#and the scar - the golden hand!!! wonderful work

[beloveds-embrace]

(Poly 141 x farmer reader: John gets dishonorably discharged, and finds a new purpose in accepting your farm job advertisement, and the rest of the taskforce task force slowly mould themselves into your life

This was inspired by @devil-in-hiding’s wonderful, amazing On the Run series! Make sure to send her and the fic so, so much love! 💕💞💕 truthfully, this isn’t much and it definitely didn’t turn out the way I hoped it would, but I still hope it’ll be enjoyable <33)

The creak of old wood and the faint hum of bees in the garden welcomed John as he stepped onto the porch of the small farmhouse. His boots, scuffed and caked with dried mud, felt heavier than ever, broad shoulders sagging under the invisible weight he carried. The sharp scent of freshly tilled earth and blooming wildflowers should have been a comfort, but John barely noticed it among all the thoughts swirling within his head.

It had been weeks since the dishonorable discharge (as if he’d ever leave his own men behind. As if.) , weeks of wandering aimlessly, a hollow shell of himself. The military had been his life, his purpose, and to be stripped of it so publicly left him untethered. The scars he’d accumulated over decades of service seemed trivial compared to this- the one wound he couldn’t bandage, couldn't let heal so it could turn to a forgotten scab.

The farm job advertisement he’d found on the bulletin board of a dingy diner while aimlessly driving had been a last-ditch effort. He needed something- anything- to keep his hands busy and his mind from spiraling.

And now here he was, standing at your door.

When you answered, he was struck silent for a moment. You weren’t what he had expected. A soft curve of a smile greeted him, paired with eyes that seemed to hold the warmth of the sun itself. Your frame was wrapped in a well-worn but clean dress, your body curvy and full in a way that instantly set you apart from the wiry, hardened edges of his old world. There was something disarming about the way you stood there, your hands dusted with flour, your hair slightly mussed from whatever you’d been working on before he arrived.

You were what he’d worked so hard to protect. To keep from seeing the horrors that were kept hidden from the larger public.

“You must be John Price,” you said, your voice soft but firm, like the lull of rain against a tin roof. You offered him a hand, strong but gentle, calloused with years of hardwork. “I’m glad you came. I’ve been needing some help around here.”

John nodded stiffly, his voice rasping from disuse. “Happy to help.” He said simply, though the words felt foreign in his mouth.

You studied him for a moment, taking in the set of his jaw and the way his blue eyes seemed darker than they should have been. You didn’t press, didn’t ask why he was here or what had brought him to your quiet corner of the world. Instead, you gestured for him to follow you as you began pointing out the work that needed doing.

The farm was modest but well-kept, with rolling fields of golden wheat and neat rows of vegetables that hinted at how hard you worked to keep everything running. Your tone shifted as you explained things, clear and confident as you outlined his responsibilities- though you had those written in the ad as well, and so he knew what to expect. There was no hesitation in the way you moved, and John found himself admiring the way your body seemed made for this life- strong and soft, with a natural grace that made him feel clumsy in comparison. A foreign feeling to him.

The work was grueling, but John threw himself into it with a determination that surprised even him. Fences were mended, fields were tilled, and hay was hauled, the strain in his muscles a welcome distraction from the heaviness in his chest, the daily routine providing a purpose he’d been searching for. You worked alongside him every day, your hands as dirty as his by the end of it. You didn’t shy away from the harder tasks, your body bending and lifting with an ease that left him stealing glances when you weren’t looking.

It didn’t take long for you to notice the cracks in him, though. The way his eyes seemed haunted in the quieter moments, or how he would pause, his hands clenching into fists as if fighting off a memory. He wasn’t sleeping well- you could tell by the dark circles under his eyes and the way he moved in the mornings, sluggish and stiff, gratefully accepting the tea you’d make. He wouldn’t talk about it, but you saw the weight he carried, and it broke something in you.

You began helping him in your own quiet way. A warm, full plate of food at the end of a long day, a soft blanket folded neatly on the porch swing when you knew he’d sit there at night. You didn’t pry, but you’d offer him small comforts, like the way you’d linger for a moment longer when handing him a glass of water, letting your fingers brush his.

“You’re doing good work here, John,” you told him one evening as you set a plate of stew in front of him. Your voice was gentle, though it left no room for argument. “Thank you. I’m glad it was you who came by.”

He grunted in response, but the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He appreciated your kindness, though he didn’t know how to express it. He couldn’t shake the way you made him feel- not just useful, but seen.

The first visitor arrived a few weeks later, just as you were finishing up the morning chores. Simon- whom John introduced as Ghost, military callsigns were strange to you- was as imposing as his name suggested, his tall frame and masked face almost startling you when you turned the corner of the barn.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, low and gravelly. His dark eyes studied you carefully, as if trying to assess whether you were friend or foe. “Heard John was here. Wanted to check on him.”

Simon stayed, though he didn’t say why and you didn’t ask. At first, it seemed like he was just there to make sure John was alright, but soon enough, he was pitching in, fixing broken tools and hauling heavy loads with an ease that belied his quiet nature. He was efficient and methodical, and your german shepherd dog, Riley, adored him from the get-go.

You noticed the way he watched you, his gaze lingering when you didn’t think he’d notice. Simon had a way of positioning himself near you, as if he could ward off any harm just by being close. He’d take over heavy tasks without you asking, broad shoulders and strong hands making easy work of things that left you breathless when John was busy doing something else.

The rain brought Kyle “Gaz” Garrick to your doorstep after Simon, his clothes soaked through and his face muted with exhaustion. He knocked once, and when you opened the door, his lopsided grin and the sparkle in his brown eyes immediately disarmed you.

“You must be the saint putting up with Price,” he’d joked, though his voice was warm as you fluttered and flitted about to bring him some towels, warm food and a chance to warm up. “Mind if I dry off before I drown?”

Kyle brought a lightness to the farm that you hadn’t even known had been missing, his laughter and teasing filling the air like birdsong. He quickly took to the work, his lean frame surprisingly strong as he helped with everything from repairing the chicken coop to plowing the fields. But you caught the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you, his smile lingering when you were near, and especially bright whenever you’d poke back at him.

“You sure you’re not too soft for this kind of work, Garrick?” you teased after he groaned about the weight of a hay bale, hands on your hips.

“Soft?” he shot back, flexing an arm, and then he winked at you. “These are prime muscles, love. And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you keep sneakin’ looks.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed at the accusation, and Kyle smirked.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish arrived with the same energy as a summer storm, his laughter echoing through the fields before you even saw him. “Hope you’ve got room for one more!” he declared, his broad grin making you smile despite yourself.

Johnny was impossible to ignore, his enthusiasm infectious. He worked tirelessly, his hands calloused but gentle as he helped. He had a way of making you laugh, his jokes and compliments leaving your cheeks warm more often than not.

He immediately took to helping you with the animals especially, affectionately naming every goat and chicken, and teasing you about how they seemed to follow you everywhere.

“It’s because they know a good soul when they see one.” he said one evening, brushing hay from your hair. His fingers lingered a second too long before he pulled back, and you pretended your smile wasn’t bashful and your heart wasn’t thudding faster than baby goats running to drink their milk bottles.

The four of them fell into an easy rhythm just like that, their camaraderie seamless, and you truly understood just how close of a unit they must have been.

But what you didn’t notice was the way they watched over you. Whether it was John stepping in to take a heavy load from your hands or Simon silently following you to make sure you were safe, they all seemed to share an unspoken agreement to protect you.

And then there was the way they looked at you- not just with admiration, but with something deeper. John admired the way you carried yourself, your curves soft yet strong, a quiet confidence in every step. Simon found himself drawn to your steadiness, your calm presence soothing the chaos in his mind. Kyle loved your kindness, the way you always seemed to know what they needed without asking. And Johnny? Johnny adored everything about you, from your laugh to the way your body moved with an effortless grace.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, you all sat on the porch, the scent of freshly cut hay hanging in the air.

“You’ve all been such a big help,” you said, your voice soft and happy as you looked at them, Riley curled near your feet. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

John’s eyes met Simon’s, and Kyle and Johnny exchanged a glance.

“We’re not going anywhere,” John said finally, his voice steady. “Not if you’ll have us.”

You smiled, a warmth spreading through your chest as you looked out at the fields.

You had… truly never expected your precious little farm to become such a sanctuary for others as it was for you, but you were glad. It meant you were doing something right.

Something very right, going by the way you caught them looking at you.

At first, you hadn’t thought much of it. You were used to glances- it came with being a little softer, a little curvier than most women. People always seemed to look a little longer than they needed to, whether out of judgment or admiration, though you’d long since stopped trying to figure out which.

But this? This was different.

John’s gaze lingered when he thought you wouldn’t notice, sharp blue eyes tracing the curve of your hips and the swell of your thighs as you bent to collect eggs or reached up to pull a stubborn weed. When your skirts brushed your legs in the breeze, you swore you saw his jaw tighten, the flicker of something restrained in his expression before he turned back to whatever task he’d assigned himself for the day.

Simon was harder to read, but not impossible. He was quiet, his eyes shadowed under the brim of his cap or the mask he still occasionally wore out of habit, but there was a weight to the way he watched you. He never let you out of his sight if he could help it, always a step behind you when you carried something too heavy, his broad frame so steady and reliable it made your breath catch sometimes. When your hands brushed- accidentally, at first- he didn’t pull away quickly like most men would. Instead, he lingered just long enough for you to notice, just long enough to make you wonder how it would feel to have his fingers dig into your softness.

Kyle was far less subtle. He flirted openly, grinning whenever he managed to make you blush, which was often. He’d find any excuse to compliment you- how strong you were, how beautiful your smile was, how lovely your hair looked in the sunlight. It was playful at first, but then came the moments when his teasing turned quiet, almost tender, like when he brushed dirt off your cheek or tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His hands always hovered, careful but close enough to leave you wondering if he’d reach for you properly if you just gave him the smallest sign.

And Johnny? Johnny was a walking storm of affection. He wasn’t shy about how much he adored you. From the way he complimented your cooking- “I swear, love, you’re a magician in that kitchen”- to how he always seemed to find a reason to be near you, even when he wasn’t working. He’d lean against the doorframe, arms crossed and a crooked grin on his face as he watched you knead dough or arrange flowers in a vase. And then there were the touches- small, fleeting things, like his hand on the small of your back as he passed by or the way his fingers grazed yours when he handed you tools.

You’d been blind to it at first, convincing yourself it was just gratitude for the work, for the meals, for the home you’d offered them. But as the days stretched into weeks and their gazes grew heavier, their presence closer, it became harder and harder to ignore the truth.

They admired you.

Not just as a caretaker or a friend, but as something more- something deeper.

It was there in the way John’s voice softened when he spoke to you, the way Simon’s posture shifted when anyone unfamiliar stepped onto the property, putting himself between you and whatever potential threat he saw. It was in the way Kyle’s jokes always seemed to circle back to how lovely you looked doing even the simplest things, and the way Johnny’s laughter died in his throat whenever you smiled at him just a little too long.

And the realization left you flustered- unsure of what to do with the warmth that bloomed in your chest whenever they lingered too close or brushed against you without meaning to.

They all cared for you, and in a way that went far beyond just gratitude.

The knowledge sent your heart racing whenever one of them looked at you like that- like you were something precious, something worth protecting. Like you were worth staying for.

And maybe- just maybe- you were ready to let them.

[agreeewrites]

Magic Lessons | B.W.

Part One

feat. Bill Weasley x intern!reader

SUMMARY: Your best friends Fred and George convince their older brother, Bill, to give you a shot at a coveted curse-breaker internship position at Gringott's.

CW: age gap, boss/intern, fem!reader, reader is whip smart and sweet, dark curses and magical artifacts, men being shitty, hurt/comfort, dark academia vibes

AN: inspired by an ask I accidentally deleted (im so sorry) about Bill tutoring Fred & George's best friend. It spiraled into this.

part two | part three | masterlist

“You're going to be fine,” George soothed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“Yeah, Bill’s not so bad. You aren't scared of us, are ‘ya? So there's no need to be scared of him,” Fred added, bumping your knee with his.

You were sandwiched between them on a hard wooden bench in Gringott's, just outside their older brothers office, his name emblazoned in gold on the fogged door window. The twins, two of your closest friends from school, had secured you an interview for a coveted internship in the Ancient Artifacts Department, and you hadn't slept in a week leading up to it.

This was your dream job, a real stepping stone to the career you'd always imagined for yourself. You couldn't screw this up.

But that didn't quite explain the bone-deep anxiety clawing through your skin. It felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, one foot hanging into empty space.

Then, a shadow crossed the fogged mirror, tall and broad, and you shivered.

“You've got this,” George murmured at the same moment the door handle turned. It swung open, and your heart fell through the marble floor.

Bill Weasley was, objectively, terrifying. He had none of the softness of the twins, none of the jovial ease of youth. He was dressed in a white button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and charcoal trousers, traces of magic glittering along his forearms.

Standing at least a head taller than the twins, he had long copper hair and sharp cheekbones, deep scars across the left side of his face that only enhanced the striking beauty of his features. His green eyes were arresting, challenging in the way they swept across the hall before settling on you.

“Bill!” Fred said, jumping up, and Bill’s demeanor immediately shifted into something friendlier.

“Freddie,” Bill said, extending a hand to his younger brother with an expression you could almost call warm.

“Bill, this is our friend, y/n,” George said, getting up to shake his brother's hand, and you rose to your feet, hoping he didn't notice the slight tremble in your knees.

“Pleasure, y/n. I'm Bill Weasley, Head of the Ancient Artifacts Department here at Gringott's.” He extended a hand to you, calloused and long-fingered, a golden signet ring on his middle finger.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Weasley,” you said, placing your hand in his for a brief shake. He was gentle, but you could feel the undercurrent of strength in his movement, the intention he had to put towards being soft.

“Fred and George have told me a lot about you,” Bill said, glancing at his brother's. “You’re interested in Blessed Artifacts, correct?”

You nodded. “Yes, primarily magical items created with the intention of offering protection or assistance,” you answered, fighting the nervous heat climbing up your neck.

The corner of his mouth lifted, scrunching the scars across his cheek and eyebrow. “The opposite of what I do, hm?”

You laughed nervously. “Yeah, I suppose. Though I've studied your curse-breaking work extensively. A curse and a blessing are two sides of the same coin, and we can learn a lot about the workings of one from the other.”

Bill’s expression shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing and skimming over your face, and suddenly you knew what it felt like to be one of his artifacts.

No wonder he never crossed a curse he couldn't break.

“Step into my office, I have a few questions before we discuss terms of the internship. I'll see you two this weekend at the Burrow, yeah?”

“Yep!” Fred and George chirped in unison, and Bill slipped back into his office. The twins gave you a big thumbs up and you gave a nervous chuckle, waving them away before following Bill into his office.

It was nothing at all like you expected. Two enormous windows filled the back wall, spilling grey light across the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along the left wall. The shelves were overflowing with tomes and littered with artifacts, more than you'd ever seen outside for a museum or Dumbledore’s office. They perfumed the air with the scent of parchment and sandalwood, the warm musk of incense.

The carpet was plush under your feet, a mesmerizing pattern of deep maroon and teal, and overstuffed furniture rested against the right wall, a couch and two arm chairs framed by more loaded shelves and a gallery wall of shifting art.

But most surprising was his desk. It looked like it belonged in a research tent in the desert, not a gold-plated bank. It was covered in tools and stacks of paper, open books and deconstructed items, half-drank mugs of tea and a spilled ink pot.

“You look surprised,” he mused, following your eye.

“I didn't realize you still did field research,” you admitted sheepishly. “Now that you're head of the department.”

Bill shrugged, grabbing a mug and a stack of papers from the table and gesturing to the furniture against the wall. “I prefer the hands-on approach. Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything?”

“Oh, no thank you,” you answered, sinking into one of the arm chairs. It was so comfortable, you had to force yourself to sit upright. You could smell his cologne on the leather, vetiver and black pepper, and it made your chest warm.

He sat in the other armchair, bracing an ankle on the opposite knee. “So, how did you come to befriend my brother's?” He asked, taking a sip of tea.

“Fred needed some help in Charms,” you said, crossing your legs. “Then George needed help in Potions. And we just worked well together. They're good friends.

“So you're the reason they didn't flunk out, hm?”

You shook your head. “Not at all. They just needed a different perspective. They did the work themselves.”

Bill nodded, shuffling the papers in his lap. “Have you ever worked with curses directly? Beyond Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

You shook your head. “I don't have a lot of experience with curses, but I can read magic well, and have an eye for detail. I know I'm not the most qualified of the candidates you've probably met with, but this is my dream, and it would be such an honor to learn from the best— ”

“It's alright, y/n,” Bill stopped you with a small shake of his head, his low voice demanding acquiescence. “You're clearly bright, and determined to learn. That's more valuable to me than anything else.”

You exhaled in relief. “I appreciate that, Mr. Weasley,” you said, offering a small smile.

“Bill,” he corrected. “Bill is fine.”

Your heart gave an excited thump, and you nodded.

“So, for this internship, you'd be working directly with me, mostly archiving artifacts as they come in and out of the bank. You'll be spending a lot of time here and in the vaults. The pay isn't great, but if you do well over the six months term, there's potential for full-time employment.” He passed a contract to you, a quill floating over from his desk and into your hand. “And you're welcome to conduct supervised independent research whenever there's downtime.”

You blinked, shocked at the employment contract in your lap. “You don't—you don't have any more questions for me?” You asked.

Bill shook his head, giving you an amused smile. “You already showed that your head and heart are in the right place, and I trust my brother’s judgement. If they like you this much, there must be a reason.”

“I—thank you, sir,” you said, a grin breaking through as you signed your name on the line. The ink blazed gold before settling back to black, the contract magically binding.

Bill rose, extending a hand to help you to your feet. “Welcome aboard, y/n.”

The first few days of your internship were spent with members of Bill’s team, taking lengthy tours of Gringotts and the Archives. You quite liked Rumi and Kira, two of the lead archivists, but had a difficult time with Waylan, the Collector, as they called him, who seemed to have it out for you.

You waited with bated breath for your first project with Bill, but you'd barely seen him since you started. You brought it up to Kira at breakfast one morning, and she chuckled.

“He's around, I promise. Hardly goes anywhere else. But we usually only see him if he needs something.”

“Or when we fuck something up,” Rumi added, and you chuckled.

Kira rolled her eyes. “They're being dramatic. Bill's not nearly as scary as he looks.”

“Aren't I?”

The three of you jumped, turning to find Bill leaning against the wall beside Rumi’s seat. He looked exceptionally handsome this morning, his hair tucked behind his ears, a single strand falling over his eyes, dressed in finely pressed white shirt and navy trousers.

“Well you are when you sneak up on people!” Rumi laughed, and Bill cracked a smile.

“Apologies, mate. Y/n, ready for your first assignment?” His eyes met yours, brilliant as polished jade, and your tongue forgot how to function.

“Oh, uh, yes, sir!”

“Sir?” Kira snorted. “Are we supposed to call you ‘sir’?”

Bill shook his head. “I’d rather you didn't, but maybe you could use a lesson in manners from this one,” he teased, stealing Kira’s croissant. “Come along, fledgling,” he said, his deep voice resonant and rough around the edges.

The nickname jolted through you like a lightning strike, heating your blood to a simmer, and you nearly gasped, hiding your reaction by taking a final swig of breakfast tea.

Fuck no, you were not developing a crush on your boss. Get it together, you chastised yourself.

You got to your feet and hurried after him through the dining hall and into the wrought iron elevator. He held the door for you as you scurried in. The grate rolled shut, and the machine heaved off the ground with a metallic groan.

“Glad to you see you're getting along with the team,” he remarked, eyes trained up to watch the pulley system.

“Yes, they've been very welcoming,” you said, resisting the urge to stare at the hard angle of his jaw, the reddish stubble dusting it and spreading down his throat.

“There's a lot they can teach you. They're some of the best in the business,” he said, glancing down at you as the elevator came to stop. The doors rolled open and he strolled out, his long legs taking him a third of the way down the hall before you managed to get your knees to unlock.

You caught up to him at his office door. “What are we working on?” You asked, excitement building as you followed him to his desk.

He moved around it, stopping in front of a black velvet box. Carefully, he lifted the lid. “Waylan brought this back last month, and I hadn't been able to crack it until our meeting.”

“Oh?” Your heart began to beat a little faster, eyes fixed not on the box containing the object, but the way his deft fingers handled it with such a care.

He turned the box around, revealing a stunning necklace, dripping with black sapphires and diamonds, the chain a thick and luscious gold.

You gasped, covering your mouth. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry you'd ever seen.

He smiled at your reaction before catching himself, returning to neutral, if a bit curious, expression. “I hadn't considered that it might be a blessed object until our conversation.” He gingerly lifted the necklace from the box, the luxurious stones creating a stark contrast against his laborers hands. “And if I read the magical signature correctly, it should be a chameleon charm. To make any spectator see what they want to see in the wearer.” He came around behind you and you lost your breath, his closeness overwhelming your senses.

There was something about him that tilted the axis of the world, bending everything to center around him. He had his own gravity, his own magnetic force that you were struggling to resist.

“May I?” He asked, and you nodded, holding your breath as the cool stones kissed your clavicle, his fingertips ghosted the edge of your throat.

With a small click, the necklace was fastened around your neck. You could feel the magic in it, warm and buzzing as it spread through you.

Bill stepped away, moving back around to your front, and his brow furrowed.

“What? Did I grow a horn?” You joked, trying to dispel the tension winding tighter between you.

He shook his head, stepping back to ring a silver bell by his desk, a small plaque reading ‘Kira’ beneath it. There was one for each of you, you noticed.

A moment later, Kira walked in. “What's up, boss? Oh, did you change, y/n? I absolutely love that designer in Hogsmeade. His work is stunning,” Kira praised. “Sorry, can I help with something?” She said, turning to Bill.

Bill’s frown deepened as his eyes skimmed over you. “That'll be all, Kira. Thank you.”

“Oh, uh, okay. Let me know if you want to go shopping sometime, y/n!” She said before stepping back out of the office.

“So, she saw something in common that we didn't have before,” you observed, moving to jot some notes down on a piece of parchment in an attempt to stay on track despite the frustrated look on his face. “What do you see?”

“You can take it off. I need you to decode the magic signature yourself, archive the piece and charm accordingly, and see if you can replicate it on something else,” he directed, turning away and rustling through some pages on his desk.

“Sure, no problem.” Carefully, you unclasped the necklace and set it into its velvet case, confused by his sudden shift in demeanor, both the absence of the necklaces magic and his sudden distance leaving you cold.

What did he see in you?

He conjured another chair for you and sank into his own, turning his attention to what appeared to be a wooden horse.

Uncertain, you sat down and pulled the necklace towards you, along with the parchment and a quill, and got to work.

The uncertainty dissolved as the minutes turned to hours, both of you working quietly side by side to solve your own puzzles. The only sounds were the rustling of papers and scratch of quills, the soft music playing from a record player in the corner, and you felt a wave of peace settle over you.

Being able to work at your own pace, in a quiet, peaceful environment was all you'd ever wanted. And finally, you felt like you found a place that allowed that.

You glanced over at Bill, finding him scribbling something with his black feather quill, completely zeroed in on his task, and you felt a rush of gratitude for him, and a determination to ensure he didn't regret his decision to take a chance on you.

You turned back to the necklace, eager to uncover it's secrets.

The rest of your first two weeks passed the same way, you and Bill with your heads bowed, working on separate projects. He'd come over periodically to check your work, but mostly left you to your own devices unless you needed help, which he provided without judgement or reservation.

You and Bill seemed to work together well, both of you preferring the quiet so you could focus, with the occasional conversation about your findings during your lunch break or afternoon tea.

Despite yourself, your ill-advised attraction to him only grew as he loosened up around you. But that's all it was, you told yourself over and over again. An attraction to a handsome, accomplished man.

You were only human, after all. Who could blame you?

On Friday, Bill had a meeting with the Board and left you in his office to work. You were more than happy to occupy his space, enjoying the comfortable quiet as you reviewed your notes on the artifact you were working on.

A knock pulled you from your work. Waylan walked through the door, a long, thin wooden box in his arms.

“Oh, hey Waylan,” you said, getting up. “Bill is in a meeting—”

“I know, but this can't wait.” He dropped the long box onto the desk with a thud, scattering your meticulously organized notes, and a prickle of irritation climbed the back of your neck.

“What is it?” You asked, already sensing the dark energy permeating off of the box.

With a pry bar, Waylan cracked open the box, a putrid smell wafting out of it.

“Are you sure we should be doing this here? Surely a vault would be safer—”

“It's fine,” he snapped, and you cracked your jaw shut, irritation growing to full on anger. “This is a cursed executioners axe,” he said. “And the curse needs to be broken now.”

“Waylan, surely—”

“I thought you were qualified?” He bit. “Isn't that why you got the job? Or was it because your friends with his brothers?”

You grit your teeth. “What's the nature of the curse?”

“You tell me.”

You moved to look at the axe, it's blade dark and stained with gore, the handle black wood. Tiny notches decorated it's expanse, and your stomach turned imagining what each notch represented.

Carefully, you held your hand over it, coaxing the magic to reveal itself, but couldn't focus properly with Waylan breathing down your neck, the magic slithering through your fingers like a sieve.

Suddenly the room went dark, all the light and air sucked from the world around you until you were staring into the void, cold dread dripping down your spine.

“Waylan?” You called, fighting the urge to panic. You tried to lift your arms to feel around, but found that you couldn't move. “Waylan?!” You cried, a little louder.

Something white, a delicate, vaguely human shaped mist floated by you and you screamed, unable to move away from it. Then another appeared, slightly more formed like a person, then another, until you were surrounded by spirits. Terror split your skull, your heart pounding so hard it made your vision shake.

“No, please,” you croaked, fighting your body to move even an inch away from them. “Let me go!” You shouted, but they only moved closer. “Let me go!”

Suddenly you slammed back into your body, the bright light of the room blinding you. You were on your back, staring up at the ceiling. Bill was leaning over you, his mouth moving like he was speaking.

“—m’right here, you're alright. It was just a trick, just a little curse. Wake up, love. Come back to me,” he murmured. “There we are, that's it,” he shushed when you began to shake, his grip tightening on your shoulders when you tried to sit up.

Your body was still tingling with numbness, nerves prickling painfully back to life. “Bill,” you gasped, clinging to him as you came fully back to consciousness.

“Are you alright? Does anything hurt?” He asked, helping you sit up slowly, one hand braced on the slope of your ribcage, the other supporting your head.

“No, no. I--what happened?” you asked, looking around the room. You noticed Waylan then, also prone on the floor, eyes staring wide at the ceiling. It seemed Bill made no effort to wake him up.

Bill glanced at Waylan as well, shaking his head. “He was trying to scare you. Prove you didn't deserve the position. And apparently was too stupid to realize the curse would affect him too.”

“Will he—”

“He'll be fine. Are you okay?” He repeated, catching your eye so you'd look at him.

You nodded. “I think so.”

Waylan groaned, stirring on the carpet, and you saw a flicker of anger in Bill’s eyes.

“Wait for me in the lobby,” he said, helping you to your feet. “I'll deal with him.” There was no question in his words, and you obeyed without thought, collecting your things and slipping out of the room.

As the elevator doors started to close, you heard Bill shout, “I should have you sent to fucking Azkaban for pulling—” The groan of the machine cut off the rest of his words.

You did as you were told and waited in the lobby for Bill, busying yourself with people watching and admiring the expansive marble floors.

Twenty minutes later, Bill appeared from one of the elevators, holding Waylan by the scruff of his neck, a box of his stuff in his arms. You jumped up, alarmed when a few security guards rushed over to them.

“Waylan is no longer permitted on the premises, my orders. I discovered him tampering with curses,” Bill directed. “He's a threat to Gringott’s security.”

Your jaw dropped when the security guards nodded and dragged Waylan away without question, effectively tossing him out onto the street of Diagon Alley.

Bill stepped up beside you, concern over your frowning face drawing his brows together. “What is it?” He asked.

“Did you—you fired him?” you stammered.

“Absolutely. I can't have someone on my staff that doesn't take curses seriously. It puts us all at risk,” he said, without an ounce of hesitation.

You nodded, you supposed that made sense.

He started walking, beckoning you to follow with two fingers, and you fell into step beside him. “Come on, I'm going to teach you how to dispel that curse.”

You froze. “What?”

He turned to look at at you. “You heard me, fledgling. I need to make sure something like this won't happen again.” His voice was firm, but not unkind, and you found yourself yielding despite your trepidation. “I'll be with you the entire time, okay?” He said, a bit softer when you returned to his side.

“And if we both get knocked out?” You scowled.

He smirked at your pout. “Do you doubt me?”

A pulse of heat curled around your spine, warming your lower belly. “No, sir,” you replied, intending it to come across as teasing, but you saw something dark flash in his eyes, something hungry, and your heart began to race.

Surely you imagined it, you told yourself as the two of you descended into the vaults. There was no way you could be affecting Bill the same way he was affecting you. He was Bill Weasley, and you were just some intern that got a lucky break. He would never be interested in you, not to mention how wrong it would be for a boss to be romantically involved with his subordinate.

So, why did that thought make your pulse spike?

He guided you to a private vault, the heavy door unlocking with a wave of his hand. The inside was dank and poorly lit, permeated with that same rotten smell as before. The axe rested on a table at the center of the room, encased in glass.

You hesitated at the door, that cold, deathly sensation crawling over your skin again.

Bill paused, sensing your fear. “You can do this,” he said, offering you his hand. “I'll walk you through it.”

You placed your hand on his, focusing on his warmth, his steadiness, as he led you into the vault.

“You can feel it, right? The energy of the void clinging to it?” He asked, his voice low.

You nodded. “Feels like death,” you murmured.

“That's what this curse does, makes you feel like you died. It was used by an old Ministry executioner to subdue prisoners before their deaths. Kept them from trying to escape.” He cast his eyes to the axe, a somber look on his face. “Waylan was supposed to leave it here until after my meeting. They just unearthed it this morning.”

“That's awful,” you said, finding yourself counting the notches along the handle. There had to be at least two hundred, maybe even five hundred.

“With every kill, it got stronger, until it eventually took the executioner himself. It was buried with him, until some unfortunate muggle grave robber dug it up and nearly killed himself.”

“So, how do we dispel it?” You asked, hating the tremble in your voice.

“Take your wand out,” he instructed, and you obeyed. “I'm going to open the box. Stay focused on your breathing, the ground beneath your feet. When I open the box, you'll feel it start to pull at you, to drag you under.”

You nodded, lifting your wand and squaring your shoulders, forcing your lungs to take big, deep breaths despite the rotten smell.

“Good, when you feel it pull at you, imagine your wand is an axe itself, okay? You're going to cut the tether of the curse reaching towards you. It will resist, but I promise you can do it. Ready?”

You grit your teeth. “Ready.”

With a wave of his wand, he opened the box. The curse spilled out of it, clawing and twisted, and you immediately felt the blackness start to tug at the edge of your vision, its cold talons digging into your flesh.

“You can do it, fledgling. I know you can. Fight it,” Bill encouraged, somewhere to your left.

You pushed back against the darkness, refocusing on your breathing, the stone beneath your feet, your wand at the tips of your fingers. You slashed through the air with it, imagining an axe cutting through thick, black tendrils, and suddenly the tugging sensation vanished, the blackness receding from your vision.

“Yes, good girl! Keep going, push it all the way back into the axe.”

You did, pushing with all your might against the dark magic until it began to retreat, sinking back into the blade of the axe. But it wouldn't go all the way in, resisting your quickly depleting energy, when you felt something akin to a warm breeze blow over you: Bill’s magic. It joined your efforts, making the final push to force the curse back into the axe.

“Now hold it for me. Just like that,” Bill said, moving around the room. “I'm going to try a counter curse, but it may not take. Are you ready?”

“Ready.” You nodded, a rush of excitement pulsing through you. You were actually doing it. And doing it well.

With a flourish of wand movements and a string of words you don't understand, a beam of white light blasted from the end of Bill's wand and towards the axe, blinding you.

Something gave a godawful shriek, echoing off the walls until rubble rained over your head, and you heard a thunderous snap, followed by a whoosh of screaming air.

The light suddenly vanished, leaving you and Bill alone in the dark room, silent besides your ragged breathing.

“Lumos,” Bill muttered, and the torches along the walls relit, revealing the room around you. The axe lay on its side on the table, splintered in half. The rotten smell, and the curse, were gone. The handle was now just smooth wood, no notches in sight.

You exhaled, a giddy laugh bubbling up, and Bill smiled, crossing the room to you.

“Let me see you, you alright?” He asked, taking your hands to inspect your trembling fingers. The touch sent a zing of energy under your skin. “It didn't hurt you?”

You shook your head, dizzy from his unexpected tenderness and the after effects of using so much magic. “I'm okay,” you murmured, a little breathless.

“Okay,” he said, releasing your hands, though for a second, he seemed reluctant to. “I'll clean up here. Go home and get some rest, yeah?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, dipping your chin obediently.

His eyes searched your face for a moment longer, his jaw flexing, before he nodded once and turned back to the axe, dismissing you.

You slipped out of the vault and returned to the surface, reckless hope burning in your chest.

>Part Two

Thanks for reading! 🫶🏻

[suksatoru]

Sukuna is sure there's something wrong with you for loving him.

He's not lovable. He didn't even know how soft love could be until you came around. Sukuna is a brutally honest man, but he can't stop muttering the lie "I don't love you" against your lips even as he kisses you

He lies a lot to you, he realizes. He lies when he tells you that you mean nothing to him, he lies when his fingers dig into your skin as he reminds you you're replaceable. He lies when he says you're stupid—you have a brilliant and creative mind he adores

He thinks you'll slowly fade away like all the things in his life eventually do. He thought his love for you would slowly flitter and diminish with time and he'd stop thinking about you constantly

Unfortunately, Sukuna wasn't familiar with love. He didn't know how unpredictable it could be at times, or how it worked. It brought out parts of him he didn't even know existed.

"I was offered a job in another kingdom."

He looks down at you. You're laying on his chest right now. A single, delicate finger moving across the dark ink swirling on his skin as your face is pressed lovingly against his scarred body.

His large palm drags itself over the nape of your neck and towards the back of your head. He gently fists your hair and tilts your head upwards so you can see his scowl

"You're not going anywhere."

You smile. It makes his chest feel tight and his heart rate pick up as you slowly lift your head off of his chest, criss crossing your legs as you sit up on the bed beside him

"Who are you to tell me what to do?"

If anyone else had even dared to think the words, let alone speak them, Sukuna would've sliced their body into more pieces than they could ever count. But you're a fearless thing. While people tie toe around him, you dance around the King of Curses like you couldn't care less.

He smiles. The gesture feels odd but his lips naturally curl upwards at your remark. One of his hands lazily caress your thigh as he gently nudges the fabric of your night gown out of the way

"Who are you to try and leave? You belong here. With me." Sukuna says lowly, his voice dropping an octave as he looks at you through half lidded eyes. You can see the amusement in his eyes as his fingers wrap around your thigh, giving it a firm squeeze before you sigh

"But what if I wanted to leave? You said it yourself, I am not a priority of yours here." You press, leaning closer with a small pout on your lips as he scoffs

"I don't care." He mutters, not meeting your eyes as he looks up at the domed ceilings above him. Sukuna's room was never a place he used to enjoy being in. To him, the golden furniture and high, carved walls never made him feel anything at all

Now, in the mornings, he'd wake up to you peacefully sleeping beside him. Curled into his side, your presence had become an unshakable thing in his room. Slowly, it became a bundle of passion and love for him to exist freely in.

"Just say you're in love with me." You tease, your soft laughter slowly pulling his gaze away from the ceiling as he watched you crawl back onto his chest, pressing feather soft kisses onto his jaw

He lets out a breath through his nose, mentally preparing himself for the words that were about to leave his mouth as he puts his hands on your waist to steady himself.

"I...I do." he mumbles, more to himself as your raise your brows in surprise

"You what?"

He grits his teeth, wondering why you're making this so difficult for him. Sukuna glares at you silently, hoping you'll be able to push past his arrogant words and see the underlying message

"You know what. So shut up and go back to doing that stupid thing you were doing." He concludes, referring to when you were tracing his tattoos. You laugh louder as your eyes crinkle in amusement

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. can you try that again, your highness?" You smirk, pressing your palm flat against his pec as he scowls

Don't give in to the brat. Don't give in to the brat. Don't give in to the brat. Don't—

"I love you."

The words come out strained, almost a whisper as he stares up at the ceiling. His grip on you is tight and he absolutely refused to look down into your eyes. He knows your lips are probably parted in shock. Your silence is long as he awaits a response, suddenly questioning if he'd said the right thing—

Both of your hands grab hold of his cheeks, slowly turning his face towards yours as one of his arms instinctively reaches out to pull you closer

Your voice is soft, but the warmth and relief that spreads through his chest is a welcomed sensation

"I love you too."

[batboysanonymous]

The Hands That Hold Him

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel never let himself be taken care of. Never let himself be seen. But as her hands combed through his tangled hair, as she held him like he was something other than a blade, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could let himself belong to her.

The scent of blood clung to him.

It always did after a long night of patrol, thick and acrid, staining the air as much as it did his skin. It was the first thing Y/N noticed when she stepped into their bathing chamber, candlelight flickering softly against the damp stone walls.

The second thing she noticed was the stillness.

Azriel sat motionless in the large marble tub, his head tipped back against the porcelain edge, his wings draping lifelessly over the sides. His hands gripped the rim, knuckles white, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. The water around him had turned pink—evidence of the violence he’d walked through tonight.

Her stomach tightened.

Not his blood.

Thank the Mother.

But the tension didn’t fade entirely. Not when she could feel the weight he carried pressing against the bond between them, a storm rolling in the back of her mind, cold and frigid.

He didn’t look at her as she stepped closer.

Didn’t speak.

Just breathed. In and out. Like even that took effort.

Her heart twisted.

"Az."

His eyes flickered open. Golden brown, exhausted.

Shadows curled around him, sluggish and slow, shifting with the candlelight, unsure whether to reach for her or keep their master locked away in his own mind.

"You didn’t wake me," she murmured, lowering herself to kneel beside the tub.

"You need your rest," he said, voice rough, worn.

"So do you."

A flicker of something passed over his face. A ghost of a smirk, maybe. But it was gone before she could grasp it.

Y/N reached for the small glass bottle sitting beside the tub, uncorking it with nimble fingers. The scent of lavender and sage filled the air, a calming balm against the tension curling in her chest. She poured a few drops into the water, watching as the oils dispersed, washing over his scarred hands where they still rested on the marble edge.

His fingers twitched.

Slowly, carefully, she reached forward, dipping her hands into the warm water, letting them settle against his shoulders.

The muscle beneath her touch was taut, hard as stone.

"Always holding everything in."

She kneaded gently, her thumbs working into the knots lining his back, pressing against the strain coiled beneath his skin.

He exhaled sharply.

Her heart clenched.

"Let me take care of you," she whispered.

His jaw tightened.

But he didn’t move away.

The first time she had touched him like this, he had flinched.

Not from pain.

Not from fear.

But from something deeper. Something raw and unspoken, a wound buried so deep it had never seen the light of day.

He hadn’t known how to be held.

Not gently. Not with love.

But she had never seen him as a weapon.

And now, as her hands moved down his arms, as she wiped away the remnants of his night with slow, careful strokes, he let her touch him.

Let her see him.

Her fingers slid into his hair, massaging his scalp with slow, deliberate motions.

Azriel sighed.

The sound was quiet, barely there, but it unraveled something inside her, sent warmth spreading through her chest like sunrise over frozen ground.

She worked methodically, lathering soap into his tangled locks, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp. His wings twitched against the sides of the tub, as if his body didn’t quite know how to relax.

She pressed a kiss to his temple. "I’ve got you."

His throat bobbed.

The words settled between them, soft and certain, filling the empty spaces where shadows used to be.

"You’re warm tonight," she murmured, tracing the curve of his jaw, where faint stubble dusted his golden-brown skin.

"The water," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips curved. "No. You."

His fingers twitched against the rim of the tub.

She smoothed a strand of wet hair away from his forehead, her touch feather-light. "I like it when you let me take care of you."

A muscle in his jaw flexed. "I don’t deserve—"

"You do."

Her voice was soft, but unyielding.

Azriel swallowed hard, his eyes slipping shut. "I don’t know how to be this," he admitted, voice barely more than breath. "I don’t know how to—" He hesitated, something fragile breaking across his face. "How to let someone in."

Her chest ached.

"You already have," she whispered, brushing her lips over his temple. "I’m already here, Az."

His hands finally loosened.

Finally let go.

And as Y/N continued washing him, continued running her fingers down the strong lines of his back, kneading out the tension, Azriel leaned forward.

Pressed his forehead against her shoulder.

And for the first time in a long, long time—he let himself be held.

She climbed into the tub.

Azriel tensed.

But then she wrapped her arms around him from behind, her legs bracketing his waist, her hands flattening over his chest.

His breath hitched.

But he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t flinch.

Just let her hold him.

She pressed her lips to the back of his neck, to the ridge of his shoulder, her arms tightening around him like she could shield him from whatever haunted him tonight.

"You’re safe," she whispered, her fingers tracing absent patterns over his skin.

He exhaled sharply, his hands coming to rest over hers, covering them, pressing them closer.

And then—

So softly she almost didn’t hear it—

"Stay."

Her heart clenched.

She nuzzled into the curve of his neck, pressing another kiss there, her lips lingering, her breath fanning against his damp skin.

"Always."

Azriel’s shoulders finally sagged, the last of his tension bleeding away, his body melting against hers.

For the first time in his life, he let himself rest.

Let himself belong.

Let himself be loved.

Taglist: @willowpains, @masbt1218, @antonia002, @bookishcait, @fuckingsimp4azriel, @fanficscuziranout, @buttermilktea11, @lilah-asteria, @lreadsstuff,  @flintthegoodboyo, @saltedcoffeescotch,  @okaytrashpanda, @mariaxliliana, @kksbookstuff, @marina468

Want to join my tag list? Drop a comment or check out this link to submit a specific series you would like tagged in! (Or if you just don't want to comment, that's okay too)

[arilevenatz]

Heart At Sea

Pairing: Pirate!Wooyoung x reader

Genre/trope: Fluff, pirate au

Word count: 14.4k

Warnings: Self-harm, scars, whipping, Imk if I missed any!

AN: Finally woo gets his fic! I'm so excited to finish all 8 fanfictions of the members! I've had so much fun writing this. Also yes I did cry while writing this thank u very much. I just love wooyoung being so sweet and he's extra sweet to mc. I think everybody deserves a wooyoung in their life

Masterlist

On the island of Seagrove, YN was known as the pharmacist's daughter. Her days were spent behind the counter of her father’s small shop, nestled near the docks. With her sleeves rolled up and her hair tied back, she sorted herbs, prepared remedies, and greeted customers with a quiet confidence.

Her father often ventured into the wild parts of the island, gathering rare plants and ingredients, leaving YN to tend the store. Though young, she had learned much from him—how to grind herbs into powders, mix tinctures, and recognize the faintest symptoms of illness. To the townsfolk, she wasn’t just a girl helping her father; she was a steady hand they could rely on.

The shop itself was simple but full of life. Shelves lined with glass jars and wooden boxes gave the space a calming scent of lavender and eucalyptus. The faint hum of the bustling harbor outside mixed with the occasional jingle of the shop’s bell, marking each new customer’s arrival.

A few townsfolk trickled into the small shop as the morning sun cast golden light through the windows. YN greeted each one with a warm smile that seemed to brighten the entire room.

“Good morning, Mr. Harris!” she chimed as an elderly fisherman stepped inside, clutching his back. “Here for the ointment again?”

“Aye, lass. This old spine of mine doesn’t let me forget it,” he grumbled, though his face softened at her cheerful demeanor.

YN bustled behind the counter, quickly grabbing a small jar of salve. “This should help, just like before! And don’t forget to warm it a little before applying—it works better that way,” she reminded him with a wink.

As he handed over a few coins, another customer entered—a young mother with a baby on her hip. “YN, do you have more of that chamomile tea? It’s the only thing helping my little one sleep these days.”

“Of course, I do!” YN said, her voice filled with enthusiasm. She fetched the tea leaves from a neatly labeled jar and handed them over. “Make sure to steep it for just a few minutes—too strong, and it might be a bit bitter.”

The mother smiled gratefully, the weight of her exhaustion easing just a bit under YN’s sunshine-like warmth.

One by one, people came and went, leaving the shop not just with their medicines but with lighter hearts. YN’s genuine kindness and optimism were infectious, and her presence made the small shop a place of comfort for everyone who stepped through its doors.

Every day, YN spent her hours in the shop, tending to customers with her signature warmth and energy. From sunrise until late afternoon, she ground herbs, mixed tinctures, and offered advice to anyone who came through the door. Her genuine care for others made her beloved in the town of Seagrove.

The shop’s bell jingled throughout the day, announcing each visitor. Sometimes it was a sailor seeking relief for a sore shoulder, or a mother in need of remedies for her child’s fever. YN treated them all with the same unwavering kindness, her cheerful voice and bright smile a constant in their lives.

When the day quieted, YN carefully closed the shop, counting the coins she had earned and tucking them into a small leather pouch. Slinging her basket over her arm, she walked the familiar cobblestone streets back to her home, greeting everyone along the way.

“YN! Thank you for the tea yesterday—it worked wonders!” called a baker as she passed by.

“Anytime! Let me know if you need more,” YN replied, waving with a grin.

The townsfolk adored her. To them, YN wasn’t just the pharmacist’s daughter—she was the heart of their little island, always ready to brighten someone’s day. As she reached her modest home, the warm glow of lantern light spilling from the windows, YN felt content. She had done her part for her community, as she did every day.

Aboard the Halazia, the sea stretched endlessly around the sleek black ship as it cut through the waves like a predator on the hunt. The crew was busy at work, each man fulfilling his role with precision honed through years of sailing under Captain Hongjoong’s command.

On the quarterdeck, Hongjoong stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his sharp eyes fixed on the horizon. His captain's coat billowed in the salty breeze, and a faint smirk played on his lips. “How much longer, Navigator?” he called without turning his head.

“Two hours at most, Captain,” Yunho replied from the helm, his hands steady on the wheel. His calm demeanor matched his confidence in guiding the Halazia through the labyrinth of islands and open waters.

Below deck, Yeosang organized his medical supplies in the dimly lit infirmary. The ship’s rocking didn’t bother him as he meticulously sharpened his tools and checked the cleanliness of bandages. He always prepared for the worst—life aboard a pirate ship demanded it.

Meanwhile, San was in the armory, inspecting the blades and sharpening the cutlasses. His focus was intense, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous energy. As the battle master, he made sure that every weapon on board was in top condition.

On the main deck, Mingi oversaw the crew, his booming voice carrying over the sound of the waves. “Secure those ropes properly! I don’t want to see slack before the next storm!” His role as boatswain made him responsible for the ship’s upkeep, and he took it seriously.

Wooyoung emerged from the galley with a knife in one hand and a basket of freshly cut fruit in the other. “Anyone hungry? I’m not making this twice!” he called out, his mischievous grin suggesting he’d already eaten more than his share.

Down by the cannons, Jongho stood inspecting the weapons that were his pride and responsibility. He ran his hands over the barrels, checking for cracks or defects, and tested the ammunition. Each cannon was polished and ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

Above them all, Seonghwa moved seamlessly between tasks, keeping the crew in line and ensuring the captain’s orders were carried out. As quartermaster and first mate, he was Hongjoong’s right hand and the ship’s enforcer. His sharp gaze missed nothing.

The Halazia wasn’t just a ship; it was a well-oiled machine, and its crew was a family forged by countless battles and storms. Today, however, their mission had a specific target—the peaceful island of Seagrove.

The island of Seagrove had always been a neutral land, a safe harbor for travelers, traders, and even the occasional pirate crew. Its position in the Azure Archipelago made it an essential stop for ships to restock supplies and repair damages, but the island’s policy of neutrality demanded careful diplomacy.

When the Halazia docked at Seagrove, the townsfolk took notice immediately. The sight of its dark sails and ominous figurehead was enough to send a ripple of unease through the streets. While it wasn’t unusual for the infamous crew to stop by, the knowledge of their ruthless reputation made the air feel heavy.

“Looks like the Halazia is back,” muttered an old fisherman, his eyes narrowing as he watched the crew disembark.

“Better keep your heads down,” his companion whispered. “They may not cause trouble, but it doesn’t mean they won’t if given a reason.”

The townspeople moved cautiously, their smiles forced and voices hushed. They weren’t hostile, but they walked on eggshells around the crew, offering a nervous politeness that thinly veiled their fear.

The crew of the Halazia, however, carried themselves with practiced nonchalance. They strode through the cobblestone streets as though they owned them, their weapons gleaming in the sunlight and their gazes sharp.

“Do you think they’re just here to restock?” a shopkeeper murmured.

“They always are,” another replied. “But you never know with pirates. Best to stay out of their way.”

Even as the Halazia crew wandered the town, visiting taverns or inspecting the market stalls, the people of Seagrove remained wary. Neutral land or not, the presence of the crew was enough to keep everyone on edge.

The Halazia crew spread across Seagrove, blending into the island’s usual bustle, though their presence kept the townsfolk on alert. Conversations among the crew were as varied as their personalities, with each man displaying his unique quirks.

In the marketplace, Wooyoung strolled between the stalls, his sharp eyes scanning the goods. He held up a peculiar-looking fruit, turning it in his hands.

“Think this is edible?” he asked, tossing it to Mingi, who had wandered over.

Mingi caught it effortlessly, giving the fruit a skeptical glance. “Edible, sure. But are you willing to test it first?”

Wooyoung grinned. “I’ll pass. Maybe I’ll give it to Yunho—he’s got the stomach for weird stuff.”

Nearby, Yunho overheard and called out, “Don’t think I didn’t hear that, Wooyoung! You’re not slipping anything strange into my food again!”

Wooyoung shrugged innocently. “Last time it was harmless! How was I supposed to know it’d turn your tongue blue?”

Down at the docks, Jongho was inspecting a stack of cannonballs that had just been unloaded from the ship. San leaned against a post nearby, watching him with a smirk.

“You check those like they’re treasure,” San teased.

“They might as well be,” Jongho replied, not looking up. “A bad cannonball could cost us a fight. I’m not taking chances.”

San crossed his arms. “You’re too serious. Maybe you should come spar with me later. Get rid of some of that tension.”

Jongho raised an eyebrow, finally meeting San’s gaze. “Spar? With you? You just want an excuse to show off.”

San grinned wider. “Maybe. But if you’re scared, just say so.”

“Sure.” Jongho rolled his eyes but didn’t rise to the bait.

In a quiet corner of the town square, Seonghwa and Hongjoong stood under the shade of an awning, observing the crew as they mingled with the townsfolk.

“They’re behaving themselves,” Seonghwa said, his tone neutral.

Hongjoong smirked. “As they should. We don’t need unnecessary trouble here.”

Seonghwa glanced sideways at his captain. “You say that now, but when have we ever left Seagrove without some kind of incident?”

Hongjoong chuckled. “Fair point. Let’s hope this time is different.”

In the shaded alleyway near the market, Yeosang stood at a herbalist’s stall, quietly inspecting bundles of dried plants. His sharp eye quickly sorted the useful from the unnecessary.

“These are poorly dried,” he remarked, holding up a brittle bundle of valerian root.

The herbalist, a wiry older man, looked startled. “I—I’m sorry, sir, but that’s all I’ve got right now.”

Yeosang sighed softly, placing the bundle back. “I need quality. If it crumbles before it’s used, it’s worthless.”

From behind him, Yunho approached with an easy grin. “Always so picky, Yeosang. It’s like you expect perfect conditions out here in the middle of nowhere.”

Yeosang didn’t glance back, his hands moving to inspect another jar. “A surgeon doesn’t get second chances, Yunho. The better my supplies, the better I can keep the rest of you alive.”

Yunho leaned against the stall, arms crossed. “Fair point. Still, you could try to lighten up a bit. It’s not all life and death.”

Yeosang turned to him, an unreadable expression on his face. “For you, maybe.”

Meanwhile, Wooyoung spotted Yeosang as he walked away from the stall. “Hey, doc!” he called out, jogging to catch up.

“What is it, Wooyoung?” Yeosang asked, his tone even.

Wooyoung waved a bright yellow fruit in front of him. “You think this could kill someone if I cook it wrong? Or should I give it to the captain and find out?”

Yeosang raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “It’s a mango, Wooyoung. Unless you’re planning to drop it on his head, I doubt it’ll harm anyone.”

Wooyoung grinned. “Good to know! Maybe I’ll add it to dinner tonight. Think the captain likes tropical flavors?”

“I think the captain has more pressing concerns than your culinary experiments,” Yeosang replied, though a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he walked away.

In the distance, Hongjoong watched the exchanges with quiet amusement. Seonghwa, standing beside him, noticed his expression.

“Just as I thought they were behaving. They’re restless,” Seonghwa remarked.

Hongjoong nodded. “Let them stretch their legs. We’ll need them sharp soon enough.”

Seonghwa tilted his head. “And where does that leave us?”

Hongjoong’s gaze drifted toward the apothecary shop again. “For now? Let them play. But keep an eye on Yeosang. He always finds trouble where no one else is looking.”

Seonghwa chuckled. “That’s because he’s too clever for his own good.”

Hongjoong stood at the edge of the marketplace, his sharp gaze fixed on a small shop nestled between two larger buildings. The apothecary. It wasn’t his first visit, though his trips there were rare and purposeful. The shopkeeper had proven useful in the past, supplying him with everything he needed, no questions asked.

He turned to Wooyoung, who was busy juggling a few apples he’d “borrowed” from a stall.

“Wooyoung,” Hongjoong called, his voice firm.

Wooyoung caught the apples mid-air and grinned. “Yes, Captain? Need me to charm someone, or are we raiding the tavern early?”

Hongjoong smirked. “Neither. You’re coming with me to the apothecary. I need someone to carry what I buy.”

Wooyoung pouted dramatically, tossing one of the apples back into a basket. “What, I’m just your pack mule now?”

“Call it an extension of your scavenger duties,” Hongjoong replied, already heading toward the shop.

Wooyoung sighed, but his grin quickly returned as he jogged to catch up. “Fine, fine. But if they’ve got anything interesting, I’m keeping it.”

The bell above the door jingled as they stepped into the apothecary. The air inside was heavy with the earthy scent of dried herbs and freshly ground powders. Shelves lined every wall, filled with jars, bottles, and bundles of various remedies and ingredients.

YN stood behind the counter, her hands busy organizing a set of vials. She looked up at the sound of the bell and froze for a moment. It wasn’t every day the captain of the Halazia walked into her shop.

Hongjoong’s sharp eyes scanned the room before landing on her. He stepped forward, his coat swaying slightly. “You’re the pharmacist’s daughter,” he said, more a statement than a question.

YN straightened, her sunshine-like demeanor returning despite the intimidating presence before her. “That’s right. My father’s away, but I can help you. What do you need?”

Wooyoung leaned against the counter with a grin, glancing around the shop. “This place smells great. Got anything fun for a bored pirate like me?”

YN raised an eyebrow, but before she could reply, Hongjoong spoke. “Focus, Wooyoung.” He turned back to YN. “I need these.” He handed over a neatly folded piece of parchment with a list of items.

YN took it, her eyes scanning the list. Some of the ingredients were rare, but she recognized most of them. “I should have everything you need. Give me a moment.”

As YN moved around the shop, gathering items, Wooyoung leaned closer to Hongjoong and whispered, “She’s surprisingly cheerful for someone dealing with us.”

Hongjoong smirked but said nothing, his eyes following YN as she worked efficiently, placing jars and packets on the counter.

When she returned, she began explaining each item. “This powder needs to stay dry, and the tincture should be kept cool. And this—” she paused, holding up a small vial, “—is very potent. Use it sparingly.”

Hongjoong nodded, impressed by her knowledge. “You know your trade well.”

YN smiled warmly. “It’s my job.”

Once everything was packed, Wooyoung grabbed the bundle, pretending to stagger under its weight. “Oh no, Captain, it’s so heavy! What if I collapse under the strain?”

YN stifled a laugh, while Hongjoong rolled his eyes. “Stop complaining, or I’ll make you carry more.”

As they turned to leave, Hongjoong paused at the door, glancing back at YN. “Tell your father our deal still stands. I’ll be back when I need more.”

Just as Hongjoong and Wooyoung stepped toward the door, YN's curiosity got the better of her. She cleared her throat and asked, “What deal?”

Hongjoong stopped mid-step but didn’t turn around immediately. Wooyoung, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow and shot YN an amused look. “Curious, aren’t we?” he teased, leaning against the counter again.

Hongjoong slowly turned to face her, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. “Your father and I have... an understanding. He provides certain items I need, no questions asked. In return, I ensure that no harm ever comes to this shop or your family. A fair trade, wouldn’t you say?”

YN blinked, trying to process his words. “So, you’re protecting us? That’s what this is about?”

Hongjoong’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “You could say that. But don’t mistake it for charity. It’s business.”

Wooyoung chimed in, his tone light but with an edge of truth. “Think of it as an investment. The captain doesn’t waste time on things—or people—that aren’t worth it.”

YN frowned slightly, crossing her arms. “We don’t need protection. Seagrove is neutral ground.”

Hongjoong stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to be serious but not threatening. “Neutrality doesn’t stop trouble from finding its way here. Pirates, mercenaries, kingdoms—they don’t care about rules when desperation strikes. Your father knows this. That’s why he agreed to our deal.”

YN held his gaze, feeling a mix of defiance and unease. She wanted to argue but couldn’t deny the truth in his words. “Fine,” she said, her voice steady. “But if this is about protection, it works both ways. You might find yourselves needing supplies when no one else will sell to you.”

Hongjoong’s smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with approval. “Smart girl. Your father taught you well.”

With that, he turned and pushed the door open. Wooyoung gave YN one last playful wink as he followed the captain. “See you around, sunshine,” he said before the door closed behind them, leaving YN standing there with a mixture of curiosity and newfound wariness.

She looked down at the counter where the parchment list lay. Her fingers brushed against it as her mind raced with questions. Whatever deal her father had struck with the Halazia crew, it was clear this wasn’t just a simple exchange of goods.

After the encounter at the apothecary, Wooyoung couldn’t help but find his thoughts drifting back to YN. There was something about her—a bright, carefree energy that contrasted so sharply with the rough, unpredictable life aboard the Halazia. Her genuine warmth had lingered in his mind longer than he expected, and before he realized it, he found himself making excuses to return to the shop.

A few days later, the bell above the apothecary’s door jingled again. YN looked up from where she was sorting herbs, her face lighting up when she saw Wooyoung standing there, leaning casually against the doorframe with his usual mischievous grin.

“You again,” she said, her tone teasing but friendly. “Didn’t you stock up enough last time?”

Wooyoung shrugged, stepping further inside. “Captain wanted to make sure we didn’t miss anything important. And, well...” He paused, picking up a small jar of dried lavender from a shelf and inspecting it idly. “I thought I’d keep you company. Can’t have you getting bored all alone in here.”

YN laughed, a bright, cheerful sound that filled the small shop. “Bored? Hardly. This place is always busy. Besides, I’m pretty sure pirates don’t come back just to check on someone.”

Wooyoung placed the jar back and leaned on the counter, his grin never fading. “Maybe not, but I’m not like most pirates.”

YN raised an eyebrow, her hands moving automatically as she arranged some vials. “Oh? So what makes you different, Mister Pirate?”

He smirked, resting his chin on his hand. “Well, for one, I appreciate good company. And two...” He trailed off, letting her fill in the rest.

Despite her initial resolve not to get too involved with the Halazia crew, YN found herself smiling. His playful energy was contagious, and she couldn’t help but be drawn into the banter. “You’re smooth, I’ll give you that,” she said, shaking her head.

Wooyoung chuckled. “Smooth enough to get a discount?”

She laughed again. “Not a chance.”

Over the next few weeks, Wooyoung started appearing more frequently. Sometimes he claimed he was running errands for the crew; other times, he didn’t even bother with an excuse. Each visit felt a little more natural, as though he was slipping into the rhythm of her world.

At first, YN kept her guard up. She reminded herself that he was a pirate, part of a crew that carried a reputation for chaos. But Wooyoung’s charm was disarming, and her naturally talkative, sunshine-like personality quickly overshadowed any hesitation.

He’d sit on a stool by the counter, chatting with her about everything and nothing. She’d tell him about the townsfolk, the busy days at the apothecary, and the little joys of living on Seagrove. In return, he’d share stories from the sea—some clearly exaggerated, others tinged with surprising honesty.

One day, as YN handed him a small satchel of herbs, she said with a grin, “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re just here for the company.”

Wooyoung took the satchel, his smile softening. “Maybe I am. Got a problem with that?”

She shook her head, laughing. “Not really. Just don’t scare off my other customers, okay?”

Despite herself, YN found that Wooyoung’s presence didn’t feel like an intrusion. In fact, it felt oddly... comforting. And though Wooyoung never said it outright, he started looking forward to the quiet moments in the apothecary, away from the noise and chaos of life aboard the Halazia.

For now, neither of them thought too hard about what this strange, unexpected connection might mean. They simply enjoyed the moments they had, both of them quietly grateful for the fleeting peace they found in each other’s company.

Over time, Wooyoung became a regular sight in the apothecary. He would stroll in with his usual grin, plop himself onto the old wooden stool by the counter, and watch YN work.

At first, he was content just to chat, but as the days passed, he started offering to help.

“Here, let me do that,” he said one afternoon, stepping behind the counter and shooing YN away as she struggled with a particularly heavy crate of supplies.

She raised an eyebrow at him but stepped aside. “Are you sure you’re not just looking for an excuse to stick around?”

Wooyoung shot her a wink as he effortlessly lifted the crate onto a shelf. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

Soon enough, he became more than just a fixture in the shop. He started assisting her with customers, surprising her with how quickly he learned.

An older woman entered one day, asking for a salve for joint pain. Wooyoung, leaning casually on the counter, chimed in before YN could answet.

“Second shelf on the left,” he said, pointing. “Green jar with the brown lid. That’s the one you want.”

The woman looked at him, then at YN, who nodded in confirmation. “He’s right.”

The woman smiled and handed over her coins, muttering something about how “helpful young men” were hard to find.

After she left, YN crossed her arms and gave Wooyoung an appraising look. “You’re actually pretty good at this.”

He smirked. “Told you. Many talents.”

Not all of his interactions in the shop were so lighthearted, though. Occasionally, a customer would walk in with an attitude—someone trying to haggle too aggressively or speaking to YN with unnecessary harshness.

One such day, a burly man stormed in, slamming a few coins on the counter. “This isn’t enough,” he growled, pointing at a small pouch of medicine YN had just handed him. “You’re overcharging.”

YN opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Wooyoung stood up from his stool and stepped forward, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something far more dangerous.

“She gave you the price,” Wooyoung said, his voice low and sharp. “Take it, or leave.”

The man turned to Wooyoung, clearly unimpressed. “And who do you think you are?”

Wooyoung’s grin returned, but this time it was anything but friendly. He leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower. “I’m someone you don’t want to mess with. Now, are you going to take the medicine and go, or should we make this... interesting?”

The man hesitated, clearly weighing his options. After a tense moment, he snatched the pouch from the counter and stormed out, muttering under his breath.

YN let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said softly.

Wooyoung shrugged, sitting back on the stool and spinning it lazily. “Nobody talks to you like that while I’m here. That’s a rule.”

YN smiled despite herself. “I don’t know whether to thank you or scold you for almost starting a fight in my shop.”

Wooyoung grinned. “Thank me, obviously.”

And she did, though she didn’t say it out loud.

With each passing day, Wooyoung’s presence in the shop felt more natural, like he belonged there. The townsfolk began to notice, too, casting curious glances when they saw the pirate helping YN arrange shelves or handing a bag of herbs to a customer. Some whispered about it, others just smiled knowingly.

And though YN had told herself not to get too involved with the crew of Halazia, she couldn’t deny that having Wooyoung around made her days a little brighter—and a lot more entertaining.

It was an ordinary evening aboard the Halazia when Seonghwa walked into the captain’s quarters, a folded letter in his hand. His expression was calm, but there was an edge of seriousness that made Hongjoong look up from the maps spread across his desk.

“What is it?” Hongjoong asked, leaning back in his chair.

Seonghwa handed him the letter without a word. As Hongjoong unfolded it, his sharp eyes scanned the neatly written words. It was from the pharmacist on Seagrove, a message laced with urgency.

“They’re coming back,” Hongjoong muttered, reading aloud. “The same goons who wanted his land before. He says they’re planning to create trouble, maybe worse. He’s asking us to protect his daughter while he’s away.”

Seonghwa crossed his arms, nodding. “It seems they’re waiting for the perfect moment, knowing the island has no real enforcement.”

Hongjoong leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table. His mind worked quickly, weighing the situation. The pharmacist had been a valuable ally, and they owed him for the resources he’d provided in the past. Letting this go unanswered would be a stain on their reputation—and, truthfully, Hongjoong didn’t enjoy leaving favors unpaid.

He looked up at Seonghwa. “We can’t ignore this. We’ll need to send someone to keep an eye on her.”

Before Seonghwa could respond, the door swung open, and Wooyoung strolled in, as casual as ever. “Someone say watch over her?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe with a knowing grin.

Hongjoong arched an eyebrow at him. “Eavesdropping now, are we?”

“Not eavesdropping. Just walking by,” Wooyoung said innocently, though his smirk betrayed him. “So, what’s the plan? I’m assuming it involves our little sunshine at the apothecary.”

Seonghwa sighed. “It’s serious, Wooyoung. The pharmacist says trouble’s coming her way, and she’ll need protection while he’s gone. This isn’t just a casual errand.”

Wooyoung’s grin faltered slightly, his playful demeanor softening. “I know that. And that’s why I’m volunteering.”

Hongjoong studied him for a moment, noticing the uncharacteristic determination in his eyes. “You’re volunteering? That’s a first.”

Wooyoung shrugged, though there was no hiding the slight tension in his posture. “She’s a good person, Captain. She doesn’t deserve to deal with scum like that. Besides, I’ve been spending the most time with her. Makes sense for me to step in.”

Hongjoong exchanged a glance with Seonghwa, who gave a small nod. Finally, the captain leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Fine. You’ll handle it. But keep a low profile—no unnecessary fights unless it’s unavoidable. And if you need backup, you call for us immediately.”

Wooyoung grinned, his confidence returning in full force. “You got it, Captain. Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

Later that evening, Wooyoung gathered a few essentials before heading toward the apothecary. As he walked through the dimly lit streets of Seagrove, his mind raced with thoughts of YN.

He didn’t know why, but the idea of something happening to her lit a fire in him that he couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was her kindness, her unshakable warmth, or the way she always smiled, even when dealing with stubborn customers. Whatever it was, he wasn’t about to let anyone take that away from her.

When he reached the shop, the bell jingled softly as he stepped inside. YN looked up from the counter, surprised to see him.

“Wooyoung? You’re back already?” she asked, a smile tugging at her lips.

He nodded, his usual playful grin softening into something more genuine. “Yeah. Looks like I’ll be sticking around for a while.”

Her brows furrowed slightly. “Why? What’s going on?”

Wooyoung hesitated for a moment before leaning against the counter, his voice gentle. “Your dad sent us a letter. Said some people might cause trouble while he’s gone. So... I’m here to make sure they don’t.”

The morning sun bathed Seagrove in a warm glow as YN stepped out of the apothecary with a basket in hand, ready to run her errands. She hummed softly to herself as she walked down the cobblestone streets, her mind focused on the list of things she needed.

But she wasn’t alone.

Though his footsteps were silent and his movements careful, YN could feel the weight of a gaze following her. She smirked to herself, pretending not to notice as she turned a corner, heading toward a quieter part of town.

When the street became deserted, she abruptly stopped and turned around, catching Wooyoung mid-step. He froze like a child caught sneaking sweets, his wide eyes meeting hers.

“So,” YN began, tilting her head and walking backward to keep her eyes on him. “You’re basically a bodyguard now?”

Wooyoung let out a small sigh, shaking his head as he caught up to her. “Careful, you’ll trip if you keep walking like that,” he said, his tone light but protective.

“I’m serious,” she pressed, ignoring his warning. “Isn’t this what bodyguards do? Follow people around, stay hidden, and swoop in dramatically when there’s trouble?”

Wooyoung chuckled, crossing his arms as he walked beside her. “Something like that. But I wouldn’t call myself a bodyguard. More like a... pirate with a purpose.”

YN laughed at that, the sound echoing through the quiet street. “A pirate with a purpose? That sounds so noble for someone like you.”

“Hey,” he said, feigning offense. “I’m plenty noble when I need to be. Like right now. I’m literally protecting you.”

“From what?” she asked, her voice full of innocent curiosity. “There’s no one around.”

Wooyoung glanced around, his eyes scanning the surroundings instinctively. “You’d be surprised. Trouble doesn’t announce itself, you know. One second everything’s fine, and the next... well, it’s not.”

YN stopped walking backward and faced him fully, her brow furrowed. “You really think something’s going to happen?”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, and he shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But your dad was worried enough to ask for help, and I’m not taking any chances.”

She blinked, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. For all his jokes and playful attitude, there was something reassuring about knowing he took her safety seriously.

“So... what do I call you now? Protector Wooyoung? Sir Wooyoung?” she teased, a playful glint in her eyes.

He rolled his eyes, though a smile tugged at his lips. “Just Wooyoung is fine, sunshine. Now, can we please focus on where you’re walking? If you trip, I’m not carrying you back.”

YN laughed again and turned to continue her errands, her steps lighter than before. Despite the strangeness of being followed, she couldn’t help but feel a small sense of comfort knowing that, no matter what, Wooyoung was there.

A few days passed without incident, though the air felt charged, as if something unseen was brewing. YN went about her routine with Wooyoung never far behind, always lurking in the background or perched casually on her shop’s stool, keeping watch.

But then, late one night aboard the Halazia, a lowly pirate messenger arrived with urgent news.

Hongjoong sat in his quarters with Seonghwa when the messenger was brought in. The scruffy man, clearly uneasy in the presence of the infamous captain, fumbled with his words but got the message across clearly:

“The goons you’ve been watchin’ out for... they’re plannin’ to hit the apothecary. Heard it straight from one of their lot.”

Hongjoong’s face darkened as he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “When?”

“Soon,” the messenger replied. “Could be tonight, could be tomorrow. They’re waitin’ for the right moment.”

Hongjoong dismissed the man and turned to Seonghwa, who stood silently by his side. “We can’t risk it,” the captain said. “The girl’s too vulnerable in the shop. Wooyoung needs to bring her here—now.”

Seonghwa nodded. “I’ll send the word.”

At the apothecary, YN was cleaning up for the night when Wooyoung walked in, his expression unusually serious.

She glanced up at him and immediately noticed the shift in his demeanor. “What’s wrong?” she asked, setting down the jar she was holding.

“We need to leave,” Wooyoung said, his voice firm but calm.

Her brow furrowed. “Leave? Why? What’s going on?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “The goons your dad was worried about... they’re planning to attack the shop. Captain’s orders are to get you to the ship where you’ll be safe.”

YN’s eyes widened. “The ship? Halazia? You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious,” Wooyoung said, stepping closer. “It’s not safe here, YN. I can protect you better if you’re with us.”

She hesitated, looking around the shop she’d grown up in. “But... what about the store? What about my father’s work?”

Wooyoung softened, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll make sure nothing happens to it. But right now, you’re what matters. We can’t replace you, sunshine.”

Her heart skipped at the unexpected tenderness in his words, but the gravity of the situation quickly pulled her back. She nodded, her resolve hardening.

“Alright,” she said, her voice steady despite the fear creeping in. “Let me grab a few things.”

Wooyoung watched as YN quickly packed a small bag with essentials—some clothes, a few jars of medicine, and a small book she seemed hesitant to leave behind.

As they stepped out into the cool night, Wooyoung’s eyes scanned their surroundings, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. The streets were quiet, but he knew better than to trust the stillness.

“Stay close,” he whispered, his voice low but firm.

YN nodded, clutching her bag tightly as they made their way through the town toward the docks.

The journey felt longer than it should have, every shadow and faint sound putting them both on edge. But eventually, the silhouette of the Halazia came into view, its sails swaying gently in the night breeze.

As they approached the gangplank, Wooyoung turned to YN, his usual grin making a rare appearance despite the tension. “Welcome to the Halazia, sunshine. You’re about to meet the best—and most chaotic—crew in the seven seas.”

As soon as YN stepped onto the deck of the Halazia, she froze, her wide eyes taking in the sheer majesty of the pirate ship. The towering masts, the intricate ropes, and the faint smell of saltwater mixed with wood—it all felt surreal, like she’d stumbled into one of her dreams.

Her fear of ships and the open sea had always held her back from venturing onto one, but now, standing here, it felt like that fear had melted away, replaced by pure wonder.

“This is... amazing,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the gentle creaking of the ship.

Wooyoung, who had been following her with her bag slung over his shoulder, smirked as he watched her light up like a child discovering a new world. “You act like you’ve never seen a ship before,” he teased, though his tone was soft.

“I haven’t,” YN admitted, turning to him with an excited grin. “Not like this! I mean, I’ve seen them from the shore, but actually being on one? It’s completely different!”

She wandered across the deck, her fingers brushing against the railings and ropes, her eyes darting to every detail—the cannons lined up neatly, the sturdy wheel, and the faint reflection of the moonlight on the water below.

“This is incredible,” she said again, more to herself than to Wooyoung. “I never thought I’d actually step foot on a ship.”

Wooyoung chuckled as he trailed behind her, carrying her things without complaint. “Well, you’re lucky this isn’t just any ship. You’re standing on the Halazia, the finest vessel on the seas.”

YN turned to him, her eyes sparkling. “The finest, huh? You don’t seem very humble about it.”

“Why should I be?” he said with a grin, leaning casually against a mast. “The Halazia deserves to be shown off. Just like me.”

YN rolled her eyes but couldn’t help laughing. She turned her attention back to the ship, climbing a few steps to the raised quarterdeck and looking out over the bow. The gentle rocking of the ship made her heart race, but it wasn’t fear—it was exhilaration.

“You look like a kid in a candy shop,” Wooyoung said, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and fondness as he watched her.

She spun around, leaning against the railing with a bright smile. “I feel like one. This is so much better than I imagined.”

Wooyoung’s smirk softened into something more genuine as he watched her. He wasn’t sure what it was about her—maybe the way her excitement was so contagious, or the way her wide eyes seemed to find magic in everything—but seeing her like this made him forget, even for a moment, the dangers that had brought her here.

“Alright, sunshine,” he said, breaking the moment. “As much as I’d love to let you explore all night, you’ll need some rest. The captain will want to speak with you in the morning.”

YN nodded, reluctantly tearing herself away from the view. “Okay, fine. But I’m not done exploring. You’ll have to show me everything tomorrow.”

Wooyoung laughed. “Deal. But for now, let me show you where you’ll be sleeping. Come on.”

He led her below deck, still carrying her things as she followed him with the same wide-eyed wonder. And though the weight of what lay ahead lingered in the back of his mind, Wooyoung found himself smiling, content in the moment.

When Wooyoung led YN to a small cabin below deck, she stepped inside and immediately felt the silence pressing in around her. The cozy space was nothing like her home, with its small wooden bed, a lantern casting soft light, and the faint creaking of the ship filling the air.

“Here you go,” Wooyoung said, setting her bag down by the bed. “It’s not much, but it’s cozy enough. You’ll be safe here.”

YN nodded, clutching her arms tightly. “Yeah… it’s nice.” But her voice wavered slightly, betraying her unease.

Wooyoung raised an eyebrow, noticing the way her eyes darted around the room and how she hesitated to step further in. “Something wrong?” he asked, leaning casually against the doorframe.

She shook her head quickly, forcing a smile. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m just… not used to being alone, that’s all.”

His smirk faded as he studied her. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

Her shoulders slumped, and she let out a small sigh. “A little. Back home, I always stayed with my aunt when my dad wasn’t around. I’ve never really been by myself at night. It’s… it’s just something I’m not used to.”

Wooyoung frowned, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed. He could see the fear in her eyes, the way she fidgeted nervously. It wasn’t something he was used to—seeing someone so openly vulnerable. Most people tried to hide their fears around pirates, but YN was an open book.

“You know,” he started, his voice softening, “I could always stick around for a bit. Keep you company until you fall asleep. That way, you’re not completely alone.”

YN’s eyes widened. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he said with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m your bodyguard, remember? Can’t let anything happen to you, even if it’s just a bad dream.”

A small smile tugged at her lips, and she nodded. “Okay. Just until I fall asleep.”

Wooyoung pulled a chair over and sat down near the bed, leaning back comfortably as YN hesitantly climbed under the blankets.

For a while, the only sound was the gentle creak of the ship and the distant crash of waves. YN lay on her side, her gaze fixed on Wooyoung, who seemed completely at ease, his legs stretched out and arms crossed behind his head.

“You’re really not going to leave, are you?” she asked quietly.

“Not until you’re out like a light,” he replied with a grin.

She chuckled softly, the sound easing some of the tension in the room. “Thank you, Wooyoung.”

“Anytime, sunshine,” he said, his voice dropping to a soothing tone.

Slowly, her eyes began to droop, the sound of the ship and the comforting presence of Wooyoung lulling her into a sense of safety she hadn’t expected to feel. And true to his word, he stayed right there, watching over her until her breathing evened out and she drifted into sleep.

The next morning, Wooyoung leaned against the doorframe of YN’s cabin, watching her stretch and yawn as she woke up. Her face was lit with the same cheerful glow he’d come to recognize, her fear from the night before seemingly forgotten.

“Morning, sunshine,” he greeted with a teasing grin. “Sleep well?”

YN sat up, her hair slightly messy, and nodded enthusiastically. “Like a baby. I guess ships aren’t so scary after all!”

He smirked, stepping aside to let her step out. “Told you you’d be fine. Now come on, let’s get some food. The others are already up.”

As they walked toward the breakfast hall, YN’s natural curiosity bubbled over. “So… aren’t you ever scared the ship’s going to sink?” she asked, tilting her head.

Wooyoung snorted, looking at her like she’d just said the most ridiculous thing. “Scared? Me? Sunshine, this ship is sturdier than a fortress. She’s not going anywhere.”

“But what if a giant wave crashes over it?” she asked, her eyes wide with imagined catastrophe.

“Then we ride the wave,” he answered smugly.

She hummed thoughtfully before hitting him with another question. “What if a whale bumps into it? Wouldn’t that cause trouble?”

He gave her an incredulous look. “A whale? Do you think whales just swim around bumping into ships for fun?”

She giggled, shrugging. “I don’t know! Maybe they’re curious.”

Wooyoung rolled his eyes, but the fond smile tugging at his lips gave him away. “Alright, sunshine, what’s next? Got any more doomsday scenarios for me?”

“Many. What about sharks? Aren’t you worried they’ll try to bite through the hull?”

Wooyoung stopped walking, staring at her for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Sharks, YN? Biting through the hull? What kind of stories has your dad been telling you?”

She shrugged with a playful pout. “I don’t know! I just thought… maybe it could happen!”

He shook his head, still grinning as they resumed walking. “I promise you, sharks don’t want to eat wood. You’re safe.”

“What about storms?” she asked next, her voice full of innocent curiosity. “Have you ever been caught in one? Like, a huge one that flips the ship upside down?”

Wooyoung gave her an exaggeratedly serious look. “Oh, sure, all the time. And we just flip her back over and keep sailing.”

YN gasped. “Really?!”

He laughed, ruffling her hair as they walked. “No, sunshine, not really. But we’ve weathered storms before. This ship’s been through it all.”

As they reached the breakfast hall, YN slowed down, looking up at him. “One more question,” she said, her tone quieter but still curious.

“Shoot,” he replied.

“Have you ever been scared on this ship?”

For a moment, Wooyoung paused, his grin fading into something softer. “Maybe once or twice,” he admitted. “But not because of the ship. Because of what might happen to the people on it.”

YN blinked, surprised by his honest answer, but before she could ask more, Wooyoung opened the door to the hall with a dramatic flourish.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced loudly, “the sunshine of the seas has arrived!”

As YN stepped into the breakfast hall, the chatter of the crew quieted, and all eyes turned toward her. Though most of their expressions were neutral or curious, the sheer presence of eight men in one room felt overwhelming. She froze for a moment, clutching Wooyoung’s shirt from behind like a lifeline.

Wooyoung glanced over his shoulder, noticing how she shrank behind him. He let out a soft laugh but didn’t comment, allowing her to use him as a shield.

“Don’t be shy,” he teased lightly, his tone warm. “They don’t bite. Well… maybe San does, but only if you get on his bad side.”

“Hey!” San called from across the room, earning a chuckle from the others.

Hongjoong, seated at the head of the table, gave her a reassuring smile. “Good morning, YN. Don’t let them intimidate you. They’re loud, but they’re harmless.”

She nodded shyly but didn’t let go of Wooyoung’s shirt. The rest of the crew exchanged glances, some amused, some curious.

“Alright, alright,” Wooyoung said, clapping his hands to break the awkward silence. “Let’s get the introductions out of the way so sunshine here can relax.”

He stepped aside, gently nudging YN forward, though she still kept close to him.

Hongjoong stood first, his presence commanding yet calm. “I’m Hongjoong, the captain of this ship. You’ll be safe here, YN. If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

Next was Seonghwa, who gave her a polite nod. “Seonghwa, the quartermaster and first mate. Welcome aboard.”

Yunho, the navigator, grinned warmly. “I’m Yunho. I make sure we don’t get lost. Nice to meet you, YN!”

Yeosang, the quiet surgeon, gave her a small smile. “Yeosang. If you ever get hurt, come to me.”

San leaned back in his chair, flashing a mischievous grin. “San, the battle master. Don’t worry, I only bite if provoked.”

Mingi, the boatswain, waved enthusiastically. “Mingi! I keep the ship in shape. You’re gonna love it here!”

Wooyoung gave her a playful nudge. “And you already know me, your personal bodyguard and scavenger extraordinaire.”

Finally, Jongho, the master gunner, nodded firmly. “Jongho. I handle the cannons. Welcome to the Halazia.”

The introductions helped ease her nerves, and soon enough, the crew’s warm smiles and lighthearted jokes began to make her feel more comfortable.

“Thank you,” she said softly, glancing around at the group. “It’s nice to meet all of you.”

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” Wooyoung said, guiding her to a seat at the table, “let’s eat. Sunshine needs to keep her energy up, after all.”

As the crew returned to their meals, YN slowly started to join the conversation, her natural warmth and curiosity shining through. By the end of breakfast, she wasn’t hiding behind Wooyoung anymore—instead, she was laughing along with the rest of the crew, feeling like she might actually belong.

After breakfast, Wooyoung led YN back out onto the deck. The crew had dispersed to their duties, leaving the ship relatively quiet. He decided it was the perfect time to give her a small tour—not of the whole ship, but just the places he knew she’d actually need.

“Alright, sunshine,” Wooyoung said, walking ahead of her with a slight bounce in his step. “Since you’ll be with us for a while, you should know your way around—at least enough so you don’t get lost.”

YN’s eyes sparkled with excitement, her earlier shyness completely replaced by her usual sunshine-like demeanor. “Okay! Show me everything!”

“Not everything,” he corrected with a chuckle. “Just the essentials. Come on.”

He started with the main deck, pointing out where the crew stored extra supplies and how to tell which ropes were safe to touch—“Don’t go pulling random ones unless you want to drop a sail on your head,” he teased.

YN followed closely, hanging on to every word he said, her excitement growing with every little thing he explained. She’d occasionally gasp or ask a question, her enthusiasm contagious.

“This is where the weapons are stored,” Wooyoung said, gesturing to a small hatch near the mast. “But you probably don’t need to mess with that. Leave the fighting to us.”

“Noted,” YN said with a grin. “No weapons for me. I’ll stick to not breaking anything.”

They moved below deck next, where Wooyoung showed her the mess hall, the kitchen (“Wooyoung’s kingdom,” as he called it), and a few storage rooms.

When they reached the small infirmary, YN gasped. “Oh, it’s so organized!”

“Yeosang keeps it that way,” Wooyoung said with a shrug. “Don’t mess with his stuff, though. He’ll know.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, her eyes wide as she peeked inside.

Finally, Wooyoung led her back up to the quarterdeck, where the ship’s wheel stood. YN looked out over the vast ocean, the sun sparkling on the water like diamonds. Her grin grew even wider, and she spun around to face him, her hands outstretched.

“This is amazing, Wooyoung! I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like a whole new world!”

Wooyoung leaned against the railing, watching her with a soft smile. Her joy was so genuine, so unfiltered, that it tugged at something deep in his chest. He’d spent years on this ship, but he’d never seen it through someone else’s eyes like this.

“Glad you like it,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

YN turned back to the ocean, leaning against the railing as the wind played with her hair. “I can’t believe I was scared of this. It’s beautiful.”

Wooyoung found himself staring, his heart doing something strange—something he didn’t quite understand. He’d been around plenty of people, but there was something about YN’s presence that felt… different.

Shaking off the thought, he smirked and nudged her lightly. “Well, sunshine, you’re part of it now. Welcome to the Halazia.”

She looked up at him with a radiant smile. “Thanks, Wooyoung. I think I’m going to like it here.”

He didn’t say anything, but as they stood there, watching the endless expanse of ocean together, he couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, he was starting to like it even more now too.

As they leaned against the railing, watching the endless stretch of blue, YN broke the comfortable silence with a quiet question.

“Are you scared of the ocean?”

Wooyoung glanced at her, slightly taken aback. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged, her fingers lightly tracing the wood of the railing. “It’s just… it’s so big. And unknown. You don’t really know what’s down there. I’m scared of it. Always have been.”

Wooyoung’s gaze softened as he watched her. For all her bright and cheerful energy, there was a vulnerability in her words that struck him.

“I’m not scared of it,” he said after a moment. “But I get why someone might be.”

YN turned to look at him, her eyes searching his face. “You don’t think about it? How deep it goes? How it could just… swallow you up?”

Wooyoung chuckled softly, leaning his elbows on the railing. “I guess I’ve been around it so long, I don’t think about it that way anymore. The ocean’s unpredictable, sure, but it’s also… home. It’s dangerous, yeah, but it’s beautiful too.”

“Beautiful and dangerous,” she echoed, looking back at the waves. “I guess that makes sense.”

He glanced at her, his tone softening. “But it’s okay to be scared of it, you know. Everyone’s scared of something. The important thing is not letting it stop you from living.”

YN nodded slowly, his words sinking in. “I guess that’s why you’re here, huh? To make sure I don’t let my fear stop me?”

Wooyoung smirked, his usual teasing tone returning. “Exactly. Think of me as your very own fearless tour guide of the seas.”

She laughed, the sound light and free, and for a moment, her fear seemed to fade. “Thanks, Wooyoung. You’re not as scary as you pretend to be.”

“Don’t let the others hear you say that,” he said with a wink. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

YN smiled, her earlier worry replaced by warmth. Maybe the ocean was still scary, but with someone like Wooyoung by her side, it didn’t feel quite so overwhelming.

As the day passed, Wooyoung found himself growing increasingly aware of YN’s presence. Whether it was her soft laughter when she found something amusing, the way she tilted her head with curiosity at every little thing he showed her, or even the quiet moments when she was simply taking in the ship’s vastness—he couldn’t help but feel something stirring within him.

It wasn’t just her cheerfulness that got to him. It was the way she spoke with an honesty that seemed so rare, the way she made everything feel a little brighter, even in the vastness of the open sea.

At one point, YN was sitting on a crate near the mast, her feet swinging lightly as she hummed to herself. Wooyoung had been organizing some ropes nearby, but his hands slowed as he glanced over at her. She was just sitting there, doing nothing in particular, and yet he found himself staring.

What is wrong with me? he thought, shaking his head.

“Wooyoung?” her voice cut through his thoughts, and he turned to see her looking at him with her usual wide-eyed curiosity.

“Yeah?” he asked, quickly snapping out of his daze.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked bluntly, tilting her head.

He blinked, caught off guard. “I wasn’t staring.”

She gave him a look that clearly said she didn’t believe him. “You totally were. Do I have something on my face?”

“No!” he said quickly, waving his hands. “I was just… lost in thought.”

“About what?”

“Stuff,” he replied vaguely, avoiding her gaze as he returned to the ropes.

She frowned a little but didn’t press him further. Instead, she hopped off the crate and walked over to him, standing by his side. “You’re weird,” she said with a laugh, nudging him lightly.

“Thanks, sunshine,” he muttered, though there was no bite in his tone.

As the day wore on, Wooyoung couldn’t shake the strange feeling. It wasn’t a bad feeling—just… unfamiliar. He found himself smiling more than usual, his mind wandering whenever she was near.

By the time the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Wooyoung was leaning against the railing, watching YN as she marveled at the view.

She turned to him, her face lit up with excitement. “Is it always this beautiful?”

He nodded slowly, though his eyes weren’t on the horizon—they were on her. “Yeah,” he said softly, his voice barely audible. “It is.”

And for the first time in a long while, Wooyoung found himself wondering if the ocean was truly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

A few weeks had passed since YN stepped onto the Halazia, and in that time, the ship had somehow begun to feel like home to her. She leapt around the deck with her usual cheerful energy, helping wherever she could, whether it was Wooyoung in the kitchen, Yeosang in the infirmary, or even Seonghwa and Hongjoong with their work.

“Hold this for me, YN,” Seonghwa said one afternoon as he handed her a map while he adjusted the compass in his hand.

“Like this?” she asked, holding it up as if she were presenting a prized treasure.

Seonghwa chuckled. “Perfect.”

When she wasn’t assisting Seonghwa, she was often seen pestering Yeosang in the infirmary, her endless questions making him both amused and slightly exasperated.

“What does this do?” YN asked, pointing to a jar of some strange salve.

“It’s for burns,” Yeosang replied patiently, though he didn’t miss the way she scrunched her nose at the smell.

“That smells awful!” she exclaimed.

“It’s medicine,” Yeosang said with a small smile. “Not everything can smell like roses.”

She laughed and quickly moved on to the next question, her curiosity never-ending.

And then, of course, there was Wooyoung.

She spent the most time with him, naturally. Whether it was helping him in the kitchen or following him around during his scavenger tasks, she was always by his side, her bright personality lighting up even the dullest moments.

But for Wooyoung, those weeks had been… confusing.

The strange feeling he had whenever he looked at her had only grown stronger. It was there in the way his heart would skip when she laughed, or the way he’d find himself looking for her whenever she wasn’t around.

“Wooyoung!” YN called out one morning, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?” he asked, turning to see her balancing on the railing, arms stretched out for balance.

“Look! I’m not scared anymore!” she said, beaming.

“Get down before you fall!” he scolded, rushing over to steady her.

She laughed, hopping down with ease. But not without Wooyoung holding onto her. “I wouldn’t have fallen. You’d catch me anyway, right?”

Wooyoung sighed, shaking his head, though there was a small smile on his lips. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re grumpy,” she shot back with a grin, poking his arm.

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the warmth that spread through him. She had that effect on everyone, he realized—not just him. She had somehow charmed the entire crew, even the usually reserved Yeosang and the ever-serious Seonghwa.

But for Wooyoung, it was different. The way he felt when she was near wasn’t just fondness or friendship. It was something more, something that made his chest tighten and his heart race.

And as he watched her skip off to bother Hongjoong about something, laughing and smiling as if the world was nothing but sunshine, Wooyoung realized he was in trouble.

Big trouble.

That night, like every other, YN was tucked into the small bed they’d arranged for her in one of the crew’s spare quarters. Wooyoung sat on the floor near the door, leaning back against the wooden wall, his legs stretched out comfortably. It had become their nightly routine—talking about anything and everything before she drifted off to sleep.

“Wooyoung,” she started, her voice soft and a little drowsy already, “why do you like being a pirate? Isn’t it scary, always running into danger?”

He chuckled, resting his head against the wall. “Nah. It’s what I’m good at. And besides, it’s exciting. Who doesn’t like a bit of adventure?”

She smiled faintly, her eyelids heavy but still determined to stay in the conversation. “I think it’s cool… but I’d be too scared to fight. I’d probably just hide behind you.”

“You already do that,” he teased with a grin.

“True,” she murmured with a sleepy laugh. “You’re good at making me feel safe, though.”

His heart clenched a little at her words, but he kept his tone light. “Of course I do. That’s my job, sunshine.”

For a while, they continued their usual back-and-forth, her words growing slower and quieter with each passing minute. Wooyoung found himself doing most of the talking, filling the silence as she nodded off.

Then, mid-sentence, he heard her breathing even out. He paused, looking over at her. She had fallen asleep while he was talking, her head resting on the pillow, her face peaceful and relaxed.

A soft smile spread across his lips as he watched her, the moonlight filtering through the small window casting a gentle glow on her features.

“She’s cute,” he muttered to himself before he could stop the thought.

It hit him then, like it had been building up for weeks and finally clicked into place—he was falling for her. Hard.

But Wooyoung knew one thing for sure: even if it was love, he wasn’t going to say anything. She was his friend, his sunshine in an otherwise stormy world, and the last thing he wanted was to burden her with his feelings. She had enough to worry about, and he wasn’t about to make things harder for her.

Instead, he sighed quietly, leaning his head back against the wall as he closed his eyes. If staying silent meant she could keep smiling and talking his ear off every night, then he’d take that. For now, just being close to her was enough.

Wooyoung stood up quietly, ready to leave her room and let her sleep peacefully like every other night. But as he turned to glance back at her one last time, something caught his eye.

Her blanket had slipped down, revealing her arms—usually hidden under long sleeves. He moved closer, intending to fix the blanket like he always did, making sure she was comfortable.

But then he saw it.

His breath hitched as his eyes fell on her wrists, faintly illuminated by the pale moonlight. There were marks and scars, some faint and others deeper, etched into her skin like silent memories of pain.

Wooyoung froze, his heart tightening painfully in his chest.

No… he thought, his mind racing. She’s always smiling. Always happy.

He couldn’t reconcile the sunshine YN he knew—the one who laughed at his jokes, who skipped around the ship with boundless energy, who asked him silly questions every day—with the person who bore these scars.

For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at her sleeping form. She looked so peaceful, so innocent, and yet those scars told a story he didn’t know—a story she had never shared with him.

He clenched his fists, a wave of emotions crashing over him. Anger, sadness, confusion. How could someone as bright as her carry so much pain? And why hadn’t she told anyone?

Wooyoung gently pulled the blanket back up, covering her arms again. His hand hovered for a moment before he stepped back, his movements slow and deliberate as if he might wake her.

He sat back down on the floor, his back against the wall, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He replayed every interaction they’d had, every laugh, every smile. Had he missed the signs? Had she been hiding this from everyone the whole time?

And yet, despite the questions and the pain in his chest, one thought rang louder than the rest.

I’ll protect her.

Whatever she had been through, whatever had caused those scars, Wooyoung silently vowed that she would never have to feel that kind of pain again. Not as long as he was around.

The morning came with the usual rhythm of life on the Halazia. The crew went about their tasks, the sounds of footsteps and distant laughter filling the ship. YN, as always, was a ball of energy. She skipped onto the deck, her bright smile lighting up the day as she greeted everyone she saw.

“Good morning, Wooyoung!” she called, waving cheerfully as she spotted him leaning against the railing.

He smiled back, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Something had shifted within him since last night, and even though YN seemed like her usual, bubbly self, he couldn’t stop the protectiveness that now gnawed at his chest.

As she wandered off to help Yeosang in the infirmary, Wooyoung found himself watching her closely, more vigilant than ever. His heart felt heavier, knowing the scars she carried beneath her sunshine exterior. He couldn’t let this eat him up inside—it was too much.

Without thinking too much about it, he made his way to the captain’s quarters.

Hongjoong was seated at his desk, a map spread out before him as he carefully marked their next route. He glanced up when Wooyoung knocked and motioned for him to enter.

“What is it?” Hongjoong asked, leaning back in his chair as he crossed his arms.

Wooyoung hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to put his swirling thoughts into words. But this was Hongjoong—his captain, his guide, his second guardian. If there was anyone he could trust, it was him.

“It’s about YN,” Wooyoung began, closing the door behind him.

Hongjoong’s brow furrowed slightly. “What about her? Is she alright?”

“She is,” Wooyoung said quickly. “At least… I think she is. But…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair.

“But what?” Hongjoong pressed, his tone serious now.

Wooyoung took a deep breath and looked down at the floor. “Last night, I… I saw something. She always wears long sleeves, and I never thought much of it, but her blanket slipped, and I saw her wrists.”

Hongjoong didn’t say anything, but the sharpness in his eyes told Wooyoung to continue.

“They’re scared,” Wooyoung said quietly. “Like… she’s been through something. Something bad. And she’s always smiling, always acting like she’s fine, but I don’t think she is, Captain. I don’t think she ever was.”

Hongjoong leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he processed Wooyoung’s words. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

“Because I don’t know what to do,” Wooyoung admitted, his voice almost breaking. “I want to protect her, but I don’t know if I’m doing enough. I don’t want her to feel like she’s alone. And—” He hesitated, swallowing hard before continuing. “I care about her, Captain. More than I probably should.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of Wooyoung’s words hanging in the air.

Hongjoong studied him carefully, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Wooyoung, you’ve always been someone who cares deeply about the people around you. That’s one of your strengths. But you need to tread carefully here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Hongjoong said slowly, “that YN isn’t just anyone. She’s someone who’s clearly been hurt before, and if you push too hard or too fast, you might end up hurting her even more.”

Wooyoung nodded, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’d never hurt her.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Hongjoong said, his tone softening. “But she might not be ready to talk about whatever’s happened to her. You have to be patient. Be there for her, but let her come to you when she’s ready.”

Wooyoung exhaled shakily, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “I just… I hate the thought of her suffering alone.”

Hongjoong gave him a small, understanding smile. “You’re doing more for her than you realize, Wooyoung. Just keep being her friend, her safe place. That’s what she needs most right now.”

Wooyoung nodded again, his resolve strengthening. “Thank you, Captain.”

As he left the room, Wooyoung felt a little lighter, though his heart still ached for YN. He would take Hongjoong’s advice to heart. He would wait, be patient, and let her set the pace. But in the meantime, he’d keep being the one thing she could always count on: her protector, her friend, and her silent guardian.

Wooyoung stepped out onto the deck, the salty breeze ruffling his hair as his eyes scanned for YN. He spotted her near the railing with San and Jongho, her arms waving animatedly as she spoke. The two men stood there, half-amused, half-bewildered, listening to whatever silly tangent she was on this time.

“Wait, wait, let me get this straight,” San said, holding up a hand to stop her. “You’re asking me if a sword can cut through a cannonball?”

“Yeah!” YN exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “I mean, they’re both metal, right? So if you hit it hard enough…”

San burst into laughter, clutching his stomach. “You’ve been reading too many stories, kid.”

Jongho, who had been leaning against the railing, shook his head but couldn’t hide the faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Even the sharpest blade would shatter before it cut through solid iron.”

“Aw,” YN pouted, crossing her arms. “I thought pirates could do anything!”

San laughed harder, wiping a tear from his eye. “We’re not magicians, sunshine.”

Wooyoung stood off to the side, watching the scene unfold. A warm smile crept onto his face as he saw how easily YN interacted with them now. When she’d first come aboard, she’d been hesitant, hiding behind him whenever the others were around. But now, here she was, chatting away with San and Jongho like they’d known each other forever.

It felt good to see her like this—happy, carefree, and finally warming up to the crew.

“You’re really curious about everything, aren’t you?” Jongho said, his deep voice carrying a hint of amusement.

“Of course!” YN said brightly. “I’ve never been on a ship before, so I want to learn as much as I can. Like… do you guys ever get scared of storms? Or, oh! What happens if someone falls overboard? Do you just throw them a rope, or—”

“Whoa, slow down,” San said, holding up his hands. “One question at a time, sunshine!”

Wooyoung chuckled softly as he approached them, leaning casually against the mast. “Looks like you’ve been keeping my brothers busy.”

YN turned to him with a beaming smile. “Wooyoung! Did you know San once fought off five guys by himself?”

San puffed out his chest, clearly enjoying the attention. “It was six, actually.”

“Here we go,” Jongho muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Wooyoung laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t let him fool you, YN. He probably tripped over a barrel and took them all down by accident.”

“Hey!” San protested, but YN was already giggling, her laughter light and infectious.

As they continued talking, Wooyoung couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. She wasn’t just his sunshine anymore—she was becoming theirs, too. And that made him happier than he could put into words.

The gentle sound of the waves lapping against the ship provided a soothing background as Wooyoung and YN sat on the deck. The sun was beginning to set, casting the sky in shades of orange and pink. YN was carefully folding a piece of parchment, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she tried to perfect the origami bird Mingi had taught her.

Wooyoung watched her with a soft smile, his elbow resting on his knee as he sat cross-legged beside her. He loved seeing her like this—calm, happy, and free to express herself.

“Wooyoung,” she suddenly said, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Let’s play a game.”

“A game?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes! It’s simple. One person asks a question, and the other has to answer truthfully. No skipping. Deal?” She held out her pinky finger, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

Wooyoung chuckled and linked his pinky with hers. “Deal.”

The game started innocently enough, with lighthearted questions that made them both laugh.

“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?” she asked.

“Once, I fell off the ship during training and blamed it on a loose rope,” Wooyoung admitted, grinning sheepishly.

She burst into laughter, nearly dropping her origami. “You didn’t!”

“I did. Yunho still hasn’t let me live it down,” he said, shaking his head.

When it was Wooyoung’s turn, he asked, “What’s your favorite food?”

“Anything sweet,” she answered easily. “The sweeter, the better!”

The game continued, each question becoming a little more personal, a little more revealing. Wooyoung learned that YN’s favorite color was blue because it reminded her of the ocean and that she used to dream of being an adventurer before life tied her to the store.

Then, as the playful banter lulled, Wooyoung asked the question that had been weighing on his heart.

“Where are the scars from?”

As soon as the question left Wooyoung’s mouth, YN froze, her body stiffening as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.

“W-what?” she stammered, her voice shaky, eyes darting to her hands in panic.

“Your wrist,” Wooyoung said, his voice softer this time but unwavering. “I saw the scars. Tell me what happened.”

Her heart raced, her palms growing clammy as she clutched the half-folded paper bird. She couldn’t face him, couldn’t answer the question. Without another word, YN shot up from her spot and darted away, her footsteps echoing across the deck.

“YN!” Wooyoung called after her, but she didn’t stop.

She didn’t know where she was going, her mind clouded with panic, but her feet carried her to Seonghwa’s quarters. She knocked quickly before opening the door, her chest heaving as she stepped inside.

Seonghwa was seated at his desk, a book in his hands, but he looked up at her abrupt entrance. He immediately noticed her pacing back and forth, her hands trembling as she fidgeted with the sleeves of her shirt.

“YN,” Seonghwa called gently, setting the book down and standing up. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” she started, but the words caught in her throat. She stopped pacing and turned to him, her eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears.

“YN,” he said again, walking over to her slowly, his voice calm and reassuring. “Breathe. Tell me what’s going on.”

��I…” She hesitated, her mind racing. She couldn’t tell him about her wrists, couldn’t tell him about the scars, but she didn’t know how to explain the storm of emotions swirling inside her.

Seonghwa waited patiently, his arms crossed but his gaze kind. When her bottom lip quivered and her eyes spilled over with tears, he stepped closer and placed a steady hand on her shoulder.

“Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone,” he said softly. “You can tell me, YN.”

Her shoulders shook as she wiped at her eyes with the back of her sleeve, trying to compose herself. “It’s just… it’s too much,” she finally whispered.

“Too much?” he prompted, his voice careful, coaxing.

She nodded, her voice trembling. “I—I don’t know how to explain it. Everything’s just… overwhelming.”

Seonghwa nodded in understanding, guiding her to sit on the edge of his bed. “Take your time,” he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to her.

She clutched the fabric tightly, sniffling as she stared at her lap. “I just… sometimes I feel like I can’t keep up. Like I’m trying so hard to be happy, to be… me, but it’s exhausting.”

Seonghwa crouched down in front of her, resting a hand on her knee. “You don’t always have to be the sunshine, YN. It’s okay to feel tired. It’s okay to need help.”

YN's chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath coming in shallow gasps as the weight of her emotions overwhelmed her. Her hands trembled as they clung to Seonghwa’s forearm, her grip so tight it felt as though she was holding onto him for dear life.

Seonghwa didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, he stayed perfectly still, a steady anchor in the storm of her panic. He knelt in front of her, his calm presence a stark contrast to her spiraling emotions.

“YN,” he said softly, his voice like a gentle tide. “Breathe with me. In through your nose, slowly… and out through your mouth.”

She shook her head, her tears streaming freely. “I—I can’t,” she choked out, her voice cracking.

“You can,” Seonghwa reassured her, his tone unwavering. “I’m right here. Just focus on me. Look at me, YN.”

She hesitated but finally met his gaze, her teary eyes locking onto his calm, reassuring ones.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Now, follow my breath. In… and out.”

She tried, mimicking his slow breathing, though her breaths still hitched with sobs. Her fingers dug into his arm, and he didn’t so much as wince. Instead, he reached up with his free hand and gently dabbed at her tears with the handkerchief, his movements deliberate and careful.

“It’s okay to cry,” he said softly, his voice unwavering. “It’s okay to feel scared. You don’t have to apologize for how you feel.”

Her sobs quieted slightly, though her grip on his arm remained as strong as ever. She clung to him as though letting go would cause her to crumble entirely.

Seonghwa stayed patient, his calmness never faltering. He wiped her tears every so often, his hand moving with the same care as someone handling something fragile. “You’re safe here,” he reminded her. “Nothing’s going to hurt you. Not while I’m here.”

His words were like a lifeline, grounding her enough to slow her racing heart. After a few moments, her breathing began to even out, the tightness in her chest loosening bit by bit. She loosened her grip on his arm but didn’t let go entirely, her fingers still clutching him lightly as she hiccupped through her tears.

“Better?” he asked softly, his eyes searching hers.

She nodded weakly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he replied gently. “You’re not alone, YN. You never will be.”

Though her tears hadn’t fully stopped, a flicker of warmth spread through her chest at his words. Seonghwa’s presence was steady and unwavering, and in that moment, she felt just a little bit lighter.

After leaving Seonghwa’s room, YN made her way to her quarters. Her steps were slow, her mind a swirl of emotions she couldn’t quite pin down. She opened the door quietly, her gaze immediately landing on Wooyoung sitting cross-legged on the floor near the door, as he always did at night. His head lifted when he saw her enter, concern evident in his eyes.

“YN, I—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted firmly, her voice steady despite the whirlwind inside her. She stood before him, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for the hem of her sleeves.

Wooyoung’s eyes widened slightly, and he opened his mouth to say something, but she silenced him with a look. Slowly, she rolled up her sleeves, the fabric slipping upward to reveal the scars etched into her wrists.

Wooyoung’s breath hitched as he saw them up close for the first time, the pale lines stark against her skin. His heart ached, a heavy weight settling in his chest as he looked at her, at the vulnerability she was showing him.

“This is what you wanted to know, right?” YN said, her voice soft but laced with a mix of courage and apprehension. “You wanted to know where the scars came from. Well… here they are.”

Wooyoung stood slowly, his movements careful as if afraid any sudden action might scare her away. He didn’t say anything at first, his gaze flicking from her wrists to her face.

The silence lingered for a while before YN took a shaky breath, her fingers twisting together in her lap. She stared at the floor, her voice barely above a whisper as she finally began to speak.

“My mother…” she started, pausing to collect her thoughts. “She wasn’t… normal. She was cruel. A maniac, really. She’d punish me for anything and everything—spilling a drink, speaking too loudly, even just… existing.”

Wooyoung sat perfectly still, his gaze fixed on her, his heart breaking with every word.

“And her punishments,” YN continued, her voice trembling, “they weren’t like what most kids go through. She didn’t yell or ground me. She… she used a whip. Always on my wrists. Always in the same place. I can still feel it sometimes, even now.”

Wooyoung’s fists clenched at his sides, but he didn’t interrupt, letting her speak at her own pace.

“My father tried to stop her,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “He did everything he could, but she didn’t care. She was… relentless. And then, one day, she just… overdosed. Died right there in the house.”

She swallowed hard, her hands shaking as she rubbed at her sleeves. “You’d think I’d feel relief, right? That the nightmare was over. But I didn’t. I fell into this… dark hole. A part of me hated her, but another part of me missed her. I was so confused, so… lost. And that’s when it started.”

Wooyoung’s breath caught in his throat as she glanced at her wrists, her voice quieter now, as if she were confessing a sin.

“I started hurting myself,” she admitted, tears welling up in her eyes. “At first, it was just to feel something—anything other than the emptiness. But then it became… addictive. Like I couldn’t stop. Every time I felt overwhelmed or scared, it was my way of coping. It felt like the only thing I could control.”

Her voice broke, and she wiped at her cheeks, the tears now falling freely. “I hate it. I hate what I’ve done to myself. But it’s so hard to stop. Even now, there are days when the urge comes back, and I have to fight it with everything I have.”

Wooyoung moved closer, his heart heavy as he watched her crumble in front of him. “YN…” he said softly, his voice laced with pain and understanding.

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of vulnerability and shame. “I didn’t want you to know,” she whispered. “I didn’t want anyone to know. I thought I’d be fine keeping it to myself, but now… now I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” Wooyoung said firmly, his voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside him. “You have me. You have Seonghwa, the captain… all of us. You’re not alone, YN. Not ever again.”

Her lips quivered, and for a moment, she looked like she wanted to argue, but then she nodded, the smallest bit of relief shining through her tears. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Wooyoung reached out, hesitated for a moment, and then gently placed his hand over hers. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said softly. “And I’ll remind you of that every day if I had to”

For a moment, she saw nothing but sincerity and warmth in his eyes. “I’ve already burdened Seonghwa enough tonight,” she said with a small, forced laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

“You’re not a burden,” Wooyoung said immediately, his voice firm. “Don’t ever think that. Not to him, not to me, not to anyone.”

The corner of her lip twitched upward, a small, grateful smile breaking through. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Wooyoung nodded, his expression softening. “Always.”

Without another word, she sat down on the edge of her bed, and Wooyoung returned to his spot on the floor near the door. The air between them was quieter now, but it wasn’t heavy. It felt lighter, like a silent understanding had settled between them.

And for the first time in a long while, YN felt a small sliver of peace.

The following days on the ship were like a fresh breeze in YN’s life. The weight she had carried for so long didn’t feel as heavy anymore. She laughed more, her usual sunshine-like personality shining even brighter now that the storm inside her had started to clear. She could feel it—she wasn’t alone anymore.

Wooyoung noticed the change in her, and it made his heart swell with pride and affection. She still leaped around the ship like a child, asking silly questions and sometimes pestering the others for answers. But now, there was something different about her—the way her laughter came from a place of genuine joy, the way her smiles reached her eyes.

And Wooyoung… he couldn’t stop looking at her. Every time she smiled, every time she glanced his way, his heart raced. He knew what it was now, that feeling that had been growing inside him from the moment he met her. He loved her.

She had become his light, his reason to be better, his reason to fight. And though he wasn’t brave enough to say it aloud, he showed it in every little thing he did. Whether it was sitting outside her door at night to keep her company or silently slipping her favorite snacks into her bag, his love for her shone through his actions.

For YN, Wooyoung had become her pillar, her safe place. She loved the feeling of knowing someone had her back, someone who cared for her as deeply as he did. It was something she’d never had before, and she treasured it more than anything.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in hues of gold and crimson, YN sat on the deck, her feet dangling over the edge. Wooyoung sat beside her, his usual playful demeanor softened by the quiet moment.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly, her voice carrying a softness that made Wooyoung turn to look at her.

“For what?” he asked, tilting his head.

“For being here,” she replied, her eyes fixed on the endless ocean before them. “For being my friend, for being my… everything.”

His heart skipped a beat, and he smiled softly. “You don’t have to thank me for that, YN. I’ll always be here for you. Always.”

She turned to him then, her eyes shining with gratitude and something deeper. “You’ve made me feel… safe. Happy. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before.”

Wooyoung’s breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t say anything, afraid he might ruin the moment. Instead, he reached out and gently took her hand in his, giving it a light squeeze.

And in that quiet moment, with the ocean stretching endlessly before them and the stars beginning to appear in the sky, they sat together, content in the knowledge that they had each other.

For YN, it was the start of a new chapter, one where she wasn’t defined by her scars but by the happiness she was finally allowing herself to feel.

And for Wooyoung, it was enough to simply be by her side, loving her quietly but completely, knowing that she was his light just as much as he was hers.

[ashthesalamipiece]

“All the Light We Found”

The sterile beeping of machines hummed softly in the hospital room. Warm golden light filtered through the blinds, dancing on the pale blue walls and casting long, gentle shadows across the small space. The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, faint but undeniable, mixing with the soft scent of baby powder and warmth that only a newborn can bring.

You lay quietly in the hospital bed, exhaustion clinging to your limbs like thick fog. Every muscle ached, your skin prickled with sensitivity, and your eyelids were heavy—but none of it mattered. Not now. Not with the sight in front of you.

IV lines trailed from the back of your hand, and a blood pressure cuff remained loosely fastened to your arm, but you didn’t move. You simply watched, breath catching in your throat, as the man you loved sat by your side in the low-backed vinyl chair. The one who had stood by you through every contraction, every tear, every scream—his hand crushed in yours, his fierce eyes unblinking, unwavering.

Bakugo Katsuki was quiet.

Not the explosive, brash boy from your UA days. Not the battlefield legend who roared through war zones with fire in his veins. No, this Bakugo was still. Soft. Reverent.

He cradled your daughter in his arms like she was made of glass. A tiny pink swaddle bundled around her, she looked impossibly small in his hands—strong, calloused, scarred from years of hero work. But his grip was delicate, his touch featherlight as he brushed a thumb over her cheek and tucked a stray curl away from her forehead.

Blonde. Her hair was already a soft crown of pale golden curls, chaotic and untamed like her father’s but fine and light like yours. They shimmered in the sunlight, kissed with warmth, and your heart clenched as you saw how he gently smoothed them with his fingers, again and again, like he still couldn’t believe she was real.

And then there were her eyes.

Wide, curious, impossibly calm.

They weren’t Bakugo’s crimson. No, they were yours—your exact hue, your soul staring back at you from a brand-new face. When she looked up at him, it was as though she was peering straight through him. Not afraid, not startled. Just… calm. Like she knew she was safe there. That he would never, ever let the world touch her.

"She’s got your eyes," you whispered, voice hoarse and soft.

Bakugo’s gaze flickered to you, and for a second, you saw the spark of something raw behind his red eyes. Something barely held together by the frayed threads of his emotions. He didn’t speak immediately. Just looked at you—your tired body, your radiant face, the light in your eyes as you watched him—and then back to the baby.

“She’s got your whole damn soul,” he muttered, rough but reverent. “How the hell did we make something this perfect?”

You smiled through the haze of fatigue. “Luck. Or maybe karma finally decided to pay us back.”

“Hmph.” His lips twitched in something that almost resembled a smirk, but there was no fire behind it—only a fragile wonder that softened every line of his face.

Your daughter let out a soft, hiccuping breath, her tiny hand reaching out blindly. One minuscule fist latched around his finger with surprising strength, and Bakugo froze. He stared, jaw clenching, his free hand trembling slightly as if the weight of it all was finally settling on his shoulders.

“She’s strong,” you murmured.

“She’s already got me wrapped around her damn finger, that’s what,” he whispered back, and this time there was a laugh behind his words. Rough, short, almost disbelieving. “She’s gonna wreck me.”

You watched them—father and daughter—as the sunlight poured in and lit up the soft gold of her hair, the way her little fist clung to him like he was her whole world. And maybe he was.

Your hand reached out, weakly, and he was there in a heartbeat. Still cradling the baby with one arm, he leaned over and took your hand in his. His grip was warm and grounding, his eyes holding yours with something unspoken and vast.

“You did good, baby,” he said, voice low. “You did so damn good.”

Tears burned behind your eyes, but you didn’t cry. Not yet. You just held onto him, and he held the both of you.

Silence returned, but it wasn’t empty. It was full—overflowing with the love that words couldn’t quite express. You studied every detail of him: the way his hair fell over his forehead in messy tufts, the lines around his eyes from sleepless nights, the wonder that hadn’t left his face since the moment she was born.

She blinked again, her calm eyes finding his, and he exhaled like it was the first breath he’d taken in years.

“Name her,” you whispered.

Bakugo looked down, eyebrows furrowing for a second, and then he glanced at you again. You saw him wrestle with emotion, his walls cracking even now as he held the most delicate thing in his arms.

“Ema,” he said finally. “’Cause it means blessing.”

You nodded. “Ema it is.”

He looked back down at her—his daughter, his blessing—and with a voice that trembled just slightly, he whispered, “Welcome home, Ema.”

[orchidsarchives]

Hello I'm literally obsessed with how you write jason todd and how you invision him I binged your jason todd list and it's so good. I was wondering if you could write one where he has like a bubbly golden retriever girl who is obsessed with him and would leave any conversation to just go to him

First of all, you’re a literal sweetheart omg! Thank you so much for reading, I’m so glad you like my work! And second, I am so so so sorry for how late this is!! This idea is so cute, Jason totally deserves a cute and bubbly gf!! This is a little bit long, but I hope you like it!!

Jason had once again invited you to another one of Bruce’s galas as his date. Formal events were never your scene, but you couldn’t say no to Jason, especially when he’d ask so politely.

He’d stare at your face lovingly with his big doe eyes. His calloused hands would cup your face gently as his thumbs delicately grazed your cheeks. His bitten lips would turn into a small smile and you couldn’t bear to say no to his pretty face. That’s how the story always went, he’d stare at you innocently and you’d always agree to attend.

Jason hated attending galas, but he hated going to them alone even more. Hence why he brought you, he wanted you there for moral support. 

He always tried his best to be gentleman when it came to these types of events. His eyes never leaving you for a second.

A few years ago he made up a code for when you’d attend formal events together. You still remember the look he gave you when he explained the “rules.”

His gaze was gentle and his hands were laced with your own. He spoke in a soft, hushed voice, “okay pretty girl, listen up. One squeeze, means you’re done with the conversation. Two is for when you’re ready to leave. Got it?”

You almost never had to use the code though, somehow Jason always knew when it was time to head out.

Galas and formal events were always so consuming, exhausting almost. The politics and business were far too confusing. You never found yourself wanting to engage with most people as it felt awkward to initiate conversations sometimes.

You’d spent most of the evening stuck to Jason’s side with his hands firmly on your waist or tangled between your fingers. 

However, despite your views of the galas, you were a star. Men and women alike frolicked around you, like bees to a flower. You were always a source of wonderment— polite, kind and beautiful. 

You always greeted everyone with a soft, welcoming smile. You were bubbly and made an effort to look engaged in conversations when people approached you. Whenever you’d do this, Jason couldn’t help but smile to himself. It wasn’t your element, but here you were immersing yourself into these empty conversations for him. 

This particular gala felt similar to most of Bruce’s events. Noisey chatter and expensive gowns engulfing the room.

You were starting to feel tired and Jason was starting to feel antsy too. But he was cornered by three men in matching black suits and it was too awkward to leave. You and Jason rarely got separated at such places, but it had seemed to be just one of those nights. You took a seat at the nearest table, as the pair of stilettos on your feet were starting to cause an uncomfortable ache.

You stared into the crowd, a smile small on your face when you’d accidentally make eye contact with someone. You were in your own head, paying no mind to your surroundings when a tall man walked over to you. 

“May I sit here,” he said, pointing to the seat next to you. You nodded your head with a polite smile. 

Minutes go by and you notice the man trying to gather the courage to speak to you, but it seemed that every time he tried, he got nervous. You tried to ignore his behaviour and found yourself looking around the room for Jason. He still seemed to be preoccupied with the men.

Jason’s jade eyes met your gaze from across the room and his stern expression slowly morphed into a small smirk, making the scar near his lip more pronounced. 

He nodded along with the men, but his attention was on you. He stood up taller, trying to fix his posture. He ran a hand through his styled hair, making it just the right amount of messy. He looked good in his navy suit and your eyes raked his body. He looked pretty today and he knew it too.

A voice brings you back to reality and you look over into the direction of the sound. It was the man from earlier. 

“Pardon,” you asked softly and the man smiled. 

“Oh, I was just saying that it’s quite lively here tonight,” he said fixing his tie anxiously.

“It really is, it’s very loud tonight” you kept your answer short. The man looks up at you, his eyes fixed on your lips. 

“So I was wondering-” the man’s words don’t seem to register, you’re too busy looking at Jason. He was done with his conversation and was making his way over to you. You quickly get up in excitement.

The man still seemed to be talking and you find yourself interrupting him. 

“I’m so sorry but my boyfriend-” and Jason pulls you in by the waist, paying no attention to the man. 

“Hey pretty girl, I’m sorry I took so long,” he says. His voice low and sympathetic. You grin in response, happy to see your boyfriend again.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, “let’s go home Jay. I’m so tired and my feet hurt,” you confess, pouting. 

Jason smiles gently. You look beautiful to him. He takes a strand of your hair and tucks it behind your ear and you can feel your face getting hot. Even after years of being together, Jason still had this effect on you. 

“Let’s go, want me to carry you,” Jason giggles and you smack his chest playfully. 

“I’m fine, let’s just leave,” he intertwines your fingers in his and leads you out the door. 

The man’s face looks stunned, he didn’t expect you to run off with your boyfriend mid conversation. 

[ackermanrage]

ᴛʜᴇ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴜꜱ

Levi Ackerman x Fem!reader wc: 3k warnings: Explicit Content (18+), Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Divorce, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Mentions of Past Trauma, Graphic Smut, Brief Violence (verbal confrontation), Intense Emotional Conflict. an: Thanks to @alebrasil0101 for requesting this fic!!

The problem with silence was that it didn’t scream. It whispered. It rotted slowly in the corners of rooms you used to love in. It crept into the bed you once shared, curled up beside him like it belonged there.

And Levi Ackerman?

He still slept on his side of the bed. Years after the divorce. Years after he stood in the hallway, watching you leave with the kind of quiet that should’ve broken a man. It didn’t — not then. Not immediately. Levi didn’t break clean. He cracked like glass left in freezing rain.

He thought you’d come back.

Maybe it would just take a few days. A week. A month, if you were really angry.

But you didn’t.

And now it’s been four years and six months, and the ring he never had the courage to throw away still sits in the second drawer of his desk. It’s beside a photo of you from your wedding — hair windblown, eyes radiant, mouth open in mid-laugh.

He hasn’t looked at it in months.

But tonight?

Tonight, he does.

Because tonight, fate drags him to a rooftop charity gala he had no business attending — and drops you into his lap like the punchline to a cruel, long-running joke.

The first thing he sees is your dress.

Black. Satin. Effortless. The way it clings to your body makes his throat tighten — not just with lust, but with the unbearable weight of nostalgia. You used to wear dresses like that for him.

The second thing he sees is the man.

Tall. Well-groomed. Laughing too easily.

You’re standing next to him — eyes sparkling, a hand on his forearm, your head tipped toward his shoulder — and Levi can’t fucking breathe. For a moment, the noise around him dims. The rooftop lights, the low strings of the quartet, the clink of glasses — it’s all distant. Insignificant.

Because you’re here.

And you look… happy.

But your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

He knows that smile. He married that smile. He ruined that smile.

And when your gaze flickers across the room and lands on him — just a heartbeat’s glance — the air thickens like storm clouds rolling in.

You freeze. He swallows hard.

And suddenly, the space between you feels like the battlefield it’s always been.

“Levi.” Your voice is soft — careful — like touching an old bruise.

He stares. His eyes don’t leave your face. He doesn’t say your name yet. Doesn’t trust himself to. It might sound like begging.

You’re older. Beautiful in a quieter way now. The kind of beautiful that comes from surviving grief, from learning how to live with scar tissue.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you add.

He grunts. “Didn’t expect to stay this long.”

You give a breathy laugh. Nervous. Your eyes flick to the man beside you, now deep in conversation across the bar. “That’s Ren. We work together. He’s…” You pause. “He’s good company.”

Not your partner. Not your boyfriend. Just good company.

Levi clenches his jaw. It doesn’t help.

You nod toward the balcony. “Can we talk?”

He doesn’t answer. Just walks.

You follow.

The air is cool outside. Not cold enough to bite, just sharp enough to feel like truth.

You stand beside him, arms folded over your chest. The city glows below, golden and aching. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The silence between you is older now. Less angry. But not kinder.

“I used to wonder,” you begin, voice barely louder than the wind, “how long it would take for you to forget me.”

Levi turns his head, slowly. “I never did.”

You smile — bitter, brittle. “You did a damn good impression.”

His voice is low. Tired. “I didn’t know how to hold you without breaking you.”

“You didn’t even try.”

That one lands. Hard.

He looks away.

You continue, not out of cruelty, but because it’s the only thing you’ve kept in your chest all this time that still burns. “I didn’t need perfection. I needed presence. I needed you to say something when I was drowning in the silence you left me in.”

“I thought…” he murmurs, “if I stayed quiet, it would keep me from ruining it more.”

“You ruined it by saying nothing.”

Another silence. This one thicker. But behind it — a pulse. A heartbeat.

“You still wear your ring,” you whisper.

Levi stiffens. Looks down.

He hadn’t realized he still wore it tonight. He never does in public. But he did tonight. Maybe some part of him knew. Maybe he never stopped waiting.

“I couldn’t get rid of it,” he admits. “Because if I did, it would mean you were really gone.”

You look at him then. Like really look at him.

And he’s not the same man you left.

He looks older. More tired. But softer somehow, too — like losing you peeled away all the layers he’d hidden behind. His armor doesn’t shine anymore. It rusts. It bleeds.

But his eyes still hold yours like a promise he never knew how to keep.

“Do you still love me?” you ask, not expecting an answer.

But he gives you one anyway.

“I never stopped.”

It happens slowly.

You brush his hand. He grips it like it’s air. Like he’s been suffocating for years and your skin is the only thing that might save him.

The first kiss is hesitant. Gentle. It tastes like grief.

But the second?

The second is years of unresolved want, shame, guilt, desire — all tangled together. It’s teeth. Tongue. The way his hands frame your face like you’re sacred. Like he’s begging the universe to let this moment last.

The moment the door shut behind you, Levi’s hands were on you—rough, desperate, shaking with years of pent-up longing. His mouth crashed into yours, all tongue and teeth and breathless groans, like he was trying to drink you in, to taste every second he'd wasted apart from you. You barely had time to gasp before he backed you into the nearest wall, lifting you effortlessly by your thighs. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heat pressed against heat, and he groaned low in his throat when he felt how soaked you already were through your panties.

“Fuck—been thinking about this since the second you walked away,” he muttered against your lips, dragging his hips into you slowly, teasing the ache between your legs. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to touch you again.”

His mouth moved lower, biting down along your neck, sucking bruises you’d feel for days. Your fingers gripped his shoulders tightly, desperate to feel more. When he dropped you on the bed, you barely bounced before he was pulling your dress off, dragging it over your head, tossing it aside without looking.

His eyes darkened at the sight of you—chest rising and falling, nipples hard, thighs already trembling. He cursed softly, reverently, as his fingers hooked under your panties and pulled them down agonizingly slow, watching as the fabric clung to your slick folds.

“Look at this mess,” he growled. “You’re already dripping. All this for me?”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He dropped to his knees and dragged you to the edge of the bed, spreading your legs apart before he buried his face in your cunt.

Your moan shattered in your throat.

He licked a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, groaning when he tasted you. Then he sucked your clit into his mouth, tonguing it in fast, messy circles that had your hands flying to his hair, gripping tight.

“L–Levi—fuck—” you gasped, hips bucking up against his mouth.

He slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, stroking that spot that made your vision blur. His tongue didn’t let up, his fingers pumping faster, wetter, deeper—until your thighs clenched around his head and your orgasm crashed into you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name, back arching off the bed, every nerve ending on fire as you pulsed around him.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, soft and teasing now, making you twitch from oversensitivity before pulling back with his lips wet and his pupils blown wide.

“Still with me?” he rasped, voice like gravel, already undoing his belt. “Because I’m not fucking done with you.”

You barely had time to nod before he was stripping off his pants, cock springing free—hard, thick, already leaking. He pumped himself slowly, watching you squirm.

“You want it?” he asked darkly. “Say it.”

“I want you,” you breathed, voice wrecked. “I want you to fuck me.”

He growled—pure, animal sound—and climbed over you, lining himself up at your entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you around his cock until you were full to the hilt, gasping, nails digging into his back.

“Shit,” he hissed. “Still so fucking tight.”

He started to move—deep, punishing strokes that made you cry out, that filled you so perfectly it felt like your body had been made for his. Each thrust was harder, deeper, and you took it all, moaning his name like a chant, your hips rising to meet him.

His hand slid down between your bodies, finding your clit again, rubbing fast, tight circles until your body tensed and you came undone for the second time—loud and messy, clenching so hard around him he nearly lost it.

“Gonna come inside you,” he panted, fucking you through your orgasm. “Gonna fill you up. You want that?”

“Yes—yes, Levi, please—”

With a guttural groan, he thrust one final time and came deep inside you, hips jerking, cock twitching as he spilled everything into you. He stayed there, buried in you, panting against your neck, both of you shaking and soaked and wrecked.

And still, neither of you let go.

Afterward, he doesn’t leave.

You lie tangled in sheets, your head on his chest. His fingers stroke your back, like maybe if he touches you enough, it’ll rewrite the past.

“Do we try again?” you whisper.

“I never stopped,” he answers. “But this time… I won’t disappear.”

You pause. “Not even when it’s hard?”

He lifts your chin. Kisses you softly. Reverently. “Especially then.”

And for the first time in years — the silence doesn’t ache.

It rests.

It finally lets go.

___

You were late.

Not by much—fifteen minutes at most—but it was long enough to make Levi’s nerves coil tighter with each tick of the clock. He sat at the café table, one hand wrapped too tightly around his espresso, the other curled into a fist in his lap. You were supposed to meet him after your meeting downtown. A simple lunch. Something normal. Something new.

He wasn’t the same man you left. But that didn’t mean the man you left had disappeared entirely.

The door chimed.

Levi looked up—hopeful, already softening—and then his stomach twisted.

You walked in, laughing.

And beside you—him.

Ren.

The man from the gala. The one who stood a little too close. Who knew your favorite wine and which shoulder to lean in on when the room got loud. The one who had once touched your lower back like he’d earned it.

He hadn’t.

Not then. Not now. Not ever.

But today?

Today, Ren had his hand on your lower back again.

And Levi saw red.

You hadn’t noticed him yet. You were smiling—eyes bright, head tipped back as Ren said something charming in that effortlessly smug way that made Levi want to drive his fist into his perfect fucking jaw.

The espresso cup shattered.

He hadn’t even realized he’d crushed it.

You finally turned—and froze.

Your expression shifted in slow-motion: warmth, recognition, and then guilt. You stepped away from Ren, lips parting, but Levi was already rising to his feet. His chair scraped violently against the floor.

“Levi—” you began.

He didn’t answer you. His eyes never left Ren.

“You followed her here?” he asked, low and lethal.

Ren blinked, taken aback. “I—what?”

“You dropped her off at the gala. I remember your face,” Levi said, taking a step forward. His voice was calm. Too calm. “Didn’t think I’d need to remember your hands.”

Ren looked at you. “You didn’t mention—”

“She doesn’t have to mention shit,” Levi growled, now a breath away. “What she doesn’t need is some half-interest prick hovering around her like a stray dog hoping for scraps.”

You stepped between them, palm pressed to Levi’s chest—but he was shaking. Fury laced through every muscle. “Levi—stop.”

He looked at you now, and the betrayal in his eyes made your stomach twist.

“You let him touch you again?” he asked, voice low and raw.

“Levi—he’s a coworker. He just walked me here.”

“Did he walk you into your apartment too? Did he hold your fucking hand the whole way?” His voice cracked at the edges now, wild with something deeper than rage. “You were mine last night. Mine.”

Ren bristled. “She’s not an object.”

Levi turned his head slowly.

“You’re right,” he said. “She’s not. But you don’t get to pretend you know her. You don’t know the sound she makes when she’s too wrecked to speak. You don’t know what she looks like when she’s trying not to cry, or how she tugs her sleeve when she’s nervous, or that she never sets her phone down screen-up because she’s always afraid of bad news.”

He stepped closer—shoulder-to-shoulder now—and his voice dropped to something intimate and vicious.

“You don’t know that she loves basil on everything. That she says ‘I’m fine’ when she’s not. That she has a tiny scar on her hip from when she fell at age ten. I do. I know it all. I lived in it. I burned for it. I broke it.”

He looked over Ren’s shoulder. “And I came back for it.”

Ren took a cautious step back, clearly reading the message: walk away or be walked over.

He turned to you, offering a weak smile. “I’ll see you at the office.”

Levi didn’t speak again until Ren was gone.

Then he turned to you—like a man unraveling, like something inside him had cracked too loud to ignore.

“I can’t—” he began, jaw tight. “I can’t pretend I’m okay watching other men touch you. I know I don’t have the right. But it still feels like I’m bleeding from the inside out every time it happens.”

You stared at him, breath caught, you never expected that Levi could say something like this, for you.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Terrified you’ll wake up and realize I’m still that man who didn’t fight hard enough. That you’ll look at someone else the way you used to look at me.”

Your heart broke a little.

“Levi,” you whispered. “You fought just now.”

His eyes flicked up.

“And that—this—is exactly what I needed four years ago,” you said, stepping closer, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “Not silence. Not distance. Just you."

He exhaled sharply. Pulled you in with a force that said mine without saying a word.

And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t just claiming.

It was chaos. Fire. A man starved for the one thing he thought he lost forever.

And this time—he wasn’t letting go.

©ackermanrage - please do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work!

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico doesn’t seek to uncover a new scientific field, originally. It is just that he does not understand it.

"Make better choices! Dumbass!"

"Whatever you say, Apollo Junior."

"Oh, shut up!"

This — Apollo Junior business.

There are similarities, sure. Here and there. Blond, blue-eyed, tall and strong. Many are. And of course the proclivity for drama and histrionics.

But the similarities end there, as far as Nico is concerned.

"You good?" Will calls, and Nico startles. "You're staring into space." He focuses his eyes and realizes Will is watching him out his peripherals, smiling when Nico meets his eyes.

“Do you have a photo of your mother?”

Will looks up again, eyebrows raised, glow finally fading from his hands and eyes. He holds a strip of bandage over a camper’s bicep, wrapping the roll around. “I have several," he says slowly. "Why?”

Nico squints at him.

“C’mere.”

Will hands the roll off to his patient, walking over. He stands hesitantly in front of Nico’s chair, shoulders pushed up, teeth worrying his lower lip.

Nico reaches out and tugs it free.

“You don’t look that much like your dad,” he murmurs, tilting Will’s head to the side. “You’ve got the — general blueprint, sure, but he’s all…angles.” He runs a finger over Will’s soft jaw. “You’re rounded.”

It's true. Will has more to his cheeks than his father does, baby fat he hasn't quite yet dropped. His skin is spattered with freckles on freckles, peeking through the burn scars, and his eyebrows and eyelashes are fully blond. His curls, even are nothing like so many campers claim — yes they are sunshiney, yes they are golden. The color matches the very shimmer of the sun.

But Will's curls are a mess. Constantly.

He can no more tame the mass on his head more than Chiron can control this camp. He can run a brush through, sure — not that he does — but every cowlick is at odds, and every curl chooses a different pattern. Like all the frazzle that lives in his head shoots out of his skull at random, like the exclamation points in a comic.

It's cute.

It's very un-Apollo.

"Um," manages Will, voice crackling like firewood. "Um, Nico?"

When Nico looks at him again he is glowing. Not with healing, this time, but — red. Sun-cow red, dwarf-star red.

Flustered.

Nico blinks in surprise.

"You're, um. Um! I gotta — work."

Will twitches a little in his hold, pulling back but stopping, and Nico gets the hint and releases him. He pulls back rapidly, then, haggard breath brushing across the fine hairs on Nico's fingers.

"I'm gonna," he says, or mumbles, picking at his cut up fingertips. "Uh, see you."

He runs, practically, to the back of the infirmary, disappearing behind a supply shelf. The girl he was treating throws her one working arm up in exasperation, scowling at the horrible bandage-wrapping she has attempted on herself.

"You," she says, glaring at Nico, "are always distracting him. I might as well bleed out if you're around!"

She stalks off, tossing the ruined bandage at his head. Nico slides off the nurse's station counter, nudging it with his foot. A sound escapes his throat, unbidden: a low, contemplating hum, wrapping around his tapping fingers.

He looks back towards the supply shelves and wonders.

———

He stretches it further three days later, when the weather spells are lifted to feed the strawberries.

Will delivers on the photographs.

There are, as he promised, several of them. Several dozen, really, tucked carefully in a weathered leather album, between dozens more of his siblings with them and not. He sits next to Nico on his bed, knees tucked against his chest, flipping between tracing the curve of his family's smile against the edge of his thumbnail and watching Nico from the corner of his eye.

"She's young," Nico observes, tapping at an older photo of Naomi. She is twenty-something, in the photo, early; she holds a squirming, chunky toddler Will in her lap and laughs so hard she's blurry with it.

The shape of their faces is identical down to the atoms.

"Yes," Will agrees. "She was young when she had me. Nineteen."

Nico raises his eyebrows. His own mother was young, he knows, but not for the time; Sally Jackson was young but at least old enough to drink. Will notices the look on his face and smiles a little wry, a little bitter.

"I know. I've had lots to say about it myself."

Nico nods, turning the page. This one is mostly Will's older, gone siblings -- he knows by the heaviness of Will's breathing before he can even puzzle out what the older polaroids tell him.

It is interesting, the way Will imitates. The way Lee Fletcher stands, the way Michael Yew rolls his eyes. The gentle hold of an older girl Nico doesn't recognize, poking a giggling, eight-year-old Will in the stomach. The exaggerated cheek kiss of a woman with hair down to her knees.

Will stares, now, at the photographs, images he captured, images he has memorized again and again over the years -- the blue of his eyes is almost gray in the shadows of the rainclouds, in the darkened fairy lights of the quiet cabin seven. There is a distance to them, a sadness Nico so rarely gets to see. It is pretty, on him. Makes him look heavy, makes him look full. So often he is cheery and empty, or whatever his campers, his patients need; it is relieving to see him soft and wanting for a moment, to see the love rising and bubbling in his face, to see it crashing like waves in the gentle shake of his large hands. In the rainy softness he looks like moonlight, reflective.

"They'd be proud of you, you know."

Will smiles slightly. There is no light in his eyes, for once, and Nico cannot resist running his thumb under them. Will shivers.

"You think so?"

"How could they not be?" He tilts Will's head, slightly, until those grayed blue eyes lock squarely on his, wide and hopeful. "I am."

He says it slowly, carefully, spending time on the separation between the vowels. Like he hoped there comes the heat, seeping right through to his roughened palms. He removes them quickly, unwilling to miss it, and to his sudden wave of satisfaction there it is: the redness in his cheeks, glowing like June strawberries. His looks away quickly, biting the corner of his cheek.

"I'm -- uh."

He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. It pops back into his eyes immediately, so Nico tugs it gently back, tucking it behind the bobby pin by his temple. He watches his lips part as he inhales more than he hears the sharpness of it.

"...Thank you, Nico."

Nico watches the quiet set to his face, the small, pleased smile. Tiny. He watches the color that clings to his cheeks even as he flips through the rest of the photos, even as he is absorbed in distant memories. He watches. He watches Will watch him, out of the corners of his eyes, through the curls of his hair. Nico exhales, low and contemplating.

"Of course."

———

Will is a deeply affectionate person.

It is in the mornings when he grabs Austin's grouchy, scowling face, pressing deafening and exaggerating smooches all over until he cracks and laughs. It is in the gentle hand on Kayla's shoulder on the range, waving wildly at the missed target until she nods, eyes bright again, face narrowed in determination along her next shot. It is in the gentle hip-check of a frantic, barking Clarisse out of the way, murmuring assurances as he patches a slash through Chris's bicep. It is in the sunshine-bright smiles pointed at everyone he sees, at the thanks, darlin'! at busy passing nymphs and tricking Chiron into giving up his paperwork. It is in both hands occupied by giggling, awestruck children and his shoulders the new hot seat, it is in the shrieking laugh bubbling out of Lou Ellen's mouth as he twirls her to music playing only in his head, it is in his holler of gravity's increasing on me!! as he crushes Cecil to the ground. It is in the arm he slings over Nico's shoulders, constantly, the parting mwah pressed to his temple, the brush of his guitar-callused fingertips across cheekbones, knuckles, shoulders and crooked elbows.

It is everywhere. It is constant. It is, almost, forgettable.

It is confounding.

Nico tests it, again. He waits for the dusk of campfire, on an evening cold enough even Will is in tight blue jeans, and he says, in front of everybody:

“You look good.”

The tips of his own ears are red, hidden by his hair, and his voice is low enough to have several onlookers wolf whistle.

But the flames don’t burst into being across Will’s nose.

Instead he grins, wide and grandiose, cocks his hip high, and says, in the worst exaggeration of his soft, subtle accent Nico has ever heard:

“Aw, don’t I?”

And Nico thinks:

Hm.

He watches, and every day is groundhog day; every day Will is grinning teeth and kiss-pursed lips and hearty palms and gentle, careful fingers. Every morning he greets Nico with his lips pressed to his fingers and blown into the air, and he is shameless, and when there is teasing he responds with knuckles dug into ribs and wide-mouthed grins and come here, brat, you're next. Every other sentence ends in darlin' or dearest or if he's talking to Nico than a million others he pulls from a hat, Zombie Boy and Death Breath and sweetcheeks and princess. He doesn't even think about them. Nico will blink at every new one and say, no, and he will laugh, low and snorting, and double down. And Drew will roll her eyes and mutter about Southern charm or rather his lack of it and can you maybe be a kicked puppy somewhere away from me, please and he will roll his eyes. And he will walk Nico to his door every night and say, bright as daylight, night, Neeks, love you! and bound away across the common, shrieking as the harpies descend on his chronically late ass.

And Nico thinks:

Hm.

But there will be moments. In corners, or in twilight: when it is someone else's turn to sing, when someone else strokes the little ones' hair as they blink themselves awake to drowsy flames, when the campfire smoke is sweet and soft and wraps around the two of them, on the blanket Will has laid out. And Will will yawn, head drooping, halfway asleep, too out of it to notice Nico's creeping hand. And Nico will touch, barely, the edge of his pinky to the bent knuckle of Will's, tucked away between them, shrouded in shadow.

And under the dancing light of flickering embers, Will's face will burn.

And Nico thinks:

Ah.

———

Nico decides to consult an expert.

"Morning," mumbles Annabeth, bumping into him as she stumbles her way to breakfast.

Nico follows quickly, sitting down next to her and staring until she sets down her book. When she does not, he puts a very careful finger on the spine, tugging down until she blinks.

"Oh, Nico! Hey. Good morning."

Nico hides a small smile. "Morning," he greets back. "I have a Question."

"Capital Q question," Annabeth observes, taking a bite of her cereal. She glances over at her half-closed book. Nico cautiously slides it away, and she glances back. "Shoot."

"How do I test a theory?"

"Uh, hypothesis, usually," she answers. "Unless your theory is: Percy is deathly afraid of centipedes, in which case I will go ahead and confirm that theory for you."

"No, that's not the theory." Nico blinks. "Thank you, though."

"Mhm. Reparations, etc etc."

"Right. Uh, my theory is secret."

Annabeth stares at him. Nico stares back. Annabeth does not blink. Nico squirms.

"A gay theory," she surmises.

"Shut up," Nico confirms, red-faced.

Annabeth grins. "Make a list of true/false statements you can prove or disprove. Test them. After testing, form a conclusion." She waves her spoon emphatically. A drop of milk lands on Nico's eyelid, and she smiles sheepishly. "Boom. Questions gained. Will Solace's Affections: conquered."

"Shut up," he says, again. But then adds, belatedly: "Thank you."

He flees to the exit horn of her cackling, before anyone can overhear them.

———

next

[steddiealltheway]

It’s a cold Wednesday night in January that has Eddie turning the thermostat up and allowing the government supplied heat to fill the trailer. He glances up at the vents and gives them a quick middle finger, wondering if they bugged the place to observe him or make sure he isn’t spreading their secrets.

He doesn’t really care at this point if they’re watching though. They already held him at the hospital for long enough, poking and prodding as if he wasn’t even human. But he didn’t turn into a vampire or some shit because of those damn bats. No. The jagged, ugly scars littering his body served as a lovely reminder that he was ultimately human.

Eddie glances at a nearby mirror and cringes at his face, taking a look at the long scar running down his cheek, jaw, and neck. The Corroded Coffin guys all said it made him look metal, and he would throw in a, “Hell yeah,” before smoothly changing the subject to something that didn’t involve him for once.

He takes a finger and slowly trails it over the pale pink skin, wondering if there will ever be a day he won’t notice it.

“Eddie,” Steve calls out gently from the room down the hall.

Eddie jumps back and glances toward him, hand falling to his side and flexing uncomfortably as if he’s been caught doing something wrong.

“You okay?”

Eddie smiles and gestures toward the thermostat. “Damn thing wasn’t working for a minute there. You’d think with the amount of hush hush money they were able to pay all of us, they’d be able to give me and Wayne a better trailer.”

But Steve only crosses his arms and leans against the door frame, eyebrows raising gently. It’s not entirely accusatory, but it’s clear that he doesn’t believe a thing Eddie’s saying.

Although they’ve grown close while going through the same treatment and tests in Owen’s new secret facility, it still surprises Eddie how easily Steve can read people. More specifically, how easily he can read him of all people. “Just got lost in thought,” Eddie confesses while making his way back to his room as he sees Steve squint at the lights in the living area.

Steve steps out of the way as Eddie brushes by him and closes the door. He hope it’s enough honesty to end the conversation.

“What were you thinking about?” Steve asks, ignoring the signals Eddie is giving him.

Eddie sighs and runs a hand over his face and climbs back into his bed, quick to pull up the blanket around himself in an attempt to get some much needed warmth while simultaneously covering his scars from Steve. “Stuff.”

Steve rests his hands on his hips for a second and stares, mouth opening and closing for a moment before deciding against whatever he was going to say. Instead, he climbs into the bed with Eddie and joins him under the blanket, keeping enough distance so they’re not touching, but they can still feel each other’s body heat.

Eddie glances over at him, noticing the way the one lamp turned on in the room gives him a nice golden halo. He looks gorgeous and untouchable - exactly how Eddie used to think of him through high school and sometimes even now. The perfect golden boy. But despite the name Eddie gave to him years ago, he can’t ignore the flaws that Steve possesses, yet they somehow make him even more perfect to him. Or maybe just human.

Eddie shakes his head and glances away. He wishes Steve came over to smoke so Eddie could blame the drugs on the way his thoughts race when he’s next to him. Instead, he has to face up to his enormous crush on the perfect golden boy.

“Have any plans for Valentine’s Day?” Steve asks out of the blue.

Eddie snorts and glances at him, only to laugh harder when he sees the adorable look of confusion on his face.

Steve’s brows furrow but the edges of his lips quirk up. “What?”

Eddie pulls a strand of hair in front of his face to try to hide his wife smile. “Kind of random, don’t you think?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I never said I was great at starting conversations. But I was just thinking about what holiday is next.”

“The worst one,” Eddie complains.

Steve turns toward him. “And why’s that?”

Eddie sighs and let’s himself go on a tangent. “It’s the one day of the year where people feel like they have to do all this shit for their partner, and the rest of the year, they think they can just get by doing the bare minimum. And people are left realizing what it would be like if their ‘other half’ actually put in an effort day to day. And then for all the single people, it’s a day where love is shoved in their face, and they have to feel bad and sometimes disgusted by all the public displays of affection going on around them and… I just hate it all. The stupid chocolates in the red heart boxes and the teddy bears and big heart shaped balloons and roses…”

“I didn’t realize you had such strong opinions about Valentine’s Day,” Steve says with a laugh.

“Well, now you do.”

They both sit in the silence for a few moments, Eddie thinking about all the other things he didn’t even touch on about Valentine’s Day that he hates, while Steve is probably taking in everything he just said.

Steve bumps his shoulder and asks, “So, I’m assuming that means you have no plans.”

Eddie laughs. “That’s what you got out of that?”

Steve shrugs and looks away with a smile.

Eddie glances at his clock and notices it’s technically Thursday now, and in these early hours, Steve will usually either silently fall asleep or he’ll lay awake in the silence until one of his thoughts has to make itself known.

Either way, Eddie knows he’ll be up for a few more hours, but he’s never regret the sleep he’s lost since they’ve made this silent arrangement.

The bed shifts, and Eddie follows Steve’s lead, laying down fully and staring at the ceiling, trying his best not to reach out for the hand laying beside his. He wonders if he should add something to the ceiling like some type of mural with stars and whatnot.

He tilts his head to the side, envisioning how it would look in the lamplight since he and Steve refuse to sleep in the dark. Or maybe it’s just Steve and Eddie’s picked up on the habit of leaving the lamp on.

“Do you think you’ll make plans?” Steve asks quietly.

Eddie turns to look at him, at a lost for a moment before realizing he’s still on the Valentine’s Day subject. He smiles sadly, “No.” Steve glances over at him and holds his gaze, expecting more. Eddie sighs and gestures at himself. “I mean, I’m not exactly what people want to bring home to their parents at the moment plus with the,” he gestures to his face and drops his hand quickly, averting his gaze back to the ceiling.

He hopes Steve will let it go and not connect the dots back to earlier.

A silence settles between them, but Steve’s gaze burns into the side of Eddie’s face. Then, he finally asks, “Is that what distracted you earlier?” When Eddie doesn’t answer he continues, “I saw you looking in the mirror, and I know you usually go out of your way to avoid them.”

Eddie wants to question how Steve noticed, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up about something that was just passively rather than intentionally observed. “Yeah,” Eddie states simply.

The bed shifts as Steve turns on his side to fully face him. “And you really think you can’t get a date because of them?”

Eddie sighs and rubs both of his hands over his face. “Steve, who is ever going to love me like this?” He turns and continues, “Privately, yes, someone could maybe get past the scars. But in public? You really think someone is going to be proud to say, ‘Here’s my boyfriend,’ and show off me?”

“Yes,” Steve says instantly as if he has no doubt in the world.

Eddie turns away, trying not to get choked up about it. Because how can he explain to him that while it’s nice that Steve has that confidence in him, Eddie wants Steve to be the one to be proud of him. To want him like that.

“Do you think my scars make me unlovable?” Steve asks.

“No! Jesus, Steve,” Eddie rushes to say and turns to him. He reached out and lays a hand over his side, feeling the way the skin puckers under the thin t-shirt. “These are metal as hell. Hot even. They make you more lovable if anything.”

Steve grabs Eddie’s hand and slowly pulls it off his side to hold it up, the scar on it being presented out to Eddie. “And this doesn’t make you more lovable?”

“Steve…” Eddie protests quietly as Steve pulls his hand close to stare at it.

“The scars you got protecting us. You think those make you less lovable?” Steve asks, pulling his hand close enough that his lips ghost over the skin.

Eddie lets out a breath that sounds like Steve as Steve presses a soft kiss into the tough skin. He stares at Eddie with a worried look in his eyes as he whispers, “Too much?”

Eddie shakes his head, too stunned to get the words out.

Steve intertwines their hands and pulls Eddie’s arm toward him. “These scars,” he says kissing the next one on his forearm, “Are beautiful on you.” He moves on to the scar on his elbow stretching to his bicep, lips trailing against the sensitive unmarked skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. “How could anyone hate these?” He asks leaving three soft, lingering kisses before shifting on the bed to hover above Eddie, still holding his hand but now against his stomach so he can press a kiss against his shoulder. “These scars show everyone what you were willing to sacrifice for us.”

As Steve moves to the scar on his neck, Eddie’s head drops back, giving him more access as he groans out, “Steve.”

“These scars,” Steve says, kissing up his neck over and past the scars, “Are exactly,” he murmurs as he kisses past his jaw and peppers kisses up his cheek, “Why I love you,” Steve finishes by pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth near where the scar that Eddie traced earlier ends.

Eddie glances up at Steve as he hovers over him, trying to make sense of everything he’s saying until it finally clicks. “You love me?” Eddie asks.

Steve nods and squeezes his hand before letting it go so he can lightly caress his cheek. “I have since you decided to be a hero and sacrifice yourself. Which was exactly what I told you not to do by the way.”

“I’ve never been great at following rules,” Eddie breathes out and reaches a hand up to run through Steve hair. “Steve?”

“Mhm?”

“I love you, too,” Eddie confesses.

Steve smiles and asks, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. He pauses before adding, “You know, one time when I was little, I captured a squirrel and it may have attacked me and left a scar on my lip.”

Steve laughs. “Is that so?”

Eddie smiles and nods.

Steve’s eyes dart down to Eddie’s lips and he moves his thumb to swipe over his top lip. “You know, I think I see it.”

Eddie debates telling him that it was actually his bottom lip, but instead he just breathes out, “Steve.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks with a teasing smile.

“Steve.”

Steve keeps smiling as he hums, “Hmm?” When Eddie huffs, Steve fakes surprise with a gasp, “Oh. You want me to find the picture for you!”

Eddie groans, “Steve!”

“Uh huh?”

Eddie huffs and cups his face. “You are infuriating.”

“Is that s-”

Eddie interrupts him by taking matters into his own hands and leaning up to kiss him. He feels Steve smile against his lip before finally kissing him back.

Steve pulls away and breathlessly asks, “So, do you think you’ll have plans for Valentine’s Day now?”

Eddie’s head thumps back on the pillow. “Oh my god.” Steve laughs. “Oh my god!” Eddie says and shoves Steve off of him only to roll over so he hovers above him. “You were trying to ask me out this whole time?”

“No, I just wanted to know your opinion of Valentine’s Day.”

Eddie gives him a light punch to the arm and smiles wide as he stares down at Steve, lying beneath him in the golden lamp light. His perfect golden boy.

“I still hate it by the way. Even if I have plans now,” Eddie comments seriously.

“Don’t worry, I’ll put in the effort year round for you and make sure to keep you away from the public that day,” Steve says running a hand through Eddie’s curls before tracing it down the scar on his cheek in a way he thought no one would be able to do - lovingly.

Eddie leans down and gives Steve a quick peck. “I’ve also got some scars on my hips I might want you to check out.”

Steve laughs loudly and pulls him into a kiss that truly makes Eddie breathless, all while tracing his hand over the scar on his cheek. And for the first time, Eddie learns to love the scars adorning his body.

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

CHAPTER I

Modern AU.

- Pairing: detective!Arthur x barista!Reader

- Summary: It's early autumn in Bozeman, Montana. The curtain rises on the daily lives of Arthur Morgan, a police lieutenant, and you, a barista in the café across the street. Impromptu returns of friends in your lives and a strange mystery could lead you to meet at last...

- Warnings/tags: (for this chapter) death, corpse, angst as grief and loneliness are mentioned.

- Words:6k

series info, warnings and disclaimer here. AO3 link here.

Arthur Morgan looks at his face in the mirror. Bags under his eyes. Scruffy stubble that grew in just one night, only God knows how. His short hair, with this golden brown color he never could describe himself, matches the caramel leaves of the trees outside his window. He grabs his razor, a vintage one, just a resealable blade. His shaving brush, his cream. He smears his face, blue pupils staring at his cheeks, and then his throat in the glass. That familiar, everyday smell fills his nostrils. The blade feels weird every time it passes on his chin, his scars oddly sensitive there. Damn he looks aweful. His nose, broken from a fight years ago. A cut, way lighter and fresher than his other wounds, provokes him on his cheek. The two big wrinkles digging into his cheeks on either side of his lips, that never cease to grow year after year. The sunspots staining his skin, marks that would never leave, no matter how hard he would wash his face.

At least he's always had the physique to impress: severe features, broad shoulders, a body strengthened by years of training and physical work. At least his ugliness served him well for his work, which was something to be taken for granted. He sighs for a few seconds.

Today is going to be a long, hard day.

His face roughly shaven and clean, he dresses without paying attention, slipping on a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and his eternal leather jacket; pockets filled with crushed cigarettes and empty packs of them. He adds his badge to his big belt, like a soldier adds his banner before going into battle. Like a condemned man holds the axe over his own head. But maybe, on some days, also like the crown of a man's pride.

His service weapon is waiting for him on the kitchen table, almost as loyal as Copper. The good boy is up and excited, thinking he's going on a walk with him, like every morning. And like every morning, Arthur takes a few minutes of his time to pat him and coo at him, the old German shepherd collapsing heavily on the ground with a blissful happiness, showing his belly for him to flatter. "That's my good boah." Both of his hands scratch him vigorously. "You're almost as old as me now, ain'tcha? Two old basterds we are."

A few last licks from his companion on his calloused hands and Arthur gets up, grunting, more from frustration than actual effort. He closes his door, taking his gun and leaving Copper behind.

The cool autumn air swallows him up as soon as he leaves his apartment building. The streets, still almost deserted at this early hour, are quiet, as if on standby, the dead leaves on the trees gently falling in silent, forgotten dances. He heads for the police station, only a ten-minute walk from his place. He likes this little bit of peace and quiet before arriving at work. Before facing reality, and its demons.

He walks up his street, St Tracy Avenue, a heterogeneous mix of new family homes and apartments in Bozeman's typical red-brick buildings. He passes the little local church, St James, still asleep. The tall trees framing the road overlook dozens of cars and pick-ups lining the sidewalks. At the crossroads, he turns right onto Main Street. The rising sun illuminates the shiny windows of the post office, the US flag proudly raised, welcoming the workers, the only ones he usually meets on his way. Beyond the post office, dozens of stores, cafés, restaurants, and banks. The main street is flooded with them. Sometimes he wonders if they were there when the town was founded, when the first red bricks were laid on the ground. He makes a quick stop at number 117, The Treeline, mainly because it's one of the only ones already open at this hour, but also because he knows that the old manager will make him his espresso without making unnecessary conversation. Simple, efficient, silent. What he needs, especially in the morning.

Finally, right after the Comedy Club, he reaches the last crossroads. There, another café stands on the corner, much more welcoming than the Treeline. The window display, featuring a jovial otter drinking a cup of tea, reads “The Green Otter's Café” in round, amusing letters. He turns his head. He doesn't know why, but always does, every morning. Maybe it's the irresistible smell of baking pastries, butter croissants, cinnamon rolls, and loaves of all kinds. Maybe it's the one of coffee beans being roasted, or the energetic music he can faintly hear from inside. But mostly, and surely, it's because it's just about that time you are cleaning the counter. Your hair in a messy bun, your green and orange apron, the colors of your establishment, tight around your waist. Today, you're wearing a beige shirt underneath. He knows so little about you, like what your name is or where you're from; only that you're always there, at 6 a.m., and you always look up, showering him with your death-defying smile.

He smiles back. Tries not to think about his ugly teeth as he does, and grants you a two-finger salute before continuing his walk. You return his greeting, your cheeks so round and reddened by your smile, your eyes crinkled into two crescent moons. You're so beautiful. And you look so sweet, that by repeating this little ritual every morning, this esoteric habit between the two of you, he's ended up nicknaming you Peach —just like that, just in his head.

He knows this is the last peaceful moment before work, and he loves it. He turns left around the café, finally arriving on Rouse Avenue. The police station is only a few steps away, almost directly opposite the Green Otter's building. It was maybe, with the Hospital, one of the only buildings that never ever slept. The impressive brand-new building, large but flat with only two storeys, spans a long stretch of the street. He enters the beast's lair, clocking in his entrance out of sheer mechanical habit, and approaches the reception desk.

"Hello Miss Jackson. How're ya today?"

"Not bad, Arthur. Like a Monday, that is."

"Is Dutch here already?"

"Mmmh, I don't recall him checking in. Mr. Williamson's here, though."

"Fine. Thanks, Miss."

He walks past the civilian zone, leaving Tilly behind, and goes to the Crime and Investigation Unit department. Bozeman isn't a big city; therefore the place isn't as grandiloquent as the beautiful wooden offices there are in thriller films and series. The big room is shared by four of his colleagues, his own workspace in the back separated by a glass wall. The bare functional minimum, lack of budget. Reality. He passes between Micah and Javier's desks, the first one unkept and covered in layers of trash and soda cans, the second, clearly neater and tidier, with just a few discreet guitar picks still lying around. He stops between the other pair of desks, those of Hamish and Bill. The veteran's, always the neatest of all, probably some remnant of military rigidity, have recently had an annex added to accommodate the team's rookie, Lenny Summers. The poor kid had only been there a few months and had already seen more horrors than adults twice his age. At least it taught him a thing or two. He nods in Bill's direction, greeting him nonchalantly.

"Williamson. Remember our 8 a.m. appointment."

"I do, boss."

"Don't call me that." The blue-eyed officer sighs and enters his office.

At least he had the incomparably royal luxury of windows. He sits back in his chair, looking for a pen that works, and goddman how could this fucking place not have a single pen that does, rummaging through the dozens of files he hasn't yet sorted. His own desk is just a bit bigger, and a strange mix you could call an "organized mess". An ashtray that he hides in one of his drawers when a superior shows up. Several coffee cups, of which he throws away the cardboard ones. Files, files, more files, all colors, all sizes. Somewhere on top, the leather-covered journal in which he draws and writes all his thoughts, and never leaves him, especially when he's on a case. There's also a pencil for it, under all those papers, he's sure of it. There are a few elements of decoration too, mainly typical cowboy and rancher things. A horseshoe, some feathers, a wooden buck figurine Charles had offered him. On the wall behind him, a huge painting of Mount Helena. And next to his computer, whose slowness was like a snail in glue, a few framed photos.

The oldest shows him at eighteen with his high school diploma, not a single hair on his face, his features slimmer, more youthful. His lips are stretched in a smile as big and proud and ferocious as a tiger. Damn, he really didn't think he would actually get it, at the time. How he fucking hated maths. A spotty, pissed-off John stands next to him, and around both of them, a younger Dutch and Hosea look on, smiling.

Another one, three years later. His 21-year-old self is showing his police diploma, uniform on. He was so proud of it, too, that day. Yet, his smile is more reserved. It looks like he has aged much more, already. This time, there's just Dutch, only wearing a mustache, holding him around his back, a hand on his shoulder.

And of course, a portrait of him and Mary. The picture frame is pink, kitsch and frilly, with glitter and red hearts, but she chose it for him. So he kept it. And even after all this time, the photo still sits there. It was just a year after the last one, if he recalls right. Mary had bored him into visiting her parents, who couldn't stand him, in San Francisco. At least he'd been able to see the bridge, he who rarely left the Middle West. The photo showed them standing right in front of it, Mary beaming so sweetly as she was wont to do, holding the camera. He, laughing because she had just pinched him to make him smile for the photo. She had managed to capture that rare moment. And for that alone, the picture and its hideous frame would never leave the desk.

He signs some papers, reads others, tries to go and check his mails, but the goddman computer is once again too slow. A few hours pass, call after call. He painfully writes a report from a previous case he had just finished a few days ago, saluting Javier through the glass when he arrives at his post. How he hated writing that kind of formal stuff. Eevery sentence and word had to be thought through. Sometimes, holding back from writing what came from his heart as he did with his diary made his fingers burn and his computer mouse clench. His chore finally done, he searches for his lighter and a cigarette in his pockets, and quickly smokes one. He lets the fume burn all the way from his mouth to the back of his throat, then his nose, almost tickling his eyes. He tries to imbibe this sensation, this familiar and relaxing burning feeling, to remember it later. He knows he will have to dig deep into his roots. 

"Bill. Let's go." He throws at his subordinate, closing his office door.

"A shame the kid isn't here yet, could learn a lot this mornin'."

"Yeah. Or maybe get that final warning that this job really is a shitty one."

Just a few meters away from there, a stove is burning. And not in the metaphorical way of describing that it was functioning. No no. A wreath of flames is shooting out all around the door, like a literal window to Hell, plumes of black, charred-smelling smoke filling the entire space.

"Beau! Quick, hand me the fire extinguisher!"

"Here!"

"Alright, alright, it's fine." You ease him, and yourself, and maybe try to ease the fire too thanks to the Holy Spirit. You quickly turn the stove off completely, before splashing the creamy substance a first time all around the door, and a second time inside it.

The stove turns silent, beaten, having burned as brightly as it could, and now exhausted, out of action, as if it'd given the best performance of its short life on stage. You sigh heavily, pearls of sweat on your forehead from the warmth inside the little kitchen. You turn to your employee, an only eighteen-year-old boy, brown locks falling on his face as he looks bashfully at the ground.

"What were you doing, Beau?!"

"Well, you see, there's this girl, Penelope, and she really likes to write letters, and t-to receive some, not texting or stuff, so I started-"

"Stop, stop." You cut him, a hand on your hip, the other hanging in the air towards him. "Were you watching the muffins? Yes or no? I want a simple answer."

"… N-no."

"Alright. You understand we've got a problem, here?" You try to modulate your voice.

"I understand, I… I won't do that again, I promise."

"Go and take care of the tables for a few minutes, will you?"

He complies without another word, leaving the kitchen, the door squeaking. You look at the state of the infernal device in front of you. The whole thing had turned entirely black, and you're sure the smoky scent will stick to your pastries for at least a month. This isn't ideal. At all. As you grab a few towels and cleaning products to try and save what is left of it, your thoughts are focused on your little café's bank account.

A stove, especially an industrial one, is way too pricey for you to buy right now. And yet, how you wish you could. Just like the dishwasher that threatened to explode with each new use, or the fridges that were starting to date and for which you prayed every morning that they wouldn't let you down. Or the croaky kitchen door, those scratches on the worktops...

Yes, the Green Otter's Café really needed a little refreshment. And yet he had been standing, since its very creation the day your grandpa had decided to quit everything and open his own place. Initially a restaurant and a bar, it had quickly become a renowned city venue with a loyal following and an excellent reputation. Now that it was yours, even though its face and appearance had changed, the beers replaced by your coffee or tea creations, the French fries dinner trays by delicious and appetizing pastries, the clientele was as loyal as ever. And you had been able to keep the spirit and heart of this place so dear to you, but also to all the inhabitants of the neighborhood; through your own will, the values of sharing, conviviality and joy wanted by your grandfather were persisting. Almost like a lighthouse that would guide people through time instead of the waves.

As you scrub the burnt from the stove, muffins turned into charcoals shoved in the trash, you silently brood over your frustration. This place deserved all the love and money in the world. Unfortunately, the debts were starting to pile up. The cost of living was getting high for everyone. Raw materials were harder and harder to find, and prices were rising. As for the poor inhabitants, wages didn't always keep pace. It was the beginning of a difficult period, and you hoped more than anything that your small local business could withstand it; how could you, when you wanted to guarantee products that were always as good for the same price, while competing with big chains that produced quintuple your work much more quickly and for much less…? It's like fighting a full-armed knight with a toothpick.

"Miss, there's someone here for you!" You hear Beau call from the big room, pulling you out of your worrying thoughts.

You leave your cleaning there, some foam mixed with dirt on your gloves and forearms. In this job, you can't be fussy about the state of your clothes.

The sun had finally risen outside. It was one of those very crisp fall mornings, blinding sun but fresh wind balancing the temperature. At the door, a figure from your past is waiting, dark hair in a braid, ultramarine eyes shining in this golden-brown atmosphere, simple but elegant dress highlighting her slim figure.

"Abigail!" You scream in both joy and surprise, walking to hear to hold her in your arms.

The young woman reciprocates the hug, and chuckles a bit a she notices you've let your hands hang in the air not to dirty her clothes.

"It's been a while! You're in town for a few days?" You ask out of curiosity, but her face isn't one of someone who's there on holiday for tourism.

"It's, uh… It's more complicated than that." She looks happy to see you, but her tired gaze holds so many silent things. You feel like there's something more serious stopping her smile from being genuine. Without thinking about it, you do as you would have with any of your friends in need: A hand on her shoulder, you look right at her face.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She nods, you smile gently, happy she's letting you help. "Still into teas? I just received a wonderful blend of spices for a Chai Latte…"

She nods once more, grateful. As you quickly prepare her comforting beverage, you order Beau to finish the cleaning of the consequences of his lack of attention and to bake another batch of blueberry muffins. He doesn't complain even once.

Both sitting at one of the wooden tables, you give her the Chai and listen, careful, empathetic. She's curled up in her chair, looking like she's about to boil over. Abigail had always been strong; a vase into which too much water had kept being poured. Still, she'd managed to grow the most beautiful and precious sprout in it. Today she was going to let the water spill out. And you listen. You listen when she talks about life, about Billings, the big city where everything was supposed to change. About John, and Jack. About how the so-called father of her child was unable to take any responsibility for her and him. To build a normal and stable life for them. About the utter bastard he had been, how her hopes of him becoming a better man now that they had a child had soon vanished. The apartment they couldn't afford. The wasted savings. The tears on Jack's face when she said they weren't coming back to their beautiful place. How she ended up kicking John out, trying once and for all to make him understand. An ultimatum. You catch the little sparkles gathering on her eyelashes, and grab a few towels from the counter. She loves him still, it's obvious. Maybe it's what makes her that angry, most of all.

"Did you find a place here?" You ask, more and more worried for her and the boy.

"Yeah, don't worry, a nice small apartment." She wipes her eyes and some of her beautiful dark makeup smudges on her cheeks, a witness of her lonely tears in her rage. She continues with difficulty, her words sometimes interrupted by little hiccups and sniffles. "But I need to find a j-job if I want to keep it and provide for Jack on my own." Her eyes look up from her half-empty cup to look at yours. Her pained but still gorgeous face now looks embarrassed. "That's also why I'm here -I wanted to ask if you... Maybe had something for me, here?"

You don't answer right away, but still grab her hands in yours. Thoughts rush and collide in your brain. You're hesitant. Not because you think she isn't good enough. All the contrary, you had already worked with Abigail when you were younger, and what a great worker she was. No, the problem was once again the money. Would you be able to pay her a decent wage? Was it really the better option in your current situation? You think for a few more seconds and remember the stove. The burned batch. Beau is an adorable boy, and you don't have the heart to fire him even if he has his head in the clouds most of the time. One more actually experienced worker wouldn't go amiss. You could even change the opening hours and guarantee more rest time for everyone.

It's decided.

Abigail's face lights up and her whole body melts in a wave of relief when you present her a green apron, embroidered with a familiar tea-sipping otter. The delicious, wonderful smell of perfectly baked blueberry muffins emanates from the oven.

Arthur and Bill are standing beside a corpse.

A corpse that used to be a teenage boy.

For now, hidden under a sheet, its waiting for its moment of glory.

The weird white lights from the neon lights glow surrealistically, illuminating its curves, shaping the human form with shadows and brightness. Why on earth do mortuaries always have to be sordid places? The white and grey tiles on the floor, the horrible smell of naphtalene, the coldness, the lockers stretching across the walls, neatly lined up on top of each other, standing at attention like soldiers... On the other hand, would making the place more welcoming really help? He could hardly see himself right now in a room decorated with balloons and bright colors, McDonald's children's birthday party mode. The Death's call is both immaterial and material. The rhythmic gait of Dr. Strauss's little legs snapped him out of his reflexion. He's accompanied by a second person, heels clicking on the floor, breaking the macabre silence of the gloomy room.

The mother.

Strauss, wearing his white coat and usual small round glasses, walks a few more steps and stands behind the body lying on the long table reserved for it. The three men remain silent, facing the woman. In her forties, her hair flowing around her shoulders, a gray suit holds her in place, maintaining her in an expectation that was as burdensome for her as it was for the other three.

Arthur greets her silently, nodding solemnly. It's not the first time he's witnessed this kind of thing. Not the first time he'd heard the cries of a mother torn apart by the one thing a parent cannot endure. Nor the last time, surely.

Arthur knows all this.

And yet.

His heart tears apart as Strauss lifts the sheet, still in the most terrible silence. The few seconds of shock, the poor woman's face twisting in slow motion like in a bad action movie. His bones boil, he doesn't really know from what, rage, sadness, frustration, at this unbearable spectacle. Yet his face remains impassive. He has learned to stay that way. He has learned to keep this bubbling inside him, this fire that consumes and burns and makes his guts writhe. He thought he'd put it out; he thought he'd hardened himself. In most areas, he remained coldhearted. But God forbid, when it came to a kid… He couldn't help but feel it rekindling.

There is, in the screams of this woman facing him, this mother who had just recognized her 14-year-old son on a hospital table in a seedy morgue, an inevitable resonance that reverberates in every cell of his being. Arthur knows exactly how she feels right now.

He closes his eyes for just a few short seconds, invoking for help the sensation of the cigarette burning his lungs from earlier. He focuses on the smoke dulling his senses, his chest, then his throat, his mouth and nose and eyes. The feelings are hidden behind, the bubbling fire masked by this smoke that blended with his own in a perfect decoy. He's ready.

"Mrs Anderson. Do you recognize today, October 1, this body as that of your son, Joshua Anderson?"

He hates doing this so much. It's obvious she does. Or else she wouldn't be crying the premature loss of her own flesh. Another goddamn formality. Arthur slowly takes a step closer to her. He pulls out a few tissues from his leather jacket and hands them to her.

"You can simply nod, Ma'am."

She does.

Arthur's shoulders fall down. He wants to say something else, something comforting, but she suddenly snaps her head to him, eyes accusing, murderous.

"How did he die?"

"He's been shot in the chest, we think by-"

"We all know who did this. And it's all your fault!" She accuses, finger pointing successively Arthur, then Bill. "You, and the joke you call a colleague! You are all supposed to protect us, you knew this gang was prowling around in our neighborhood, we've warned you a hundred times!!"

The blue-eyed detective doesn't say any other words. Dry-mouthed, he takes it in. He'd rather take it than watch her contort helplessly from pain before him. If at least taking the brunt of it would help her in some way, so be it.

He was used to taking it.

"You're all going to rot in hell for this!! You bastards!" She goes on, her curses turning into cries and groans of despair mixed with anger. With injustice. She's the flag-bearer for all these broken families. All the ones they could never save. Through her, Arthur, Bill and even Strauss, usually detached, feel the full wrath of the human race.

"Fuck you!" She screams again and suddenly words aren't enough, and her hand flies directly to Arthur's cheek, wanting to slap him with all her might. 

He stops her in mid-swing with a firm but benevolent grip, the two others hissing in surprise and shock. He hasn't moved an inch, barely disturbed. Face stoic, he must be the rock on which she can lean, even if it's to destroy him, even if she hates him with every fiber of her being right now. His tired, sad eyes stare intently at her, deep blue reflections shining like the waves of the Styx. Bearer of Death he was.

"I'm sorry Ma'am... I really am."

His only words to her, before saying Bill's last name, ordering him to take care of her. He takes her away, trying to stay gentle but he's not the best at treating people carefully. He grabs Mrs. Anderson by the shoulders to pull her out of the morgue. Strauss sighs loudly, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat and handing one to Arthur. The lieutenant looks at the poor woman and his colleague one last time as they walk along the glassed corridor.

"Are you going to p-

"Of course I ain't going to press any charges, Strauss." Arthur anticipates his question, rubbing his temples with his right hand, cigarette still in it. The coroner lights his own and holds his lighter for Arthur to light his. "Ya know am a lieutenant now, doc'. We're not supposed to smoke like that in a morgue."

"You're not supposed to let a woman take it out on you with impunity either." The red ashes reflect in Strauss's glasses, his long mouth stretched out like a frog's in a grimace of disapproval, devoid of all compassion. Mortuaries attract strange morticians.

"I know."

The two men smoke in silence for a few more moments, the intensity of what just happened still hanging in the air. The dark atmosphere is only pierced by the burning of their cigarettes and the medical glow of the neon lights. Strauss pulls the sheet back on Joshua Anderson's body.

At lunchtime, Arthur munches on a club sandwich with a chemical taste. In the "machine room", as he likes to call it, these good old steel companions deliver life-saving coffees and industrial foodstuffs to all and sundry, just like they feed cattle in those big intensive livestock farms. The smell of old carpet and sweaty cops is omnipresent. He's up at a stand-up table, insipid espresso already graciously purchased by Sadie, standing next to him. On Mondays, she pays. He listens to her talk about her morning in the patrol division, something about an altercation in the Valley West neighborhood. Her uniform, slightly different from the ones of the crime investigation department, with short sleeves instead of long, but still a very dark blue, contrasts nicely with her blond hair hung in a ponytail. Arthur has always liked Sadie. Since the first day they met at the police academy. He can still remember her beating the shit out of most of the guys there, and smiles when he sees their terrified faces. She was simple and direct, unadorned, like him. He had the impression that fewer and fewer people were nowadays.

Right now, Sadie is tired of hearing him crunch the dry crumbs of what he has the audacity to call his meal, her nose scrunching between her freckled cheeks. She cuts her speech, "Hey, why don'ya go to the Green's like everyone?"

"The Green Otter's Café?" Peach's coffee shop, he thinks to himself. "I don' know, why don' you?" He asks back almost defensively with a nod of his chin in her direction.

"Because you're always there eating this shit and I wanna spent my goddamn breaks with you, dummy."

Arthur snorts as he folds the plastic wrapper of his sandwich without thinking about it. He then takes the tiny little cardboard cup from the machine and brings it to his lips, the taste as disappointing as ever.

"Well, y'know what? We could eat there tomorrow. There, ya happy?"

"Very much, thank you kind sir."

Arthur grumbles as all final words before noticing the rest of his team eating together at the other side of the little restroom. Javier, Lenny, Hamish, Bill and Micah, all in uniform. What catches his eye is the way Bill behaves, silent and withdrawn, while his voice usually carries around the room.

"Wait a sec." He asks Sadie. He approaches them, greeting those he hadn't seen already. A good old handshake for Hamish, a pat on the back for Lenny. Nothing but a cold stare for Micah.

"Bell, I want you in my office in twenty minutes. Williamson, come here a bit." He commands, the tallest of all men walking to him. Arthur brings him to the less crowded part of the room.

Arthur's gaze settles on him, not wavering for a bit. "Are ya alright?"

There are a few seconds before his answer. "It's uh… It's Mrs Anderson, y'know. Made me feel real bad and shit this mornin'."

"Did ya bring her back to the reception?"

"Yes, boss."

"Did ya explain the procedure and advise her to see our psychologist?"

"Y-yes, boss."

"Ya did treat her kindly, right?"

He nods slowly, visibly nervous.

"Then you have nothing to blame yourself for, Bill. We have bad days, but we have good days too, right? Remember when ya saved that little girl from the fire last year, with that Irish MacGuire boy from the fire department?"

The tall bearded officer nods once more, as a child listening in silence to a parent comforting him. He was one of the few people Arthur had to look up to catch his gaze, which he always did with everyone. Some say his eye contact is what made him so good at interrogation, sometimes making the worst criminals break under a punishing silence and the weight of that gaze.

"You saved a child that day. Y'see, that's the thing; we do bad things, sometimes. We screw up. But most of the time, we do what's right, Bill. We do what most wouldn't, to protect people." Arthur reaches for his subordinate's shoulder, palm settling on it. He delivers his words slowly, eyes deep into his."That poor woman's pain isn't yours to carry."

"You… You're right, boss." Bills sighs, shifting from one foot to another, shaking his nervousness out of him. "I guess I… I just forget it sometimes, y'know?"

"I know, I know. I do too." Arthur concedes, patting Bill's shoulder a few times. He then walks away, going back to Sadie, adding an annoyed, "And stop calling me boss for Christ's sake," as he does.

"Sorry boss -Shit!- I mean Morgan!"

Arthur walks up the stairs to his apartment. It's already late. For a normal person, at least. Goddamn Micah. He's still reeling from the discussion he had with him, locked in his office. This incompetent, filthy snake. If it were only up to him, he would have fired this scumbag a long time ago. He screws up an investigation, doesn't do what's necessary to protect a family that should have been placed under protection. Hell, he didn't even know about the whole thing until Strauss called him at the morgue the day before. What is he even paid to do, for God's sake, other than degrade the profession and pollute the air Arthur breathes?

He has just turned the key in the door, and already hears the only one who can bring him a little comfort on a day like this. Ecstatic barks already ringing through the walls. A furry, drooling form jumps out at him instantly.

Copper is so delighted that his old bones don't even seem to hurt anymore. Arthur cuddles him, caresses him all over, on his head, on his sides, his belly. Every time it's like he's been gone for ages. Dogs don't care if you're good or bad as long as you're theirs. Words whispered just for him fill his happy ears. "That's my good boy." A few more scratches. "Must have been bored t'death all day, huh? Sure did."

Hungry, he walks to his open-plan kitchen and looks inside his fridge. He doesn't know why. The damn thing couldn't have magically filled up on its own while he was out. He didn't really like cooking, even less for himself. The solitary pickle jar sadly returns his gaze, desperately surviving between a few slices of cheese and abandoned bears."You wanna go for a walk, buddy?" The dog's ears perk up at the word. He closes his fridge, swaps the satchel he uses for work for a smaller leather one. He slides his journal and a pencil inside. He looks up around his apartment, chest tight. There's only one pull-out chair, only one cushion hollowed out on his sofa. Only one plate, on the rare occasions when he eats here. Only one toothbrush in the bathroom cup, only a used spot in his bed. Only a sad man in it.

When Mary left him, the night before their wedding day, Arthur was hit twice; once in the heart and once by the weight of his failures.

It's been eight years now.

It's so odd; this feeling. Those days seem so long ago, and yet so vivid. It feels like a juvenile lifetime. A very long yesterday. He could still remember the color of her favorite lipstick. But not the one of their sheets, in their old house. The caress of her lips on his forehead. But not how it felt to have her fingertips on his palm. It's all like a paradox; an everlasting, immaterial presence. A painful absence.

He hasn't stayed ten minutes inside his flat, and he's already walking down the stairs, Copper happily running next to him.

In this quiet piece of forest at the edge of town, Arthur is sitting on a bench. A plastic plate of greasy French fries on his side, he pecks at a few from time to time between drawings and writing. Journal on his thigh, the dog chasing after some moths or an unknown bug, he draws what he can remember of Mrs Anderson. The dawning night forces his eyes to adapt to the darkness, so that he can make out the exact contours of the lines he draws. He remembers her perfect suit had ended up disheveled at the end of their encounter. Her eyes, crinkled and thin, then so red and gaping, filled with such terror...

Arthur's buzzing phone in his jacket makes him look away from the drawing. He pulls it out, checks the name.

John

That was unexpected. John had stopped giving him news some time ago, when he had left with Abigail and Jack, his child he didn't want to take on, his bullshit piling up endlessly.

He picks up.

"Hey."

"Arthur," The raspy voice of her brother at heart tickles his ears from the phone's speaker. "How you doin'?"

"I'm fine Johnny-boy, as always." He answers, his own tone a bit annoyed, holding back a sight he knows is coming really soon. He plays with his pencil in his other hand. "What d'you want?"

"What, you think I can't jus' call my old friend to… Check up on him?"

"No."

"Shit you're right." John's words come out more directly now, free from politeness and manners. Arthur can hear him fidgeting on the other end of the line. "Listen, Arthur, I need ya help."

"For God's sake John, what have you done again?" Arthur lets out the sigh he had been holding back since the start of the conversation, his hand tightening on his pencil he stopped twirling in his hand. That phrase. That phrase he'd heard a hundred times after John's bullshit. Arthur, I need you to hide my weed. Arthur, I need you to lend me $500. Arthur, I need your help to take down these guys. Arthur, I need you to cover for me so I can take a chance on Abigail.

"I… I screwed up things with Abigail and the… the boy. She kicked me out and moved back to Bozeman."

"Really? This woman definitely has more balls than you've ever had." His unhurried voice lingers on the words in that pungent tone he so often has towards his little brother.

"Shu'up, would ya?" John hustles; he's clearly doing something while calling. "So, can I stay at your place for a while? Not for long. Just long enough for me to win back Abigail's heart."

"Yeah, so basically an eternity then."

"Shut up!"

There's another silence, and the older brother spins and twirls his pencil between his fingers again.

"So? Arthur"

"Yes." His eyes close slowly as he speaks those words. "Yes, of course ya can."

"Great. Cause I'm on the way already."

"Jesu- Don't fucking tell me you're driving right now."

"Naw, never."

"Hang up that phone or I'll hang you up, John."

"Copy that, sir." He sarcastically answers, as if Arthur were his mother telling him to stop climbing up the girls' balconies.

Alone again in the newborn night, Arthur let his mind get used to this new reality and to all the habits that John's presence would destroy. That boy had always been more chaotic than a raccoon.

"Well, at least old boy," Arthur tells Copper, "We won't be as much alone at home anymore."

In the trees, somewhere.

Not far from a lived place.

There is a moving shadow.

It's discreet at first. Just a few rustles in the thicket.

A crack of a branch.

It is a now moonless night. The kind where, in the old times, children would have been warned not to go out and men not to come home too late. A night when even the cattle get nervous, when the dogs bark and howl with the coyotes, like a horn blown before a hunt. When all the light vanishes, and all the silhouettes of objects, animals, humans, and nature become so black and shapeless that they appear to blend into an impenetrable ebony fog.

It waits.

Its presence is odd. The sheep can feel it. It shouldn't be there. What is it, exactly? They can't recognize its smell. They can't really distinguish its form. They don't hear a single sound coming from it. All that they can understand is that it isn't normal. How could it be so big and be as silent as a graveyard? And why is it… hiding?

One of the sheep moves away from the edge of the forest, on instinct, perhaps? It doesn't take much for all the others to follow. But there are, as always, stragglers.

A few more naive individuals. Or inattentive.

It's getting closer. Slowly, silently. The dark form is now bigger than the bushes. Way bigger. Like a massive cloud would blind the sun, its abyssal mass spreads throughout the forest's edge.

It chooses.

The prey is casually grazing. Unaware. Until the very last second.

Large claws shine as they're drawn…

And it jumps from the bushes. Blood falls on the grass. A screeching cry of pain and death, then suddenly cut out in the night, making every other animal go silent.

Too silent.

The shadow leaves just as silently as a cold breeze.

a/n: yeaaaah so a lot going on in this first chapter. I wanted to introduce a lot of stuff, and I'm really sorry if it's too much info. I hope I'll get you all as interested into this story that I'm excited to write it!

(as alwasy I'm relying on @/papaue00 for this gorgeous Arthur's pic)

tag list: @sadieadlersnecktie @cloudywithachanceofcrisis, @redwritr, @stottlemorgan, @arthurmorganist (please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!)

[the-halloween-jack]

Fleeting Moments ✢ Bruce Wayne

Synopsis: Y/N and Bruce Wayne share quiet moments of love amidst the chaos of Gotham. In rare stolen hours between nightfall and dawn, she clings to the man behind the mask, not aware of the double life he leads. She watches as bruises form across his skin and holds him through his restless nights, grateful that, for once, he is by her side. Bruce Wayne x Reader, female pronouns. This piece is not plot-specific, so any iteration of Bruce will work. Though, I wrote it with Christian Bale in mind.

Warnings: A sprinkle of angst. Masterlist

Disclaimer: This is essentially a prequel to another Bruce Wayne one-shot I wrote (here is the link if you're interested), though you by no means have to read it; this works as a stand-alone, too. However, the other one-shot goes into detail on how their relationship progressed from here. Words: 1,726k

Rain pattered softly against the glass, a rhythmic rap that filled the quiet, ornate expanse of Wayne Manor. It was late, too late for her to be awake, but Bruce lay beside her, his breath steady and deep, his warm frame pressed snug against her side. Y/N could not sleep, her mind restless despite the calming comfort of his presence, a presence that so often eluded her. Absently, her fingers traced the ridges of his knuckles, ghosting over the faint scars that marred his otherwise perfect skin.

She wondered, as she always did, where they had come from. He never spoke of them. Never told her of the fights, the injuries, the pain that lingered and simmered beneath the surface of his carefully constructed mask. He was Bruce Wayne, the prince of Gotham, a man of charm and effortless grace. But in the silence of the night when, in his solitude, this façade was brought down, Bruce was something else entirely. Something weary, something worn.

He stirred slightly under her touch, his fingers twitching before they caught hers, enclosing them within his grasp. A small, lazy smile flickered across his lips as he blinked away his stupor.

‘You're awake,’ he murmured, voice thick with lassitude.

Y/N hummed in response, shifting closer, her head nestling against his shoulder. 

‘Couldn't sleep.’

He exhaled slowly, his free hand coming up to stroke along the curve of her spine, soothing and unhurried. 

‘Bad dreams?’ She shook her head against him.

‘No dreams at all,’ she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘Just thoughts.’

Bruce did not push her to divulge in what kind. He never did. He knew her well enough to understand that sometimes, silence was safer, preferred. 

Instead, he pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there for a moment before pulling her impossibly closer. ‘Get some rest. I'm right here.’

But that was the problem he was blind to; he was here. She could not convince her mind to rest when there was the impending, almost certain possibility that he would leave again, that a time was coming when he would not be around; when he would not be anywhere.

But for now, he was right; he was here. He was with her when this night was still, when the city outside could wait. But Y/N knew, deep down, that the nights like these were borrowed moments, fleeting and precious. They existed in the spaces between his concealed duty and sacrifice, in the hours when he let himself be nothing more than a man who loved her.

She did not ask him to stay awake with her. She did not ask him about the bruises forming on his frame. She simply closed her eyes and let the sound of his heartbeat lull her back to sleep.

Morning came with a soft glow of dawn seeping through the sheer curtains; it cast a golden hue over their space and a warm, rouge gleam through her closed eyelids. Bruce was already awake, as he often was, standing by the window with a cup of coffee in hand. He was bare from the waist up, the morning light tracing the contours of his back and highlighting the scars that stood scattered across his physique.

Y/N opened her eyes and watched him for a moment, drinking in the quiet beauty before her. Though, eventually, she was compelled to speak. 

‘What catches your eye?’ Y/N got up from their bed and moved to stand behind him. She looked past him to the sprawling murk of the Gotham City skyline, the view that held his gaze. She draped her arms around his waist and rested her chin upon his shoulder.

His head tilted ever so slightly in responce, until his cheek made light contact with her forehead. She could feel the smile that played at the corners of his lips. ‘This city… It never sleeps.’

‘Neither do you,’ she murmured sardonically, shifting so her face nuzzled into the base of his throat. 

‘You should, Bruce. You need to.’ He felt her words hum against his skin.

He said nothing, taking another slow sip of his coffee. He yearned to explain, to tell her why he was always unaccounted for, he felt the words swell at the edge of his tongue; he swallowed them back, and they burned in their descent. Y/N sighed, she sensed his hesitation, his unwillingness to speak, to disclose his worries. She gently pushed away and returned to the bed to sit amongst the ruffled sheets. 

‘Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we left? If we went somewhere far away, at least for a little while?’ Y/N did not know everything, but she knew this: it was Gotham that kept him tethered here. 

She did not know why that was; she could not understand it. Was he clinging to the memory of his parents taken too soon? She stared begrudgingly at the Metropolitan cesspool before her and concluded that must be the case; she could not see why else he would want to stay. There was beauty here; Y/N was not blind to it, she saw the Gothic architecture, the intricate ironwork and the towering cathedrals. There was beauty in its darkness, haunted yet elegant. 

But Gotham’s old-world charm stood in vast juxtaposition to its modern decay; the underbelly was a twisted mirage of its grandeur. Every crevice held murmurs of brutality and corruption, from alleyways to corporations. In Gotham, shadows were not merely cast by the towering buildings but by the weight of its crime, greed, and betrayal. Murk clung to its surfaces like a second skin, and the light, if it ever shone through, felt fleeting.

Bruce turned to face her fully, leaning against the windowsill; his face contorted, if she did not know him better, she would have thought he was in pain. 

‘I can’t.’

‘I know,’ she whispered, nodding slightly. ‘But I wish you could.’

He strode over, set his coffee down on the bedside table and sunk into the mattress beside her. His hands found her face, thumbs grazing her cheekbones as he studied her, his eyes unreadable. 

‘Would you? Leave Gotham? Leave all this?’

She swallowed. ‘I would be leaving something behind, something I couldn’t live without.’

Bruce knew she spoke of him; he considered this fact, felt the way it twisted his stomach and burnt like acid in his throat. She would be better off without him, safer. Maybe he should send her away; she should live in sunlight, not his shadow. Instead, he pulled her to him, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that spoke of everything he left unsaid, everything he kept shrouded behind his distasteful second life. Y/N melted into it, her fingers threading through his hair, anchoring herself to this sporadic moment.

Then he pulled away, his forehead resting against hers. ‘I can’t leave. Just know that I love you. That, I’m sure of.’

And for now, it was enough.

There were nights when the world felt too heavy, when the weight of his self-inflicted responsibility bore down upon him until he was engulfed by it, until it pulled him under. These were the times when he came to her in the dead of night, his body weary, his hands unsteady as they reached for her, craving her embrace.

She never asked where he had been. She never asked why his knuckles were raw. She never asked why an affliction lingered behind his gaze, a torment that refused to leave. Instead, she took him in, let him press his forehead against her shoulder, let him expel his unspoken burdens into the quiet space between them.

‘I hate this city,’ he once confessed, voice muffled against her skin. ‘I hate what it does to people. What it does to me.’

She carded her fingers through his dark hair, a soothing motion meant to ease the tension in his shoulders. His declaration had stunned her, he never spoke of these worries, never gave too much away.

‘Then leave.’ She tried to keep her tone light, unburdened. 

He let out a hollow laugh. ‘You know I can’t.'

‘I know,’ she whispered. But the truth was, she did not know; she did not understand.

Bruce lifted his head and searched her face as if trying to memorise it, commit it to his memory. 

‘I don't want to lose you.’

‘Then don’t,’ she whispered, a smile turning her lips as her fingers continued to pass through his hair. ‘Stay. At least for tonight. Stay for me; I’m not going anywhere, you know?’

They perpetually followed the same cycle: love, longing, and the insatiable pull of his unwavering, cumbersome duty. The few, yet treasured, nights they spent wrapped in each other’s arms, the stolen kisses in the dimly lit atrium of Wayne Manor, the whispered exchanges in the wake of the morning.

And then there were the other nights, the dreaded junctures. The ones where she woke to find the space beside her cold, sheets untouched. The vestige of his presence an aching reminder of the life he led, the life she was not acquainted with.

She told herself she could live with it. That as long as he came back to her, she could endure the waiting, the worrying, the never-ceasing fear that one day, he would not return at all, that he would be reduced to a memory, a phantasm of her past.

Though deep within her, Y/N knew. She knew that love and hope alone could not fix the fractures and fissures forming between them. That try as she might, one day, the burden of it all would become too much, and it would crumble under the pressure.

However, in the fleeting moments of his caress, she could not allow herself to fret this fact. She pressed herself even closer, savouring the way his arm tightened around her waist in his sleep, how his breath fanned, warm against her neck.

For now, she would seize these tranquil moments. The transient seconds in which the world outside ceased to exist, where Bruce was merely Bruce, and she was simply the woman he loved.

Because Y/N knew that, when all was said and done, the night would beckon him once more and draw him from her grasp.

Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

[recareels]

take it slow just as fast as i can

character: boothill notes: i just rly, genuinely think boothill would be obsessed with feeling every fucking inch of you, that’s all c: | title credit: body like a back road by sam hunt warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, thinly veiled body worship, mentions of scars + implied stretch marks and cellulite, marking (biting and bruising), implied multiple orgasms, tiny bit of angst right at the end words: 830

boothill knows your body better than he knows anything else in the cosmos. 

boothill knows your body better than he knows his own—better than he knows his scorched, excavated homeland, better than he knows the smooth metal ripples and ridges, cold curves and contours of his own so called ‘body’, better than he knows his cherished 9mm revolver—the ivory grip, pretty pearlescent nacre shimmering up at him delicately from between the gaps of mechanized fingers, stamped with that gilded eagle sigil; the artfully notched cylinder, embossed with decorative arrows—six, one for each chamber—and the angular hammer, piped with shimmering aureate; the golden barrel, intricate inclinations carved to sharp, exquisite perfection. 

boothill knows every curve, every dip, every edge of your form—all of your lines and dimples and scars, and could map them out with his eyes closed and recite each corresponding story: a single metallic fingertip tracing along the jagged strikes of silver etched into your skin; his hard thumbprint pressing into the dents peppering your thighs, a cool knuckle skimming over that scar on your knee. 

and boothill loves appreciating them, appreciating you, appreciating how it all comes together to create one of the most magnificent masterpieces he’s ever had the pleasure of touching, the privilege of loving. 

it’s become somewhat of a ritual now to take his sweet time admiring your figure before he fucks it, feeling every part of you plush and pliant beneath his grooved palms, revelling in the soft gasps that stutter your chest and dainty shivers that ripple your flesh as he kneads it. 

he fills his touch with it, grabs healthy handfuls and squeezes—so soft, so supple—alternating between harsh groping, iron fingers sinking into your thighs, your hips, your tits, and gentle caressing, bullseye gaze watching with sheer wonderment as his palms glide over your silhouette, slick lips parted and damp with panted breath.

sometimes he’ll just let his hand rest on your ribs, observing the way it rises and falls with each of your quiet breaths, feeling oxygen expand your lungs as it flows in, then feeling your chest depress with every exhale pushed up your throat. 

he loves to experience the thrum of your pulse beneath his fingertips—nothing more than a faint fluttering pressure against his receptors, but present nonetheless—an undeniable confirmation that you are indeed here, alive, his. 

so beautiful, he murmurs from between your thighs, one large hand pressed flush against your heart, his chin resting on your stomach. a work of fudgin’ art, baby, I swear to the stars. 

it all gets him going so goddamn easily, instils a hunger in him so ferocious that it chews on his wires, zipping through the cables in sparks of desire until it devours his brain, gorges every thought and notion until all he can conceive, all he needs, is you. 

he can’t help but lick and kiss and bite and suck, desperate to leave his own impermanent marks on this gorgeous canvas. bruises blossom in the shapes of his fingerprints, sprouted in clusters of five across your form. engravings of razored teeth litter your thighs and hips, his gnawing just a hint shy of too strong, leaving behind wide crescents of thirty-two little crimson pinpricks. petals of thick saliva dry hard and stiff on your stomach and neck and collarbone, planted into your skin by puckered lips and chaste kisses.

it’s customary that he murmur sweet nothings into every claim he creates, knowing that his words will seep into your tissues in the form of gentle vibrations, knowing that they will stay, even after his marks fade.

your body is art, too, you tell him softly, after he’s made you cum several times on his cock, iron shimmering with a thick coat of your arousal, slick he refuses to clean off. a tender finger traces along the tears laden across his torso, rough and saw-toothed—scars he refuses to let heal. 

no, he murmurs, rubbing his mouth into your shoulder as he speaks, eyes closing briefly with a slow, deep inhale. not the way yours is. 

your body is a storybook of your life, inscribed with tales and memories—the way your body developed as you entered womanhood, too quick for your delicate skin to keep up with, procuring shimmering streaks across your breasts and bum; the time you flipped your childhood bicycle, kneecaps scraping concrete, bloody and raw; that dark dash seared along your inner arm, a constant reminder of an earnest mistake, when you accidentally nudged the rim of a pot filled with boiling water. 

his body was carved in a lab, too precise to be real, too perfect to be human, constantly torn apart and put back together; rearranged, scrambled, chock full of modifications he never asked for, never agreed to. a true horror story—a weapon of death and destruction, a film of inevitable demise clinging to the metal.

he fears that’s all it ever will be. 

[circledemptiness]

Gotham Kink Alphabet – C is for Cunnilingus

Pairing: Harvey Dent (Two-Face) x Reader (M/F) Rating: Explicit +18 Tags: Cunnilingus (oral sex), situationship

✦ Read on AO3 ✦ Full Alphabet

Someone rings the doorbell. You don’t have to wonder who it is. When it’s this late at night, when there’s no warning; it's always them. Or rather, one of them. Usually, the one who cares less about your boundaries and more about his own selfish needs.

✦ Come vote for the next prompt!

Someone rings the doorbell. You don’t have to wonder who it is.

When it’s this late at night, when there’s no warning; it's always them. Or rather, one of them. Usually, the one who cares less about your boundaries and more about his own selfish needs.

You groan, dragging yourself out of your warm, comfortable bed that you already miss, and shuffle across your apartment, yawning loudly. Before opening the door, you catch a glimpse of your reflection: messy hair, old pajamas, a tired face… Yeah, very seductive. He won’t mind. The other one, though…

But you don’t have time to dwell on it. Not when the doorbell rings again, more insistent this time.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" you ask them.

Them being Harvey Dent. Or Two-Face.

You made the mistake of bringing them home once, after a night at the bar. They’ve never really left you alone since. Showing up whenever they feel like it, inviting you on last-minute dates, even demanding you ditch work just because they need a distraction.

Not that you mind. Well… not all the time anyway.

It’s always a coin toss with them.

If you're lucky, Harvey brings you flowers, takes you to nice restaurants, compliments your new dress.

If you're not, you barely get a hello before you're bent over the table, a scarred hand roaming over your body possessively.

Not that you complain. Well… not all the time anyway.

They look polished tonight, as they always do, ever the creatures of the night.

Though they never agree on what to wear, the result is always the same; a suit torn and stitched in two halves. One side, dark and elegant. The other, white satin with golden embroidery. Mismatched, yet always expensive. They have standards.

Maybe that’s why they only visit you at night. When no one can see the simple girl that you are.

Harvey always reminds you how charming you are. The anchor of normalcy in his life, your presence a comfort he clings to.

The other one, though… usually has more degrading words, especially once he’s balls deep inside you.

Not that you complain.

Well…

They look you up and down, an amused smile curling on the intact half of their lips. Then, Harvey’s voice; calm, collected, tender.

“I’m sorry, little bird. Long day.”

That’s all the explanation you’ll get. It always is. They never share details about their days, about what they do exactly. You prefer it that way, frankly. You’d rather listen to their sweet words, instead of whatever shady business they are dealing with.

And when they cup your face, pressing a kiss to your cheek, you welcome them inside.

A strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling your back flush against them. The soft skin of Harvey’s clean-shaven cheek brushes yours, warm lips grazing your ear. You shiver, a pleasant sensation churning in your stomach.

"I’ve missed you," Harvey murmurs, and you sigh softly.

He’s always had a way with words; knowing exactly what to say, when to say it, how to coax you into anything, really. You suppose it’s a ghost of his past, the last remnants of a career built on persuasion and charm.

But then, scarred flesh presses against the other side of your face. Cruel teeth nip at your pulse point, and a ragged, throaty voice follows, sending shivers down your spine.

"We’ve been thinking about you all day."

The grip around your waist tightens, firm and possessive, pulling you so close you can feel the heat of their body, their length already hardening. Why else would they be here.

You never minded their appearance much. Not the ruined, gnarled flesh, rough and leathery beneath your touch. Not the cursed eye; black where it should be white, its iris burning like fire. Not even the half-exposed jaw, the tendons, bones and muscle bared for the world to see.

Not even the occasional drooling. Inevitable when missing half their face.

Warm saliva drips lazily down your neck as dry teeth nibble, graze, and ghost over the column of your throat; his own way of kissing.

You raise a tentative hand, never quite sure if he welcomes the touch against their ruined face. So instead, you caress the other side. The one that’s smooth, whole, alive beneath your fingertips.

They purr, a sound both ragged and tender, as if pulled from two separate throats. It vibrates through your bones, settling deep in your core.

And then, rough, impatient fingers slip beneath the elastic band of your pajamas. You sigh, eyes already rolling behind your heavy eyelids, your hips rocking softly to meet the rough fingers cupping your naked sex.

“Already worked up, little bird? Dripping wet like a whore.”

Harsh finger pads caress between your folds, your slick coating the leathery digits as they explore your warmth, rub your swollen clit, tease your hole without breaching it. 

You squirm in their embrace, a soft voice shushing you. Gentle, almost soothing, in stark contrast to the impatience of their heated touch.

Small gasps and sighs spill from your lips, your eyelids fluttering shut. But the late hour drapes over you like a heavy veil, and before you can stop it, a yawn escapes.

A low, melodious chuckle rumbles behind you.

“Are you sleepy? Are we bothering you?” There’s a playful lilt in their voice, but you catch the edge of frustration behind the ragged tone.

“It is late, Harvey…” you murmur between soft, broken moans as ruined fingers probe at your entrance, teasing the tender flesh in a way that makes your legs buck against the cursed touch.

A sharp bite sinks into your neck, cruel teeth dragging a pained yelp from your throat. Then, just as swiftly, their fingers are gone. Before you can shoot them a glare, a bruising grip closes around your wrist. You barely have time to stumble before they’re dragging you toward the bedroom.

Patience has never been his virtue. Refusal even less so.

So you follow, letting him manhandle you onto the bed, unceremonious, insistent.

They’re on you in an instant, towering over you, their broad frame casting heavy shadows across the dimly lit room. The vest of their suit hits the floor. Sleeves roll up with slow, deliberate movements. Their eyes never leave you. Dark, hungry, burning with intent.

Oh. It’s going to be one of those nights, then.

A large but soft hand removes your pajama top, their mouth capturing your breast greedily; suckling, lapping at the flushed nubs, kissing and nibbling the soft yielding flesh. All the while, a leathery hand tugs at your bottoms. Nearly tears them apart, really. Immediately, scarred fingers find your folds, the touch rough, impatient. You mewl, rolling your hips, looking at his split face through half lidded eyes. 

When you tentatively cup their face, a soft hand wraps around your wrist, pressing gentle kisses to your knuckles.

“Why don’t you lay down and enjoy yourself, little bird? Been thinking of your pretty cunt all day.”

The mix of tenderness and harshness in their voice is always destabilizing. But you’ve grown accustomed to it; grown accustomed to them. Both of them.

With a shy nod and a soft smile, you rest your head on the still-warm pillow, focusing instead on the passionate touch between your legs and the tender caress of their lips along the column of your throat.

Their tongue burns as it trails down your form, flicking over your hardened nub, a string of saliva pooling from where their mouth is falling apart. Harvey sighs, the intact eyelid of his droopy eye half-closed in delight, while Two's hand traces maddening patterns on your swollen pearl, drawing high-pitched moans from your parted lips.

Their mouth trails kisses over your stomach, their hunched form slipping down the bed to kneel reverently at its foot. There’s a glimmer in their eyes– both of them, mismatched in color but equally intense, as their hands grasp your thighs. One is tender and soft, the other scarred, hot to the touch.

They caress your naked skin, their touch drawing soft gasps and pleasurable hums from your throat.

But the tender moments never last with them. It’s always the wilder beast within that wins out. Though, they sometimes bicker with each other, as if competing with themselves, switching their pace and approach without any warning.

So when you feel the flat of their tongue pressing firm against your slit, you yelp in surprise. You hear a ragged chuckle between your legs, followed by a deep hum.

“Give us more of those pretty sounds, doll.”

Their tongue laps at your slit hungrily, the tip spreading your folds before it flickers against your sensitive pearl. The way they devour you feels as if two very distinct people are pleasing you simultaneously. One forceful and passionate, the other teasing and deliberate.

It’s Harvey who kisses your swollen folds before breaching your shy opening with his tongue; but it’s Two who suckles harshly on your clit before swallowing and pulling on your small lips.

You thrash on the mattress, bucking your hips against their face, hands fisting the sheets as staccato, relentless moans spill freely from your exhausted throat. The sensations are unlike anything you've ever felt before; the gnarly skin rubbing against your inner thigh, the cruel bone of their teeth grazing against your slit each time their tongue sinks deep inside your hole, their mismatched gaze looking at you with an inhuman hunger. 

“You taste so perfect, little bird” their voice is laced with barely concealed desire, half muffled between your legs before they return to their work, humming deeply as their lips wrap around your pearl. A fierce tension builds behind your navel, pleasure escalating quickly each time their tongue traces lazy shapes over your open slit. 

When the pleasure grows too intense to form coherent pleas, you buck your hips desperately against their face, your hands tugging at their mismatched hair –dark brown and dirty silver– forcing them deeper into your cunt.

They chuckle darkly, using both hands to grip the back of your thighs, holding you in place as they dive in again. It’s only when they plunge their tongue deep inside your throbbing hole, working their jaw open to swallow your glistening arousal while their nose rubs against your clit that your orgasm explodes.

You scream. Loud, ragged, your body thrashing on the mattress as you beg them to stop, the overstimulation both delicious and painful. Their movements slow until they pause, panting heavily between your legs, their hands gently caressing the soft skin of your thighs.

They press a final, tender kiss to your folds, trailing upward to your soft curls, then your navel, finally reaching your cheek as they crawl back on top of you.

But you know they’re not done.

They have twice the appetite of any man. And they are starving.

[noctunis]

whispers left in your shape | 1.5k words .

arthur feels your stare prickle at the pores in his forehead.

you’re warm. your hands on his face, the delicacy of which your hands move is all too known to arthur, as the tender gesture bleeds into his skin and into the wrinkles of his brain, seeping until it’s all he can think of.

your thumbs press into the bridge of his nose, right beneath his forehead, palms cupping his face, scratched by the stubble. they’re warm, a bit calloused, still somehow soft despite your constant handling of a gun. its clutched when you’re on watch, held tightly beneath the pillow and the cot, he’s sure you’d even cuddle it to sleep if needed be. a jumpy thing you are, he thinks.

massaging his temples gently, the pads of your fingers trail upwards, rubbing soothing circles against his temples. his eyes flutter at the slight pressure, brows pinched — your lips press together fondly at the sight.

your caress is gentle, slow; and from the instant relief he feels, arthur can tell it’s working with the way your fingertips smooth along his skin. 

“y’know,” he starts, a tired sigh slipping through his lips. “this ain’t necessary,” he tries to reason, looking up at you through thick, dark lashes.

you hum, fingers not pausing in their ministrations. “don’t think i haven’t seen you walking around with that scrunched up face of yours,” a finger taps at his cheek. “i’m sure all that work wears you down. this’ll do you some good,” you mutter under your breath.

arthur huffs, with a low grumble of, “whatever you say.”

a low hum buzzes in his throat, his head shifting in your lap — sunkissed with the way golden beams bleed into his tent through the sliver between the thin flaps, his scars and creases bared for all to see in the light.

horses slowing at the edge of camp, hooves soft against the dirt with a campfire welcoming ahead, threading through the golden hush that surrounded camp — the two of you worn down from a stagecoach robbery you’d had went on with bill. the inside of arthur’s skull was tormented by a persistent ache when you two had gotten home, you blinking with fatigue alongside him — though you still insisted on doing this. it took about a hundred times of you offering for him to finally accept, though.

lying him down on your lap, a hooded, green eye peeking open every once in a while; the back of his head finding respite on your thigh, hair mussed against your chaps. comfy, nonetheless.

“you’re, uh,” he clears his throat. you feel him swallow, feel the way the muscles in his face twitch beneath your hand. “you’re not half-bad at this, though.”

your laughter breaks the delicate quiet, save for the distant chatter of other people around camp. he follows with a huff at your amusement. “that’s nice to hear,” you say.

“y’sure you ain’t done this before?” he asks, softer, like it’s finally starting to kick in.

a pause in your fingers and a hum in thought, before you shrug although you know he can’t see it. “maybe for karen once or twice — nothing like this, i suppose.”

he wonders why you said that last bit. he ignores the heavy feeling that sits inside his chest and mumbles something incoherent in acknowledgement.

your thumbs press a little harder on the arch of his eyebrows, enough pressure to coax a small grunt from out his throat, a tiny spark of pain blooming between his sinuses. you suck in air through your teeth and murmur an apology, to which he cracks a smile at.

“spoke too soon,” he mutters.

“oh, hush,” you say, giving his cheek a pinch. arthur swats at it lazily, peeking an eye open to look up at you. he’s met with a crooked grin peering down at him; soft, mirthful. the sweetest sigh.

hooded eyes train on the way you scan his face, fingers still rubbing soothing circles on his skin. a soft groan slips from out his parted lips when you push against a certain spot — like a hand on a bruise.

somehow, even on the brink of exhaustion, your fingers still move in a rhythm that he can’t help but be captivated by.

such softness, arthur thinks. such goodness trapped within your palms, tenderness. you’re too sweet for your own good — he’s sure he’d find you in camp one day, stained fingers and dirt smeared across your cheek with an orange, and he’s sure you’d save him one as well; all melted and squishy and full of twenty degree promise. he notices you let yourself indulge in any form of sweetness, no matter how minuscule.

arthur’s sure you would invite him to sit alongside you. he’s not sure he’d be able to turn you away.

a tired sigh makes his way from past his lips, your brows furrow at the quiet sound — hands still massaging around his face. heat blossoms against the apples of his cheeks when he opens his eyes again, and if you notice, he’s at least thankful you don’t point it out.

you do, however, glance down at him and flash him a small smile. his eyes dart everywhere but your face for a bit, until you give a little, “hi, arthur.”

he nods a bit, a small noise. this feeling’s unfamiliar and he swears it’ll gnaw at him forever if he lets it. if he lets you. for arthur, only damnation is known through the balls of your fists — not comfort.

you only chuckle, cupping his cheeks and continuing to apply pressure on his forehead and nose, unbothered by all the grime that’s layered over it.

he can feel his heart pump a little louder. he clears his throat, taps your leg a bit before sitting himself up. your hands halt and move away. the warmth is quickly replaced by the cold breeze he feels accompanies him, his longing hidden in permafrost.

“i’d better get going,” he hoists himself off your cot, groaning at the ache in his bones but he does notice the pressure in his head’s somewhat relieved. “probably have stuff to do before the day’s over.”

his hands rest on his belt awkwardly, watching the way your face morphs into a confused shock. your lips silently part before you stammer out, “oh— oh, that’s fine! jus’ let me know if you ever wanna come back in here then,” you nod quickly.

arthur nods in response, tipping down the brim of his hat as he leaves, covering his face even further as he’s faced with the bright light of the day and the ambience of camp suddenly growing louder.

much to his dismay, sadie eyes him walking out of your tent, cheeks a bit flushed and all. she grins, leaning against a tree. “too much for you to handle, morgan?”

he waves her off with a grumble and continues making his way over to the campfire, boots against fresh grass, soft crunches beneath his feet. she chuckles to herself, shaking her head and walking away.

and the day goes on, arthur occupying himself with either giving john shit or helping out charles — he’ll glance around camp, maybe to see where you are. maybe not. he’s not sure he’d even know himself.

the sun sets eventually, the noise in camp slowly dwindling until the moon has pulled itself into the night sky above you and only the chirps of crickets and various other bugs fill the silence.

he wishes a good night to uncle and sean who still sit dormant around the campfire, occasionally telling stories just to rid themselves of the odd quiet. stuffing his hands in his pocket, he begins walking over to his tent, taking one last glance at the closed flaps of your own before settling down onto his cot, a dull ache ringing in his bones once his body’s finally gotten a break.

maybe you’re right, he thinks; about working too hard and all that. not that it matters much anyway, he tells himself and yet he still seems to think about it.

in the meantime, arthur feels he has to make room — push his daydreams aside and let practicality eat the sides of him people don’t look past; and somehow, he still reaches for his satchel and unclasps the journal where ivory pages splay open and he is met with a blank page.

his hand grips onto the pencil, wondering what he could write. he taps it against his paper, and then looks over at the tent (your tent, he might add) ahead of him watching as you come out with your gun and settle in for the night, watching over the camp as you stay on the outskirts. something you told him you did often when you couldn’t sleep.

arthur shakes his head. goodness won’t just happen to him. he knows. he still can’t help but want to try.

looking back down on the page before it feels like the graphite is etched into the paper already, his hand is just helping it.

“a strange woman, she is,” is all he can manage to write down.

taglist ; no one yet! starting clean slate with rdr2 . comment to join ! !

requests are open — june twenty-first, 2025

[repairheartzz]

what if there was a mark x reader….. with the love loyalty and in-syncness of the wonder Greek mythological couple Odysseus and Penelope? Mark’s out saving the world—hell, the galaxy at times, and we’re always waiting patiently for him, just as he always is thinking of us as he’s away.

awhh I love thinking about this dynamic with mark it’s so in character!!

•AH YES 🙂‍↕️

•This is so creative !!!!!!! I love Odysseus and Penelope dynamic, so like I reimagined that with Mark Grayson (Invincible) and a female reader in a modern/sci-fi twist. This will lean into emotion, loyalty, longing, and reunion — much like Odysseus and Penelope, but in the Invincible universe 💋.

•this has 4 chapters and it's a bit short tehhe 🫠

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Title: "Across the Stars, I Waited for You"

Setting: Years after the Viltrumite War. You and Mark had been together before he left for a distant galaxy with Allen. You stayed on Earth—waiting, defending, surviving. Everyone told you to move on. You never did.(I made that shit up)

---

Part I: The Departure

Mark had kissed you one last time on the rooftop, your fingers tangled in the fabric of his suit, knuckles white. His forehead had pressed to yours.

"I’ll come back," he promised, his voice raw with emotion. "No matter how far I go. No matter how long it takes."

You smiled through tears. "And I’ll be here when you do."

Then he was gone—vanishing into the sky like a comet. Just like that, you were alone.

---

Part II: The Waiting

The days bled into weeks. The weeks into years. News from the Coalition was scattered, fragmented. Messages from Mark came less and less frequently as he plunged deeper into the war effort across galaxies.

People moved on. Eve rebuilt. Debbie tried to be strong. Nolan sent word from time to time. But you?

You stayed.

Your apartment became a quiet vigil. You never dated. Not once. Suitors came—some were charming, some were kind, some were persistent—but your heart had already been claimed by a boy who flew into the stars.

You kept your mind busy. Studying alien tech, working with Cecil, training. But every night before bed, you sat on the rooftop where you last saw him, scanning the sky for a blur of gold and blue.

People whispered. Said you were foolish. Said he was dead.

You never believed them.

---

Part III: The Return

It was nearly midnight when the sky split open.

You were sipping coffee on the rooftop when you saw the flash—a blue streak, like a meteor breaking the atmosphere.

You stood slowly, heart pounding.

No. It couldn’t be.

But then you heard it—that sound—a sonic boom, followed by the flutter of a cape. And when you turned, he was there.

Mark.

Older. Tired. Scarred. But his eyes—those soft brown eyes—were exactly the same.

Your mug slipped from your hand and shattered on the rooftop.

You didn’t speak.

He crossed the space between you slowly, cautiously, almost reverently.

"You waited for me," he whispered, voice cracking.

"You said you’d come back," you answered, tears falling freely now. "I trusted you."

He dropped to his knees in front of you, resting his forehead against your belly like a prayer. You tangled your fingers in his hair, trembling.

"I thought of you every second," he murmured. "You were the only thing that kept me going."

---

Part IV: The Reunion

That night, you didn’t sleep.

You lay together in bed, limbs tangled, breath mingling.

Mark traced the curve of your face like he was memorizing it. You held him like you were trying to remind him he was home.

He told you stories—of planets he liberated, horrors he witnessed, the friends he lost. You told him about Earth—how it changed, how you changed.

But through it all, the golden thread remained: you waited. He returned.

When he kissed you again, it wasn’t rushed or frantic—it was slow, sacred, as if time had stopped just to give you this moment.

"I love you," he said into your skin. "I never stopped."

"You never had to say it," you replied. "I always knew."

---

Final Line: And somewhere in the distance, beneath the bruised-purple sky, the stars blinked softly—witnesses to a promise kept.

Fin

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Author's notes: how'd you like it 🧚🏻‍♀️ I did my best, I was in a hurry writing this hope it sounds like what you imagined.