at her with furrowed brows, silent.

First of all, what kind of lunatic woman would flirt with someone like him, especially with how awful his reputation was? Second, the only lunatic woman he knew was her.

Chung Myung wisely chose to keep those thoughts to himself.

Too bad that didn't work.

"Tsk, I saw that woman! She was staring way too much. I get that Sahyung’s super handsome, even acting like a thug doesn’t ruin your appearance too much—but come on, that’s still too much!"

"Cough—cough—cough—!"

"Oh no, are you okay, Sahyung~?"

A wicked grin spread across her face. Chung Myung stared at her like she was some kind of predator.

"Cut it out! Let me drink in peace!"

"Peace? A martial artist should expect chaos and ruin at any mo—wait, Sahyung… why are you drawing your sword?"

She ducked instinctively as his sword swung her way, eyes glinting with amusement as he glared, visibly annoyed.

"Come here!"

"No~!"

Chung Myung picked up the liquor jar and stood, waving his sword at her—not seriously, of course. If he were serious, her head would've been on the floor already.

Amid annoyed murmurs and stifled laughter, the two made their noisy way back home.

~

"Where is she?"

"Yes?"

"She usually bugs me nonstop, but I haven’t seen her anywhere for a long."

"You mean... for two days. It’s been only two days, Sahyung."

Chung Jin gave a confused look at the man sitting in front of him, who looked utterly bored. He couldn’t help but think of how inseparably glued that woman had become to this man, enough that two days of absence already felt like a long time.

Chung Jin sighed in resignation, eyes scanning Chung Myung carefully before he finally spoke.

"Sahyung… if you haven’t seen her for two days, then I guess you don’t know."

Chung Myung’s head lifted slightly at the quiet, tense tone. After adjusting his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose, Chung Jin spoke..

"Sahyung..."

~

All Chung Myung had ever known was his sect, his comrades, and the martial world.

So naturally, the only hierarchy he understood was the one used in Kangho: the Nine Great Sects, the Five Noble Families—at the top, the sect leaders and elders.

Sure, he knew other systems existed—like the imperial system, or the one used by the evil sects, although those scoundrels were generally weak. Still, their internal structures were different from the orthodox sects world.

„The emperor’s nephew—he’s not the emperor himself, sure, but he’s still royalty. If he asks for her hand in marriage, there’s no way—“

"What nonsense."

Chung Myung clicked his tongue in annoyance, though the irritation in his voice didn’t match the furious pace of his steps.

He plunged deeper into the trees, his strides fast and unerring, as if he knew exactly where he was going. Then, all at once, he ran straight toward a specific tree and kicked its trunk hard.

The poor tree shook violently—maybe even tilted a little—and a startled gasp came from above.

Chung Myung spread his arms below… then after a thought pulled them away on purpose.

She hit the ground.

Chung Myung laughed as he watched her rub her aching back, muttering curses.

"Sahyung, you bastard! Is that how you treat your poor samae—?"

She shut her mouth the moment she looked up and saw his unsheathed sword. She rolled away quickly and grinned mischievously as she got up and sprinted off.

"Sahyung~ You sure love drawing your sword at me~"

"You damn gremlin!"

Chung Myung growled, swinging his sword. She dodged, laughing, she had no time to notice the brief red tint at the tips of his ears.

In seconds, he grew tired of the chase. He grabbed her by the collar in one smooth motion. For a flicker of a moment, tension crossed her face—but her cheeky grin buried it.

"Sahyung, Sahyung~ So you’re the one who missed my face this time, huh?"

"Shut it."

His voice was low, but his eyes were sharp, and his grip on her collar tightened—just a bit.

"When were you planning to tell me?"

"..."

"A marriage proposal? Why don’t I know anything about this? Don’t I at least have the right to be happy I’ll finally be rid of your constant annoyance?"

At that, she tilted her head slightly, her eyes tracing every detail of his face.

"But Sahyung… you don’t look very happy to me."

His brows were faintly furrowed, lips pressed tight, teeth clenched... It was a scowl. And scowls generally didn’t scream happiness.

Chung Myung exhaled sharply, as if trying to release some tightly wound emotion. His hand twitched—tightened—then slightly loosened again.

"I am happy!"

"No, you’re not."

"Yes—!!"

He froze as she rested her head gently on his shoulder. The light weight made his lashes flutter. But he didn’t shove her off.

"The offer came a few days ago. I asked the sect leader to say anything that might make them change their mind. He even told them I’m several years older than the guy."

"..."

"But he… what did he say?! That age is just a number?? That madman—"

She nearly screamed, breath catching in her throat as she failed to suppress the tears.

Chung Myung had no idea what to do. What was the right thing to do in a moment like this? He wasn’t someone who consoled others. He didn’t know how to use words—not for this. Heck, he’d never comforted a crying person in his entire thirty-some years of life.

"I might not seem like I care that much… but I don’t want to leave the sect. I want to stay… with everyone..."

"..."

Chung Myung tensed as he felt the dampness of her tears on his shoulder. His free hand moved awkwardly, unsure of what it was supposed to do...

And then she spoke again. Chung Myung listened.

"This is impossible... How am I supposed to flirt with Sahyung if I’m married to someone else?"

No, no. That was not what Chung Myung was listening to hear.

"Get off me, you pervert!"

"No!!!"

Finally, Chung Myung figured out what to do with his hands—he grabbed her from the back, trying to pry her off. But she stubbornly wrapped her arms around his waist, clinging for dear life.

Chung Myung shivered as her grip tightened around his waist.

"You—!!!!"

"Sahyung, please! Save this poor samae! Do I look like someone who can become a noble lady?!"

"If the man insists even after knowing you're an old hag, that means he’s seen you before and still thinks you're worth it—even if you act like a damn stray mutt!"

"Ah! How could you say that?!"

Chung Myung sighed in defeat. When she noticed he’d stopped trying to throw her off, she looked up at him—but didn’t let go. She knew the second she did, she’d be airborne.

Chung Myung looked in confusion at the woman who clung to him and looked at him with shining eyes, partly due to the tears that still hadn't dried from her eyes. The redness that hadn't left her eyelids and the tip of her nose was causing a slight tightness in his chest.

"What?"

He asked cautiously, as if he sensed that something ominous was about to happen.

"Sahyung, marry me please!"

And he was right.

Without any warning, Chung Myung flung the woman off into the trees—but she landed gracefully on her feet like a squirrel and drew her sword.

"Even a noble-born bastard can’t ask for the hand of a married woman!"

"What the hell kind of nonsense are you spouting?! Do you even know what you're asking for?!"

For once, Chung Myung felt like he was the prey. She was standing with a sword in hand—wait, why had she drawn her sword in the first place??

Chung Myung turned and ran.

Unfortunately for him, speed was one of her strengths. She didn’t catch him, but she maintained the distance.

"Oh, come on! When would anyone get the chance to marry a woman as amazing as me?! Even the emperor’s nephew is in love with me!"

"Bloody hell! Go find someone else! There are plenty of Sahyungs and Sasuk-types in the sect!"

"Impossible! Not everyone has a face as pretty as Sahyung’s!"

Chung Myung distinctly remembered almost tripping at that moment.

“H-HELP!!!”

—

She’d clearly climbed the mountain several times before.

So why hadn’t he met her earlier?

Well, she’d started coming up even less often than before—not that it was frequent to begin with, since the climb was so grueling—after her family’s financial situation improved. Normally, the disciples from Baek’s line visited her whenever they went down to Huayin.

The only times she came to the sect herself were: once before he left to help the Huayong sect—unfortunately, he was in seclusion then. The second time was apparently when she heard the Tang family had visited Mount Hua. She came up then and met Tang Sosu. Chung Myung had been away in Yunnan at the time.

That’s why even Tang Soso knew her... and he didn’t.

"Chung Myung Dojang."

Chung Myung somehow managed not to jump out of his skin when that voice suddenly echoed out of nowhere. Still, he felt ten years older in an instant.

He turned to look at her with an almost frozen expression—if not for the twitch in his eyelids.

"What?"

"The disciples said you haven’t eaten."

Chung Myung stared at her for a moment and sniffed, then looked away.

"I’m not hungry."

"Nuh-uh~ The disciples said you sanctifie food."

Chung Myung shot a death glare toward the Five Swords and that bastard Hye Yeon, hiding behind a building wall as they peeked toward the training yard. They flinched, clearly believing they’d been stealthy.

"It’s fine, really! I know people have different tastes, but we can talk, right? Maybe find a solution?"

Chung Myung looked at her like she was speaking nonsense. Sure, it was fine—but why did she look so deeply offended? And why talk about ‘finding a solution’ like this was some grand, unsolvable problem? She’s the one overreacting!

Can’t he just have one peaceful training session?

"Stop. I’m training. Don’t bother me."

"Ohhhh?"

"Shit."

Chung Myung looked around awkwardly as the disciples’ whispers rose just enough to be noticeable.

"I’m bothering you? Me? Hahaha!!"

"Ha… ha..."

Chung Myung barely managed a strained laugh before the girl looked around, grabbed him by the ear, and marched straight toward the kitchen.

"OWW! YOU CRAZY WOMAN!"

"Shut it! I’m slaving away in front of a hot oven, and some brat dares say I’m bothering him? You think what I do is less important? Do you even know how many lives food saves every day—"

Chung Myung could feel years of his life draining away with every nagging word.

That day, Chung Myung was more full than he could have ever been.

—

In a place where the signs of ordinary life had completely vanished…

Some might imagine an abandoned city, a slum, a battlefield...

Yes, it was a battlefield—but not any ordinary one.

Chung Myung swung his sword one last time, severing the head of the final demon cultist still standing. He flicked the blood from his blade.

His eyes, growing even dull since the beginning of the war, scanned the field and those around him.

"Are you okay, Hyung-nim?"

Tang Bo tilted his head, scanning Chung Myung for wounds, then looked at the back of his head. It took Chung Myung a few seconds to realize and turn.

"Yeah..."

He replied briefly. Tang Bo sighed wearily as Chung Myung sheathed his sword with practiced ease.

"When will this all end… It’s been two years already..."

"It’ll be over soon. Then we can finally rest."

Tang Bo exhaled in frustration. Chung Myung wasn’t wrong, but the constant missions in such a short span were draining. It had only gotten worse.

Then an idea hit him.

"Hyung..."

Chung Myung glanced over. Tang Bo smiled brightly—oddly cheery for someone stained in blood. But they’d grown used to this life long ago. Such sight no longer seemed strange.

"How about we go on a trip when the war ends?"

"A trip?"

Chung Myung repeated the word slowly, as if letting it settle in his mind. Then he nodded with a small smile.

‘A trip around the world, huh… sounds nice for a change.’

Tang Bo’s grin widened at the positive response. He stepped closer and nudged Chung Myung with his elbow.

Chung Myung blinked and turned to look—only to see Tang Bo nodding toward a certain direction.

There, a blade poked at the body of a cultist, checking if it was truly dead. Chung Myung’s eyes followed the sword up to the hand that held it... and the face above.

How the hell can someone, after fighting hundreds of cultists, still look that carefree, playful, and beautifu—

Chung Myung grimaced, annoyed that his thoughts had wandered.

Then Tang Bo suddenly called out,

"Sister! What about you?"

"Hmm?"

She turned to the two men curiously.

"What do you want to do after the war?"

A thoughtful smile spread across her face. Her eyes shimmered with hope as she tried to picture a peaceful future she likely never believed she’d have.

"Hmm… I think I want to open a restaurant."

"Ahh, just like you!"

Tang Bo laughed. He gave Chung Myung a knowing look—and an evil idea lit up behind his eyes. He turned to her again. Winking twice as a not very secretive hint.

"Guess what? Hyung and I are going on a trip after the war!"

"Ooh~"

Chung Myung shivered. Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she approached with a cheerful bounce in her step, walked right up to Tang Bo—and nudging his arm with her elbow.

"But don’t take him away from me for too long. What am I supposed to do when I miss my gorgeous husband’s face—"

"You two bastards!"

"Kyahaha!"

The two burst into laughter and ran for their lives.

Chung Myung sighed, exasperated, and looked away. He still hadn’t gotten used to being teased by these two, even though it had been going on for years. That woman—his supposed wife—had broken her vow not to bother him if he married her right after making the vow. And Tang Bo? That traitor delighted in randomly teaching him courtesy techniques since the moment he found out Chung Myung had no idea how to handle having a wife.

Of course he didn't listen to that nonsense.

He was supposed to be his friend. But instead, he rooted for her.

—

Chung Myung stood still, unmoved by the bustle around him, unbothered by the loud streets of Huayin.

The Five Swords had dragged him here. He didn’t want to come. But they insisted he needed to see it.

„I think I want to open a restaurant.“

And there it was—the simple dream that had been impossible in that life, now a reality.

He hadn't wanted to come. Yet here he was, unable to tear his eyes away from the building, the tables, the walls... as if he’d never seen a restaurant before in his life.

“Hey. Why are you zoning out like that?”

He froze when he felt a hand on his wrist. It wasn’t strong, wasn’t firm—he could easily pull away. But he didn’t. His whole body had stiffened under the weight of some strange, overwhelming shock.

The disciples had all run ahead taking their seats around a table, those traitors, abandoning him the moment food came into view.

Chung Myung almost jumped when her hand landed on his shoulder this time. He looked up—and she was smiling.

God, how long had it been since she smiled at him like that? The smile he loved and hated in equal measure?

She parted her lips slowly, as if studying his expression.

She only ever did that with him.

He thought things would be different in her new life. So why…

"You’re really weird, you know that? I thought you hated my cooking, but it doesn’t seem like that’s it. So what are you always thinking about, huh?"

When he didn’t answer, she chuckled and patted his back lightly, as if encouraging him to go join the others.

"Come on, it’s on the house today. There’s tons of meat—if you don’t hurry, Jo Gul-ah’s going to eat it all."

She walked off. But Chung Myung tilted his head slightly, sensing her gaze still glued to him to the last moment before she turned away.

A bead of sweat slid down his temple.

Oh hell... how can someone look at another person like that? Isn’t this harassment? Flirting? Or is it just his imagination?

Now that he thinks about it… isn’t that the same look she used to give me back when we first met?

Chung Myung shuddered—maybe?—but shook his head and hurried after the disciples. He didn’t want to think about it anymore.

And so here he is...

With his companions, he was eating delicious food—free, too. At some point, the other customers had left early, so they were alone now… in the restaurant that belonged to his wife from his past life. It was her dream, one she never got to fulfill because she’d been brutally killed in the war. And him? He couldn’t even say a single kind word to her, not even once.

But she was living a good life now, living the peaceful life she deserves. That should be enough not to ruin his mood, right?

So, there was nothing here that could ruin his mood.

“Hehe, what was that again?”

Yes, nothing at all…

“Oh! Just raise your arm a bit higher!”

The students laughed as they watched Jo Gul trying to teach her how to properly hold a sword—thus proving, once again, that he was still an utterly incompetent teacher.

A martial artist shouldn’t let anyone touch their sword!

Well, maybe Chung Myung could let her use his. He was a teacher, and had been teaching these little devils for years—not for any other reason, of course.

But seriously now, why was that bastard so touchy? Did she just laugh? Just now?? Did that mean she was used to this?

That… was the final straw.

“Just a little higher...”

Jo Gul placed his hand gently over hers, pushing it slightly upward.

Chung Myung snapped.

Jo Gul barely dodged the flying chopstick aimed straight for his head.

“Wait—AAAH!!”

The students gawked as Chung Myung hurled another chopstick with such deadly precision that even Tang Soso flinched. Then they yelped when he stood, one foot on the table, drawing his sword.

"THAT SCOUNDREL WANTS TO DIE!!"

"wait, Chung Myung-ah!!!"

"Calm down! Put the sword down!!"

As Chung Myung roared like a beast whose territory had been violated, Jo Gul scrambled to hide behind her, mumbling prayers in case the students failed to restrain the rampaging maniac.

And from across the table, curious eyes followed the chaos—eyes accompanied by an amused smile.

Any other restaurant owner would’ve scolded them and kicked them out. But some people… some people just can’t resist the thrill, the rush of adrenaline from such entertaining, noisy scenes.

She's always been that kind of person.

Even far beyond what memory could reach.

—

"How wonderful it would be..."

She murmured it, a soft, beautiful smile breaking through lips stained with blood. Even as death approached, she could still gaze at the wide sky with endless hope.

She had clung to that hope as she walked among corpses—friends and foes alike. So why should she lose it now, just because it was her turn to die?

The world wouldn’t stop turning. She knew that.

So let her dream, just for a moment longer.

Maybe not in this life. Maybe in another.

But no matter how many times she might live again, she didn’t believe she’d ever meet someone quite like him.

So, if she had any regrets—if there was one thing she truly grieved...

"I never even touched your face... Sahyung."

Just once, if possible, she wished the heavens would pity her and grant her this one, final, foolish desire.

Because the cold that had crept into her bones, the numbness stealing her legs, were dragging her mind into a place of no return.

Of course… the heavens did no such thing for her.

—

“Chung Myung dojang~”

She called out in a playful tone, her eyes scanning the area for the fuming man.

She didn’t know where the curiosity came from. She knew herself well. She was the type for this—she wasn’t proper, and she had always adored chaos and instability.

But somehow, for some reason, her gut told her there was more to it than that.

She shifted the wooden ladder into place, lifted her long skirt slightly, and climbed the steps to the rooftop. She tilted her head, smiling when she saw the young man deliberately looking away, pretending not to notice her presence.

She carefully stepped onto the roof, trying not to slip. She clearly saw him shift uncomfortably—or was it nervously?—when she sat down beside him. A little too close for two people who had only recently met.

“Dojang~”

Chung Myung exhaled sharply. As if her proximity wasn’t already enough, she had to use that annoying tone that scraped at his already-thin patience—patience he didn’t even know he had left.

“Oh, come on. You wound me, treating me like I’m a nuisance.”

When her fingertip tapped his shoulder lightly, he flinched. He turned to scold her—but it was useless. How was he supposed to scold someone who looked at him like that?

Come on, Chung Myung! She doesn’t even know you’ve known her for so long. The last thing you want is for her to see you as easy prey!

'But she hasn’t even done anything seductive... yet?'

Was Chung Myung’s mind exaggerating things? Was it just his long-buried longing and sealed-away emotions coloring everything she did? Is that why every look, every word felt like it was squeezing his nerves and draining his resolve?

But how could he ignore it? The way those eyes that watched him turned into warm honey beneath the setting sun. The way those rosy lips smiled at him, fingers tapping them from time to time, like counting the heartbeats he missed.

When had anyone ever studied him this closely, except for her? As if he were an unsolved riddle. As if he were a work of art whose secrets and symbols needed to be deciphered, a timeless mystery carved into stone, still waiting for an answer.

Why again? Shouldn’t things have been different this time? A new start. A different life.

“You really are... an interesting person.”

She murmured, watching the frown that masked Chung Myung’s tangled thoughts, the ones he didn’t want reaching the surface.

“Tsk…”

He clicked his tongue and turned away again, his eyes scanning the horizon as if looking for something to do. Anything.

“Just… go away.”

Those were the words he chose now. The same ones he’d said to her the first time they’d ever spoken. And he didn’t know whether to be surprised or not when he heard her reply.

“Eh? How can you ask me not to look at such a pretty face? So stingy...”

Chung Myung squeezed his eyes shut, brows furrowed—yet he failed miserably to stop the heat flooding his cheeks.

“Y-yaa!!”

He turned toward her, his anger not nearly convincing enough. And thank heavens for the warm colors of the sunset, hiding his betrayed expression.

She laughed, clearly enjoying herself.

“What?? Did I lie? I didn’t!”

From afar, the disciples watched with mixed expressions—some sadness, some shock, some disgust. But then their expressions turned blank, maybe even a little serious, as they looked at each other.

“They're flirting?”

“They’re flirting.”

Baek Chun asked. Yoon Jong answered. Then everyone sighed.

It seemed Mount Hua was simply not destined to enjoy a single normal day.

☆彡

Note: I tried to include the death you imagined but I didn't watch rezero and youtube didn't help at all, and while writing her death scene I felt like being evil and so she died alone. Chung Myung received the news later.

if a man sees a dead person in his dreams drenched in water or wet with water, that could mean Relief from worries and the disappearance of concerns, if the one having the dream is having problems in his life. Wet ground carries within it a sign of happy events that may happen to the dreamer.

[joramrinah]

WOW. Honestly this is impressive, i see how much thought you've put into this, and I can relate because these 2 live in my head rent free. I agree with most of what you've said.

Let me start with saying that I've seen a lot of people being like "we don't need them to kiss, this is already a romantic relationship", well, it's unfortunately not tho. It's one thing for people to be okay with "situationships" irl, you do you, that's your life, I don't care. However, seeing how clearly their relationship is meant to be romantic, and not going there, and people being okay with it because "subtext is enough" is just the beginning of a slippery slope that will lead us back to less and less queer representation on tv. Half of the canon sapphic ships that there are, don't have nearly the same development or story these two have, and if we don't fight for such a deep relationship, more and more times we're gonna be left with halfhearted, afterthought, blink and you'll miss it types of relationships, that will be all the representation we get.

Ava and Deb have one of the most interesting, fleshed out, deep, "this was written in the stars" dynamics we've seen in a LONG time. I love age gaps, and while this is definitely a part of their dynamic I'd say it's one of the less important or interesting ones about them, because they literally don't care/remember about it unless it's to hurt each other, or to take jabs at each other in a fun way. I'd even go as far to say that their age gap is a part of why they work so well. Yes, it gets in their way when they allow it to, but it's because they're both stubborn and a little bit self-righteous, but it works because they both have things to learn from each other. Deb has years of experience, a confidence that comes with spending decades doing something, she's smart, strategic, cunning, she knows what the game is and how to play it in her favor, all of that and more she can "teach" Ava. Ava is open-minded, carrying, she shows Deb there's more to life than work, broadens her horizons, helps her see things from another perspective, gets her to try new things, new experiences, helps her fight for her dreams, and encourages her. They don't work because of, or in spite of the age gap, it's just a part of them, a fun bonus.

But as I started saying, it's not even the most interesting part of their dynamic. There's so much more to them:

-They're great creative partners, it's like they almost have one mind when it comes to comedy, for both of them comedy was their saving grace when they were younger, a way to express themselves, a place to be understood, a light at the end of their darkest days, somewhere comforting and safe to escape to when reality was too much. It's what connected them in the first place, it's where they speak the same language.

-Ava literally makes Deb a better person. It's the small things like Deb using a reusable cup, rather than the plastic one, telling a group of boys she's gonna decrease her carbon footprint so that they have a better chance at having a decent planet to live on, using her platform to help her long time friend turn a "scandal" into something more positive. Thanks to Ava even relationships in Deb's life with other people improve. It's also the big things, like Deb paying off an awful guy so that he doesn't step on a stage again, doesn't get a platform and do more harm, letting go of her lifelong dream because she realized what her boss/es wanted from her was wrong and not what she's gonna stand for. And yes, she might backtrack, or question those decisions, but before Ava she wouldn't even have thought twice about what decision to make, she would make the one that benefits her the most, no matter the cost. I think people can't truly grasp how big of an influence Ava has on Deb, instead of the other way around, because it's Deb who's showing more and more growth (not that Ava isn't, but it's more subtle).

-They're willing to do things for each order they wouldn't do for anyone (or barely anyone) else, Deb going to Ava's dad's funeral, going into and looking through a trash can to help find Ava's dad's ashes. Ava letting Deb teach her how to float in the water.

I could name more but this is long enough, the point is, their relationship is incredibly detailed, explored and interesting, age gap or not (I really, really, really do love age gaps, but since people wanna focus only on it, I wanna highlight some other reasons).

Now, moving along, the fact that Deb is so deep in the closet she found Narnia inside of Narnia is something she's gonna have to work on, and it's not gonna be easy. The problem for her isn't necessary with being queer, it's with HER being queer. I mean she surrounds herself with gay people left and right (CLUE NUMBER ONE, YOU'VE GOTTA FIND YOUR PEOPLE) she loves the gay community, it's with herself that she has an issue with, or rather multiple, she doesn't accept herself on many levels, and her self hatred leads to internalized homophobia (which, also was not helped by the reality of how gay people were treated when she was growing up, or even as an adult in the 80's-90's). But, from personal experience, having a person like Ava be so openly and unashamedly queer by her side (she did mostly surround herself with exclusively gay men, and while that helps in a way, she definitely needed to develop a close relationship with a queer woman, to see her perspective) can be a tremendous help in the road to self acceptance and discovery. She sees that Ava's queerness doesn't really stand in her way as it might've 20-30 years ago, professionally or personally, hell, even Ava's mom is quite accepting of that aspect of her. That all helps. I get what you're saying with Deb seeing behind people's facade of "acceptance", but she can also be stuck in her ways, and the world HAS come a long way, not long ENOUGH, but a long way non the less. That's why they'll balance each other, Ava will help Deb see that not everyone is out to get her, and even if there's some assholes out there they have each other, and their community to lean on, and Deb will teach Ava to read people better, to help protect herself a little bit more.

As far as representation, I think partially they can be, because how many of us queer women in their 20's-30's would love to get with an older woman (and like, we do have some real life age gap relationships in media, which I never EVER saw growing up, so it's amazing) and, as they say, never say never, there might be a hacks without cameras playing out somewhere in the world, it's a wild place. I've mentioned a couple of times in passing here that I've been in love with my ex teacher for the past almost 10 years, and Deb reminds me so much of her, and Ava so much of myself (maybe it's me projecting, but there IS a lot of similarities) so I personally feel very represented, and hope I can get something (not exactly alike, I'm not that strong, but ya know) along the lines of their relationship, but I do get it being like escapism, because it is for me as well, that's WHY it's needed. The lack of relationships like theirs showcased is precisely why we want/need them to be together. They're one of a kind, and hopefully, a start of many, many more.

I see nothing wrong with wanting to see them bang, because:

1. we see them sleeping with multiple other people, it's not a reach

2. it's just fun, and after all the things we've endured, it would be nice to see the payoff that way

3. Deb mentions multiple times she doesn't enjoy the act (with men), cut to, her having her mind blown by finally sleeping with someone she ACTUALLY wants to sleep with (and the cathartic feeling of being with a woman for the first time after denying yourself for so long yada yada)

That being said I absolutely agree with what you said about the non sexual intimacy, and about their partnership. Shit, both of them deserve to finally have someone to hug them, kiss them, and listen to them talk about their day or anything they might have on their minds really. In the section about what they both would provide the other in the relationship you put it perfectly. Deb should have someone who dotes on her and gives her the "princess treatment" she never got, and Ava would definitely thrive with having someone solid, who has (mostly) their shit figured out, and can help her figure out hers (another bonus point for the age gap, Ava thrives with an older partner)

Ultimately, as you said, it is JPL's decision. It hurts being played with like that without the certainty of it paying off the way we want it to (it's still a good show, don't get me wrong, but this just feels like a 4 year set-up and it would SUCK if it was all that it was) but I will continue to hold out hope, because what else is there to do at this point.

Sorry this is so long, but you've kinda opened the floodgates of what's been sitting in my mind. Also, if you ever wanna chat my messages are open!

Also, do y'all see how easy it is to have them date??? Spa, long walks around city attractions, karaoke, even clubs, or quiet evenings at home with a glass of wine, DO Y'ALL SEE HOW EASY IT IS FOR THEM