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hcneymooners · 2 months ago

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౨ৎ stargirl interlude: chapter iii.

wnba!paige x pop star!azzi. men & minors dni.

⋆ 🪩 masterlist.

cw: implied familial issues, fluff, first kiss, medium burn?, suggestive content, paige is never beating the down bad allegations, implied mental health issues.

notes: hello, hello. this is one of my favorite chapters. the songs used are "tinsletown in the rain" by the blue nile and "78fahrenheit (unreleased)" by ethel cain. i hope you enjoy yourselves. love you. can't wait to see you in my inbox.

III: INTERTWINED.

» please don’t break up with me, but i accidentally watched two episodes ahead of you

azzi smiled as her phone vibrated with an immediate response. since their dinner, there had been coffee. then another. and then another. another, another, another—until the cups blurred together, indistinguishable from habit. paige was so easy to slip into her life. a stone in the creek, changing the flow of water without trying.

azzi wished she could have kept her in new york forever, tucked her inside a pocket, but paige had to go back to dallas, a reality that nearly tore her apart. distance became a thing to work around.

they read the same books (paige used her ipad, which azzi found vaguely offensive—she was on a quiet, private campaign to convert her to a kindle). they made each other playlists, exchanged photos of their separate days. street signs, sky colors, the shine of oil on the concrete beneath their identically booted feet. this reminded me of you.

azzi had even mailed paige a dark denim jacket she spotted in a boutique window in the east village. paige washed it immediately, wore it out the next day, prompting the internet to go feral trying to find the designer.

they had inside jokes now. a growing, shifting list of them. one of azzi’s favorites: “please don’t break up with me,” a melodramatic phrase they’d stolen from a book and used whenever one of them committed an unforgivable offense, like finishing a show too soon or forgetting to send a good morning text.

the light ping of another message brought azzi back to the moment.

» i’m never speaking to you again » wait which show?

watching things together was their ritual. the old-fashioned way: facetiming at the same time, counting down, pressing play in sync. there were easier ways to do it, probably, but azzi liked the effort of this. the reaching. it made her feel like she was participating in her own life, actively choosing it.

» chef’s table

azzi held her breath as she sent it.

» i can’t believe you, az!! » p, i fell asleep i swear it wasn’t on purpose. rehearsal was brutal and i went straight after the studio » the show is really calming and i was so sleepy from the warm shower » idc you KNEW

then,

» mind you, YOU crashed out over ME watching FITEEN MINUTES of anthony bourdain

azzi pressed her lips together, failing to contain the joyous twist of her mouth. the grin eventually broke free and spread through her cheeks. she tucked her hair behind her ear.

» that was different » bro, how????? » whatever! look, p, i can rewatch! i don’t mind, you know i don’t » … » i’ll consider it

with a soft huff of laughter, azzi rolled out of bed and opened her blinds. her joy seemed infectious, coaxing the sun through the open pane of her window. she stood in the middle of her bedroom for approximately three minutes, her feet bare against the wooden floor and one arm up and stroking the hill of her shoulder.

she felt both unreasonably young and, in some absurd way, already old in the faint light of the morning. she looked down at herself, taking in the wrinkled pink-striped boxers and the vintage yale sweatshirt that seemed to have settled around her with a tired resignation. she remembered when she'd wanted to go there, when her mother had taken her on a visit, the two of them wandering new haven, pretending it could be a future. the thought hurt, brief but sharp. she couldn’t remember the last time she and katie had been…right, together.

her phone buzzed—a quick, familiar pattern. katie.

azzi twisted her hair into a messy knot at the back of her neck, securing it with an elastic, and lowered herself into a half-hearted yoga pose. three more buzzes. then, the phone would ring.

azzi sat cross-legged beside her bed, feet pressing into the floor like she was willing herself to grow roots. she picked up the phone.

“hey, mom.”

“hey, honey. were you in the shower?”

“azzi’s face scrunched as she lied, a gesture so automatic it felt like a tic. “um, no, just doing some stretches. i started wearing earplugs to block out the morning traffic. sorry. what’s up?”

“you shouldn’t do that, baby,” katie said, that casual tone that still landed like a reminder. “look, i’m outside your apartment. brought breakfast.”

azzi almost groaned but swallowed it, layering her voice with fake enthusiasm. “yum,” she said, but it came out flat before lifting just enough at the end to sound like a decent person.

⟡

her mother had gotten a haircut.

katie’s blonde hair had been cut into a sharp bob, and azzi noticed it immediately. it suited her, the kind of sharp, neat cut that was popular on magazine covers in the coffee shop she liked to frequent. azzi felt a small pang of something—resentment, maybe, or just recognition that katie was doing things for herself again, things azzi couldn’t quite figure out how to do.

still—she was glad her mother was finding things to do outside of managing her. thanks, max, she thought.

she opened the door still in her pajamas, and katie was standing there, two large boxes of breakfast from the diner a few blocks away, the coffee holder hanging from her hand like a prop. katie didn’t say anything, just gave her the kind of look that azzi couldn’t place but that made her chest feel tight. azzi leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her mother’s plump cheek, the skin softened by her morning creams and serums.

azzi wandered into the kitchen, pressing her finger against the surface of her rose gold ipad, searching for the song paige had sent her a few days ago. she’d been meaning to listen to it, had actually enjoyed it when she did.

she found it—‘mythological beauty’ by big thief. paige had sent it to her with the message:

» idk why spotify recommended this to me, seems more up your alley » discover weekly my ass, half of these songs suck

azzi had hidden a smile behind her hand while standing in line to pick up that night’s pizza order. she’d texted back teasingly, saying,

» this may be a sign to let go of drake » i ain’t holding on to him

azzi hadn’t replied until later, sending back a grainy video shot on her old iphone se, its shaky camera making her look soft-focus. she was sitting on her bed, a sage-colored silk scarf holding back her curls, listening to the song. the video ended with an awkward thumbs-up and a muffled giggle. “i love it,” she said, like it was a confession.

now, azzi snapped a photo of the song on the tablet and sent it to paige.

» miss you

“azzi?”

azzi turned around, startled by the sound of her mother’s voice.

“yeah, sorry. what were you saying?”

katie, looking shy, busied herself unpacking the breakfast boxes, rearranging food on pale green plates with hand-painted garlands of pink roses.

“i was saying that, well, i miss you.”

azzi didn’t know what to say to that. “oh,” she said, and immediately regretted it, as if the word had been a reflex she hadn’t meant to expose.

katie’s posture deflated, and azzi rushed over, sidling up to where her mother had begun cutting up the eggs into neat squares. she grabbed a plate and began assembling breakfast, the rhythm of the task comforting, familiar. she pulled away to grab glasses from the cabinets.

“you know, i was thinking about our yale visit when i was obsessed with going.”

katie looked up, eyes softening. “i remember.”

azzi half-smiled. “i wouldn’t stop playing that song, and you were so close to kicking me out of the car. i can’t remember the song, though.”

katie’s lips curved into a fond smile. “'need you now' by lady a. you played it on repeat because you were convinced you could sing it better than they could.”

azzi laughed then. she sat on a stool at the counter, the ache of the morning light catching her in its awkward glow as she ate, chewing slowly, mindlessly.

“why the hell was i so obsessed with yale anyway?”

“honestly? i think you saw it as your last shot at normal. you could dream about college, like the other girls, instead of being in the studio all the time, surrounded by everyone except your family. you were twelve when you got discovered, fourteen when you had your first album out. and now you're twenty-three, still trying to figure out what the hell you're doing.”

azzi didn’t say anything, but the words settled in her chest like something unexpected. there was a relief in it, in hearing it out loud, in realizing that, maybe, they weren’t as different as they sometimes seemed.

“i guess i fed into it because i felt guilty,” katie added softly, almost to herself.

once again, azzi was unsure of how to respond, but she felt it—the weight of that invisible truth that had always sat between them. she felt herself relax, the air clearing just enough for her to breathe a little easier.

“maybe i should release a country album,” azzi said, and katie barked out a laugh, sharp and familiar.

if azzi didn’t know better, she might’ve thought the sound was her own.

⟡

but azzi’s largest issue remained: she was unable to be content for long periods.

happiness came, stayed long enough to fool her, then drained away in increments. moreso now, as she slogged through the laying of the bones of her new album. she found herself withdrawing.

since that morning with her mother, it had gotten easier to admit to minor irritations, the small inconveniences of daily life. but there were still things she kept to herself. like how badly she wanted paige back in new york.

their movie nights had transitioned from ‘facetime + film’ to just ‘facetime.’ azzi hadn’t asked for it outright. she had just postponed pressing play, filling the space instead with long, looping stories, tangents about nothing, stalling without meaning to. eventually, paige caught on. and being paige—being someone who never let anything slide—she finally said,

“if you wanna talk to me, just say that.”

azzi looked up from her desk. she’d started handwriting songs again, her moleskine journal thick and inflamed, its strap barely holding it together, blood red cover scuffed and soft at the edges.

it took a second to process what paige had said, her voice still rough from sleep. only an hour between them, but it always felt like more. when the meaning finally settled, azzi flushed hot, ducking out of frame.

paige smiled, amused, rolling onto her stomach so her face pressed into the cotton of her pillow. she looked soft like this. angelic. her blonde hair waved around her shoulders, those blue eyes dark in the low light, the lilac strap of her nike sports bra just visible. azzi focused on that instead of responding.

“you don’t sleep in that, do you?” she asked instead. “it’s bad for circulation.”

paige grinned, pearly teeth gleaming. “oh yeah?”

“yes,” azzi said, exasperated. “it can, like—affect development. it’s not good for you.”

paige hummed like she was considering this. then shifted just enough for azzi to catch the dip of her cleavage. “yeah, i think we're past that point, baby.”

azzi turned a deeper red, arms crossing over her stomach. she tried to sink further into the gaping mouth of her navy blue hoodie. paige could see the whisper of a dress beneath the hem.

“shut up,” she muttered. “i wasn’t—i wasn’t trying to comment on your tits. i was just saying.”

“oh, my bad. sorry, princess.”

“i’m hanging up,” azzi deadpanned, face blank.

paige held back a laugh. “aight, chill. you just so easy to fluster.”

azzi scoffed. “i’m easy to fluster? be serious. when my calvin klein campaign dropped, you quite nearly went into cardiac arrest.”

paige’s face immediately went pink.

“aight, now.”

“no, not ‘aight now.’” azzi leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “you left me on read for two days. if i hadn’t dmed kk on twitter—of all places—i wouldn’t have even known you spent the entire time curled up in a little red ball.”

paige shrugged, still a little pink, biting down on her lip. she was thinking. then deciding. letting her lip slip free, her expression turning lazy, sharp. azzi felt something hot unfurl low in her stomach.

“okay, yeah, i had a minor crashout,” paige admitted, dragging a hand through her hair. her cross pendant dipped into the hollow of her throat. “a lil’ itty-bitty breakdown. but can you blame me?” she looked into the camera then, voice low. “az, you looked so fucking good. the baby pink ones were my favorite.”

azzi stilled, fingers twitching.

paige grinned. “you get to bring a pair home?”

azzi hung up.

the callback was immediate. she let it ring, took her time answering. finally, just before it stopped, she picked up.

“did you just hang up on me?”

“no,” azzi said, voice smooth, wide-eyed like she meant it.

paige let out a slow, dry laugh, her nose flaring. “aight. keep playin’.”

azzi rolled her eyes. “will you fly out if i do?”

paige’s face softened.

azzi sighed, already standing. she drifted away from her desk and set the phone down on her floor, balancing it against the nearest stack of books. she slipped away, and when she came back into the frame, she’d changed.

the hoodie was gone. instead, the soft curve of her shoulder, the clean line of her collarbone, the faintest trace of tan lines against her skin. the dress was simple—cream-colored, thin-strapped, almost weightless. the silk shifted when she moved, clung to her like a second skin.

paige didn’t say anything at first. just stared.

azzi adjusted the strap where it had slipped. “are you okay?”

paige’s voice was slower now, almost slurred. azzi’s body began to tingle with the recognition of desire. “you just look real… delicate.”

azzi’s brows furrowed, but the flush was already creeping up her throat, settling at the tips of her ears.

paige watched her, half-lidded, half-smiling. “like, if i touched you, you’d bruise.”

“do you want to bruise me?” azzi asked, tucking her legs beneath her neatly.

paige didn’t have an answer, and the silence made azzi press her tongue to the back of her teeth. she made a face, pressing her lips together, but she laughed a little, shaking her head.

paige was still watching.

azzi fidgeted, like she might change the subject, then reached for something off-screen. a small, instinctive movement. when she lifted the moleskine journal into the frame, she didn’t say anything. just held it there and tilted her head.

paige raised a brow. “you gon’ show me?”

azzi exhaled. then nodded, shifting the camera down.

the pages were a mess, ink heavy in some places, light and faded in others. words crossed out, rewritten, and pressed deep into the paper. paige recognized azzi’s handwriting—messy when she was in a rush, looping and neat when she was careful. there were little angel wings in the margins. a few water stains. coffee, too.

azzi flipped to a page near the middle. “this one’s kinda about you,” she murmured.

paige felt something warm unfurl in her chest, slow and blooming. she cleared her throat. “yeah?”

she could see some of the lyrics, but the words were twisted and reversed. azzi reached forward, picking up her phone, switching the camera so she could see them more clearly. paige knew she should’ve been reading, but her eyes caught on the strong bones of azzi’s hands instead, the slight tension in her knuckles, the chipped ballerina-slipper pink clinging to the edges of her fingernails.

do i love you? yes, i love you will we always be happy go lucky do i love you? yes, i love you but it’s easy come and it’s easy go all this talking talking is only bravado

“it’s a dance song. kind of 80s. i wrote it forever ago, but now i—” azzi hesitated, just for a second. “i feel it again.”

paige blinked as the camera flipped back, azzi’s face coming into view.

“it’s me singing about you,” she said. “but also asking myself if i’m gonna fuck it up. if it’s gonna last before i—” she made a little motion with her hand, something between a wave and a slow collapse—“bring myself down.”

she paused, tilting her head. “but the beat pulses. it kinda—” she hopped her fingers across her thigh, gave a small, absentminded shimmy of her shoulders—“jumps around, so you can’t tell if i’m happy or sad. i remain an enigma, and you really hope i’ve got it under control.”

her voice was light, teasing, but something about it snagged in paige’s chest, caught in the tender spaces between bone.

azzi tapped the page with her pen. “mm. it’s not done.”

paige smiled, slowly. “sing it to me.”

azzi’s lips parted like she might object. but then something in her expression shifted, went softer. she turned the page over, tapping her nails against the paper.

her throat trembled, a melody climbing inside it. then, she sang.

her raw voice was husky but light, full of something old and unnameable, something that had always been aching. it knew nothing of peace, and it invaded paige in the same way. the sound of it as it peaked—high and breathless, curling at the edges—went through paige like a pulse, like a shock of warm water against her ribs.

it was orgasmic. it felt like a million birds bursting into flight underneath her skin.

⟡

the venue smelled heavily of varnish and sweat, the air thick with the ghosts of girls azzi had been before, versions of herself she was trying to slip back into, feel out like old sweaters. some still fit. some itched against her skin, wrong in ways she couldn’t quite name.

she had been moving for hours, letting muscle memory guide her through old material, testing where her voice still lived in them, where it wavered, where it no longer belonged. it was a relief for her body to find the old melodies still inhabitable, to still understand where best to collapse and rebuild.

barefoot, azzi traced slow circles across the stage, rolling her shoulders, stretching her arms above her head. the room was empty except for a single spotlight pooling around her, turning the sweat at her collarbone to gold.

she had yet to notice that paige was there.

paige had slipped in through the side door, keeping to the shadows, her heart pounding hard enough that she could feel it in her fingertips. the flight had been an impulse, the need to see azzi—unshakable. now she sat in the darkened auditorium, watching azzi move like she was underwater, like she was feeling her way through something only she could hear.

the usual spectacle was stripped away—no sequins, no stage makeup, no cameras angled to catch her best side. just azzi, raw and untethered, her voice curling into the dark like smoke. paige could feel it under her skin, the way it lifted, shimmered, the way it sent something sharp down her spine. even the music was muted and warbling; azzi relied on her own words to paint the picture of what she envisioned.

she lost herself in the song, body twisting, spine arching, a prayer in motion. and when she reached the last line— is it something i did? and did i do it to you?—she reached blindly into the air, fingers grazing nothing before coming back to wring loosely around her throat. but something in her must have felt it, some part of her must have known.

then she rolled, first onto her stomach, then onto her back, arms flung wide. her head tipped back until it hung off the edge of the stage. she opened her eyes, her mouth—

and saw paige.

she was upside down in the seats below, watching her, blonde and breathless.

for a moment, neither of them moved. azzi’s chest rose and fell, her breath still uneven. paige’s hands had curled into fists in her lap. her pulse slammed against her ribs. she felt eerily close to claiming something; it was the same feeling that rocked her when she was on the court.

and then, like she was being pulled by something outside of herself, she stood. climbed onto the stage, moving toward azzi’s sprawled-out form, laid out like an offering. azzi blinked slow, gaze molten and unfocused, but she wasn’t stopping her.

paige didn’t think. she moved.

her fingers found the warm column of azzi’s throat, thumb pressing just below her jaw. she felt her swallow, felt the rapid, unsteady beat of her pulse.

then she bent down and kissed the damp, brown skin just below azzi’s ear.

azzi made a sound, soft, almost imperceptible. paige might have imagined it, but she didn’t pull away. so paige kept going, trailing her mouth along the sharp edge of azzi’s jaw, moving slow, reverent. when she reached the corner of her mouth, she hesitated, just for a second—

azzi turned her head the tiniest fraction. not much. but enough.

paige exhaled shakily, then kissed her, lips parting, tasting sweat and something animalistic, something electric. azzi sighed into it, a quiet, complacent thread of air, and the sound sent a shiver through paige, sharp and unbearable. she wasn’t sure if she was shaking or if it was just the world moving underneath her.

somewhere in the distance, a door slammed. the spell snapped. paige pulled back, breathless. azzi stayed where she was.

lips parted; eyes hazy. a beat. then another.

azzi’s lips curled, just slightly. “i didn’t even know you were coming,” she murmured.

paige laughed, suddenly and breathlessly. she pressed their foreheads together, her head heavy with the force of her blood flow.

“yeah,” she whispered. “you knew. you asked me to.”

⟡

karnold: i feel as president-elect of bueckers-fudd nation, it's my duty to let you know that paige might in fact be locking in ⤷ drewbuckets: she’s going to murder you in cold blood ⤷ uconnsports: who elected you?? ⤷ username: the question we all need to be asking ⤷ username: mind you why is uconn’s update page here if paige is now in dallas??? ⤷ dallaswingsofficial: we’re all invested ⤷ username: omg wait are they gfs??? ⤷ karnold: mind the business that pays you ⤷ karnold: but no #wives

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi popstar au.#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn wbb #uconn huskies

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californiannostalgia · 4 months ago

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Critical Role Campaign 3 had:

Crown Keepers

Calamity and Avalir

The Shattered Teeth

Astronomer who found City on the Moon

shit parents and shit powers and kids who grew up figuring out love on their own regardless

Aeor and the grief of warring gods

patented sentient furniture

an Aeormaton healer who defeated a terrifying warlord via selfless, selfish sacrifice

the Day the World Stood Still because a Champion of Death still loved, even after all this time

Moon people getting immigration visas to their Blue Dream

Vox Machina

Mighty Nein

Bell's Hells

lonely witches who found each other and never stopped finding each other, in the city of spires, in a maze of ruins, in storming dreams and death's embrace

hopeful endings in a time when the real world is actually for real crashing and burning

What an epic story. That was incredible.

Love them very much. Is it Thusday yet?

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rkiveinmarvel · 1 month ago

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pixie dust - joaquin torres des. joaquin is your back seater; partner; friend; maybe lover? yes, lover. air force! reader notes. this is fluffy story about our pretty boy! major ca:bravenewworld spoilers! sam and bucky being older brother vibes, brief mention of injuries, just fluff, teasing, and funny moments falling for our falcon. also inaccurate bnw timeline!!

hi! this is supposed to be a crack fic but i can't help but more background; the roles i used for the characters are from top gun (yes, that's what i referenced) this is essentially you selling joaquin's suit after what happened during the brave new world --- he is so fun! (i <3 u danny ramirez)

w.c: 1.6k

Joaquin Torres, is a man with many words and has a lot of dreams. Being part of the Air Force, being a Falcon, being part of Avengers, and being useful to everyone — especially, you. Torres met you upon being part of the Air Force, he was your backseater and your second eyes. Essentially, he would show you respect, but it doubled when you introduced him to Sam Wilson. The thing is you knew Sam, hell, you knew the Avengers; therefore in Joaquin’s doctrine, you’re also an Avenger. That’s why he needs to be useful to you and to impress you.

He knew you were strict, you commanded the air with such power and control, so, he was more than thankful that you introduced him to Sam because that simply means you trusted him but nothing prepared him upon seeing you outside of air force uniform, how casual you talk and tease Sam and Bucky, nothing prepared him for it.

While a lot of cadets hoped to have a good shot with you, you were teasing Bucky like there’s no tomorrow, you’re textpals with the hawkeye, and Sam is simply not Captain America to you, to you, he’s just Sam. It surprised him—especially, the time where you laughed at his joke while Sam was discussing a mission about the flag smashers or the time where Bucky jumped out of the place to help Sam chase flag smashers causing him to crash.

“I bet your ass, Bucky would’ve been dead if it wasn’t for the serum.” You rolled your eyes in chuckle as you two saw Bucky screaming as he fell down the plane and Red Wing following him. “Loosen up, Torres. I’m not in a position to say something in order. You’re an equal, during this time, and by the way, your shoelace is untied.”

For a man with many words, he lost some that time.

Honestly, being the Falcon is a lot harder than he expected to be, he asked Sam and he asked the internet how to fill the step the Sam’s falcon left — so, when Sam trained him, he can’t help but burn himself to be the best version; for someone, who commanded respect and build position as front seat, you were there to support your back seater.

“Torres, take a break. No Falcon can have a flight with shit energy.” As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he likes your company—no, he likes you. His front seater, the pilot, and the Avenger* (he considers that you are one) in no defense or complaint he did take a break, as you gave him your assessment, he just stared at you and nodded absentmindedly.

He wanted to be yours and for someone who dreamt of becoming useful to everyone—his priority was you. He wanted to be seen, acknowledged by you. After two years of training to become the Falcon, he finally did—he hopes the Red Hulk issue would be the break he has and he will ask you out after him and Sam figure it out.

So, here you are now with him in Captain America’s base as you stitch the wound that Sam had gotten after his brief encounter with the sidewinder. As Sam shares his plan, Joaquin is already packing his stuff and ready to back him up. You didn't like that: not because you don’t trust the two capabilities but because you’re not gonna be able to help this time, due to the fact that you’re with Bucky’s campaign. So, when Sam got the stitches he needed, he packed as you talked to Torres.

“Hey, Torres.” He looked up at you. “Yeah?”

“You gonna back him up? You sure? Isaiah barely trained you, you sure you can han—”

“Okay, I know you said I’m barely getting used to the suit but Sam needs me, don’t worry too much, you should worry about your congressman, I saw his pictures, he looks stressed.” He yaps but he stopped when he saw the worry in your eyes.

Here’s the thing, you know Torres likes you and you hoped that he knows that you feel the same way too, yet neither the two of you do something about it—for another, Torres saw you as his superior that he needs to prove something while you, on the other hand, don’t want to push Torres fast, wait for him to figure it out. But in moments like this, a conversation should be present some other time.

“What? You’re really that worried?” He asked softly.

“If I say yes would you still leave?”

“...Depends.” You sighed at his response, you can’t blame him—he wants to prove Sam that he is ready, he wants to prove to you he can protect you too. That despite him being a back seater in a jet—he’s all front to you now. But all you replied: “You do know, Sam had faced this shit before and you don’t have the super serum like Walker or Bucky…”

Neither of you don’t confirm or deny the feelings you two have but moments like this, the verbal and nonverbal cues you two have—is something so bright and noticeable.

“I’ll come back. Okay?” There he said it—an assurance that he will come back, he will be okay, he will be fine; in that moment, you just nodded. “You better. It’s gonna suck if Lucas gonna replace you as my backseater.” No, it’s more like please be safe and come back, I want you back and no one else. It’s unnoticed but you both knew it. It’s more than the partners in jet, yes, it’s definitely more than that.

Bucky is taking a break upon shaking hands with people whom he will never remember their names, sooner or later—but nothing prepared him seeing you all panicked as you told him the situation that Sam and Torres faced. He knows something is up with you and Torres so, he knew he had to check on Sam too.

“Hey, we’re gonna check on them.” He simply offered a little comfort as you two entered the car. You just nodded as you recalled the news and information you received about what happened. “You can stay. Don’t worry about the campaign. I’ll call if I need something.”

“Buck, you barely call Sam.”

“....No, trust me. I’ll call if I need something.” He smiled awkwardly.

As you two enter the private room, Sam and Bucky share a hug and include you; after their little talk, you were left behind. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep your boy safe.” You had chuckled at Sam’s words.

“Well, if you didn’t. He wouldn’t be here, Cap.” Sam smiled and nodded as you two watched Joaquin get operated on. “You’re listening too much to Bucky's PR Team.” He added, as you scoff in laughter. “It’s kinda useful.”

After two weeks of Sam solving the Red Hulk case, you sit on the sofa of Captain America’s headquarters as you scroll the news release about Sam’s success and Bucky’s candidacy, as you were about to get water—the hospital called, that he is awake. You, Isaiah, and Sam drove to the hospital, as Isaiah gave flowers, Sam gave him some pep talk then finally, you.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” You both had said at the same time, the moment you entered his room. He had this look on his face where he looks in pain yet sometimes relief while yours is mixed with disappointment and relief. You walked closer to him, as you wanted to tell him a lot of things but all of them got burned as he simply said. “I am okay.”

In that you felt yourself so small, the rank and the stripes you had suddenly slipped away from you. Here, you’re just a person—being vulnerable, he was okay and he was alive. In a brief moment, Joaquin chuckled, as you sat on the chair and held his hand: it was warm.

“Couldn’t let Lucas have my seat behind you.” He said, in that you had chuckled, he’s back—Joaquin is back, he’s okay.

“I thought I lost you.” You had whispered. Joaquin nodded as he held your hand that was on his. “I wouldn’t let that happen, not when I know Lucas is waiting to get a seat behind you, not when I haven’t bought you my favorite empanadas, and not when I haven’t made you my girl and introduce you to my mama.”

The beeping of the machine that supported his recovery remained in silence as he said those words, he shot his chance as you smiled. “Figures.” You shortly replied, as he smiled. “I like you.” You see this happening but in a different setting, like a date, but here you are, he is recovering—admitting he likes you while you can’t help but worry more.

You both chuckle as you bring his hand to your lips as you kiss it. “Well, you better recover fast, take me out on a date to those empanadas you like and maybe introduce me to your mama.” In that Joaquin nodded. “Can we use my suit to carry you to the house? Or the restaurant? I bet we’ll look badass.”

“Yeah, about that.” He glanced at you. “I sold the suit. We need it for the hospital bills.”

“What do you mean?” Of course, you didn’t. You and Sam just agreed he’s not allowed to use it for a while. “Well, you need to recover first, Joaquin.”

“Yeah, but how will we help Sa–”

He was cutted off when you kissed him so, shortly—leaving a stupid smile on his lips and blushing ears.

“Recover first and maybe if Sam needs some help from you. We can use Pixie Dust instead.” In the stillness of the vicinity of him and you, he had smiled. Finally, something real.

For almost half a minute he spoke again: “You didn’t actually sell my suit, right?” You laughed. “Of course, I didn’t. Falcon shall rise again.” “You sound like Sam.” “Well, he has an amazing commentary, so, why not.” You two smiled at each other as he smiled—“I’m glad to be back, mi vida.”

wow new post, i am rushing ⚘ masterlist 1 | 2 | 3 ₊˚⊹♡ taglist: @yesiamthatwierd, @bitchimasnake-sss, @cjand10, @reemoony, @vibraniumqueen

244 notes · View notes

synity · 5 days ago

Note

I just had a dream about this and please consider writing about it haha

Woozi (idol//svt woozi) suddenly gets a red string tug while at a concert/event. Y/n is like a fan and it was their first time attending an event. Woozi doesn’t do anything about it at first but he suddenly sees her EVERYWHERE HAHAAHAH u can do whatever u want with it..thank you❤️‍🩹⚡️

RED THREAT

(Lee Jihoon x FemReader)

*Fate, Romance, Slice of Life Soulmate AU*

Y/N’s POV

The screen blinked again.

That same cursed blinking cursor at the top of my Google Doc. The blinking mocked me a reminder that I hadn’t typed a single word in over forty-five minutes. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I couldn’t feel my brain anymore. Everything inside me was heavy, like molasses had been poured through my skull and was slowly dripping down into my spine.

It was 3:07 a.m. again. Another night that bled into morning without permission.

My office was technically my apartment, but the line between the two had long disappeared. My desk was littered with empty mugs and sticky notes full of passive-aggressive reminders to eat. I hadn’t touched my paints in a month. My house plants were turning gray. Even the playlist I usually loved filled with SEVENTEEN’s songs that once felt like warm sun through glass had begun to feel distant, like music from another lifetime.

I loved my job. Or… I used to. I worked in design. Logos, branding, pitch decks, ad campaigns clean lines, color psychology, subtle messages. I was good at it too. That’s what made it worse. Because being good meant people kept asking. Deadlines kept piling. And somewhere along the way, being good became more important than being okay.

I blinked again, staring at my laptop. My to-do list had bullet points so long they needed sub-bullets.

Client proposal

Fix formatting

Adjust color scheme

Make it “pop” whatever that means

Call with team lead at 10 a.m.

Email Sophia back

Try not to cry before lunch

That last one had been added half as a joke and half because I wasn’t sure I’d make it otherwise.

I pushed my chair back and stood up. My knees cracked. When did I last move?

My eyes scanned the apartment. It looked like someone had moved out halfway and never came back. The easel near the window stood bare, canvas untouched. My coat still hung on the door from a week ago. The mirror across the room showed a girl in an oversized hoodie with hair shoved into a messy bun and dark circles that looked like shadows under her eyes.

I didn’t recognize her.

I sighed and grabbed my phone. I scrolled without looking, out of habit, not intention. Just numb thumbs moving. Doomscrolling. Nothing new.

Until I paused.

SEVENTEEN WORLD TOUR: SEOUL FINAL NIGHT – TICKET RELEASE (LIMITED QUANTITY)

The header burned like neon into my dry eyes.

I’d been a fan since college. Lee Jihoon Woozi was a name I used to whisper into the night with awe. His songs made me feel understood in a world that often moved too fast. His lyrics reminded me I could still create beauty when I was tired. But concerts were always too far, too expensive, too risky to plan. Until now.

I stared at the post. My finger hovered over the link.

“You need to sleep,” I muttered to myself.

But I didn’t move.

I thought about the endless Zoom meetings, the moments where my chest hurt from holding my breath. I thought about how I hadn’t painted in weeks. I thought about how much I missed... feeling something.

What if I just went?

I blinked again. My heart pounded in my chest.

“Just one night,” I whispered. “You can work around it.”

It felt like madness. Like buying a parachute before checking if the plane had crashed.

But something deep in me something that still had color was whispering: Go. Please, just go.

I bought the ticket before I could change my mind.

The next day, I didn’t tell anyone. I just sent in my work, rescheduled one meeting, and packed a bag.

I took the train to Seoul, sat with my forehead pressed against the window. The city rushed past, buildings like blurs, light and metal and motion. For the first time in months, I didn’t check my emails.

When I arrived, the air felt different. Not freer, not magical. Just… clearer. The kind of air that reminded you you’re still alive.

At the hotel, I let myself take the longest shower of my life. I curled my hair loosely, put on light makeup, wore the SEVENTEEN shirt I bought two years ago and never had a reason to wear.

I still wasn’t sure what I was doing. I felt stupid for running away like this.

But when I looked in the mirror again, there was a flicker of someone I remembered.

I looked… a little more like myself.

And somewhere in Seoul that night, a red thread waited in silence, ready to pull.

I hadn’t realized how loud a concert could be. The bass shook my ribs in time with my heartbeat, the crowd’s cheers layering like crashing waves. It was almost overwhelming almost. But there was a strange comfort in being surrounded by people who felt the same rush of adrenaline and joy. People whose eyes sparkled at the same melody. Whose voices lifted in the same chant.

"SAY THE NAME!"

"SEVENTEEN!"

The stadium roared.

My seat wasn’t too close somewhere in the middle rows. But honestly, it didn’t matter. Even from here, the members looked like stars dipped in light. The screens gave glimpses of their sweat-soaked dedication, the way their eyes scanned the crowd, and how their bodies moved like music was born in their bones.

And then there was him.

Woozi.

Lee Jihoon.

His dark black hair was slicked back just slightly, revealing his forehead. His face was flushed, skin glowing beneath the lights, eyes sharp and focused as he sang his verse with that voice that had once saved me without knowing. A voice that felt like a hug around my tired heart.

Every time the camera zoomed in on him, I found myself breathless. Not in the silly fangirl way I thought I’d grown out of, but something quieter. Something deeper. Like looking at a lighthouse you’ve seen in your dreams.

It had only been two songs, but I already felt myself loosening. The tight, brittle shell I had been dragging around for months was cracking in the best way. I let myself scream, sing, wave my lightstick. For once, I wasn’t the girl behind the screen or the project. I was just a person here, alive, overwhelmed, free.

They started “Don’t Wanna Cry.”

My heart squeezed.

This was the song I played when deadlines piled up, when my breath caught in my chest and I didn’t know why I was crying at 2 a.m. It wasn’t just the lyrics it was how it sounded like someone else knew that same quiet ache.

I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt it: warm tears rolling down my cheeks.

I laughed softly and wiped them, embarrassed even though no one around me noticed.

Then came the bridge. And for a moment, the stage lights dimmed.

And that’s when it happened.

I looked up just as Woozi’s eyes swept across the crowd—and stopped.

Because for the briefest moment in this world, I swore he looked right at me.

I froze.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even doing anything dramatic. He just… paused.

His gaze slowed.

Sharp, aware eyes.

And somehow, my heart knew.

He sees me.

We were so far apart. There was no way he could truly make out my face. I told myself it was just a coincidence. A flicker in the lights. My imagination reaching for fantasy in a place designed for dreams.

But something told me it wasn’t.

Because his stare lingered just a second longer than it should have.

And then he blinked. Just once.

Almost like

Recognition.

My lips parted.

And then the music swelled again, and the moment passed.

But I couldn’t move.

The crowd jumped, lights flashed, chants continued and I stayed frozen, clutching my lightstick like it anchored me to earth.

My chest rose and fell too fast. My ears buzzed. I didn’t understand it. There was no logic here. No reason for my soul to stir like that.

Unless…

Unless there was more to this night than I had expected.

The song ended. The members bowed. Woozi turned away.

But I could still feel it.

Like an invisible thread had tugged at my chest, unspooling from somewhere deep within and reaching across the stage. Wrapping around him. Wrapping around me.

Tying something neither of us could see.

I took a shaky breath and pressed my hand against my heart.

And for the first time in months, I smiled without effort.

Woozi’s POV

I’ve always said the stage feels like a dream.

The lights blur. The voices of thousands melt into one long, echoing ocean of sound. Everything becomes rhythmic: the beat, the steps, the inhale before a note leaves your throat. Time doesn’t pass normally here. You don’t think you just perform. You move. You feel.

But then it happened.

Right in the middle of Don’t Wanna Cry.

I looked into the crowd like I always do. We’re trained to. Engage with the fans. Make them feel seen. Keep your eyes moving, let them believe you're looking just at them. And sometimes you are.

But this time

This time, I stopped.

A flash of a lightstick. A girl with tired eyes. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind that goes bone-deep. A sadness that felt hauntingly familiar.

Her gaze was soft, but full of something I couldn’t name. Something real.

It was her.

I didn’t know how I knew that. I just did.

For a moment, the song faded behind me. The crowd fell away. And there was only this stranger whose soul looked like it had lived through the same kind of silence I carry. Who looked like she didn’t expect to be seen.

But I saw her.

And then the tug came.

Not literal not like some ghost hand yanking my shirt but inside. A tug in the center of my chest. Sharp. Sudden. Unignorable.

My brows knit together slightly before I caught myself. I blinked once. I moved on. I had to. There were still verses to sing, cameras trained on me, fans watching.

But the feeling remained.

Even after we left the stage for a quick break, I couldn’t shake it. I tried to distract myself joking with Seungkwan, drinking water, adjusting my in-ears. But my head kept turning toward the crowd, scanning, searching.

I didn’t even know who I was looking for.

Just that I needed to find her again.

Was she really there? Was I making it up?

But no. That look. That feeling. The way my heartbeat stuttered when our eyes met that wasn’t nothing.

I’ve never believed in fate.

I’m a realist. A skeptic. I make music because I trust structure, not signs. I believe in effort, not destiny.

But now?

Now I wasn’t so sure.

I’ve looked out at the crowd a million times. Every night, it’s a sea of lights, signs, and faces all blurring together in flashes of color and sound.

But tonight, it’s different.

Because somewhere in that crowd… she’s still there.

I’m supposed to focus on the stage, on the fans, on the performance. But my eyes keep drifting. Searching. Yearning. For what who I don’t even fully understand.

“Hyung, you okay?” Dino’s voice cuts into the darkness backstage as we get ready for the next set.

I nod, almost too quickly. “Yeah.”

But I’m not.

I’m off tempo. My heart is drumming too fast. My thoughts won’t settle. It’s like I’m being pulled from the inside as if someone tied a thread around my ribs and is gently tugging, asking me to come closer.

A red string of fate.

That old legend I never believed in it. But now? With how my entire body tensed when our eyes locked, how her face keeps replaying in my head like a looping melody i’m starting to wonder if the universe is trying to write something I can’t read yet.

I step back on stage, microphone in hand.

The next song is slower. More vulnerable. And when the music starts, my eyes instinctively search the crowd again.

Please be there.

A flash of silver. A movement in the middle row.

There she is.

She’s standing still not waving a lightstick like the others. Her hands are by her sides, clutching the edge of her sleeves, her eyes wide as if she’s just as startled as I am. I can tell she’s trying not to blink, like if she does, I’ll disappear.

And I’m doing the same.

There’s a second where we just stare.

A second where I forget how to breathe.

I sing, but I don’t remember the lyrics. I move, but my feet feel heavy.

Because something’s happening.

Something important.

And I can’t ignore it anymore.

When the concert ends, the others are buzzing with energy laughing, wiping sweat, taking selfies in the dressing room. I’m quiet. Distant.

“Yah, Woozi! We did great!” Hoshi claps my shoulder.

I smile or try to. “Yeah. It felt good.”

But my head’s somewhere else. Out there. Still on her.

Who is she?

Was she alone? Did she come for us, for me? Or was she just a face I was meant to find today?

I grip the towel tighter in my hands.

This shouldn’t be happening. I don’t know her. And yet it feels like I’ve always known her.

Like her soul knocked on mine and it finally answered.

I look back toward the stadium one last time before leaving for the car.

She’s gone.

But I know this isn’t the last time I’ll see her.

The thread’s been tied.

And I’m going to find out where it leads.

I didn’t sleep well last night.

My body was exhausted from the concert, but my mind was wide awake trapped in that moment where her eyes met mine. I replayed it in my head over and over again. The stillness in the chaos. The way her gaze softened, even from a distance. Like she recognized me first.

Like she’s been waiting too.

I wake up before my alarm. The sky is still tinted with early morning blue. I rub my eyes, drag myself out of bed, and brew coffee, trying to shake the fog in my chest.

It doesn’t work.

She’s still there in my head.

I’m not one to believe in fate, but what if…?

No. I need to get out.

I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee when my phone buzzes.

From: Hoshi Bro come out. I’m near the river. Let’s walk.

He’s one of the few people who won’t accept “no” for an answer, so I toss on a hoodie, sunglasses, and head out the door.

The Han River’s quiet at this hour. Runners, a few people walking their dogs, a couple teenagers with takeout sprawled on a bench. I spot Hoshi ahead and start walking toward him

And stop in my tracks.

No way.

There. Sitting under a tree. A small sketchpad in her lap, headphones on, eyes focused like she’s capturing something nobody else sees.

It’s her.

I almost laugh or scream. What are the chances? How?

Hoshi calls out to me, waving. I raise a hand, but my eyes are stuck on her.

Maybe she feels it. The weight of my gaze. She turns slowly.

And for the second time in two days, our eyes meet.

This time it’s closer. Sharper.

I swear my heart drops into my stomach.

She blinks. Her lips part. She knows.

She knows me too.

I force myself to keep walking past, my pulse hammering in my ears. I hear Hoshi say something, but I barely catch it.

“Hyung, you okay?”

I nod.

But I’m not.

Because now I’m sure this isn’t coincidence.

Later that day, I decide to stop by a café I used to go to when I needed peace. One that doesn’t play my music. Where the ahjumma behind the counter always adds extra honey to my tea without asking.

The bell chimes as I step in. It’s quiet thank God.

I place my order and walk toward my usual booth.

And nearly trip over my own feet.

Because she’s here.

Again.

This time sitting by the window, stirring something in her cup absentmindedly, notebook open, pen tucked behind her ear. The sun paints a warm halo around her.

I freeze.

She hasn’t seen me yet.

What are the odds?

I sit down in a booth across the café, out of her sight. My tea comes. I don’t touch it.

Instead, I keep watching.

She hums something. A melody. Barely audible, but familiar.

My own song.

She was there for me.

And now she’s everywhere.

Over the next few days, it keeps happening.

I walk into a convenience store late at night she’s standing in front of the ramyeon aisle, biting her lip in concentration.

I pass a bookstore I haven’t visited in months she steps out with a tote bag full of art books, looking up at the sky like she’s wishing something would fall from it.

I run into her again in a quiet alley near the company when I’m coming back from practice. She’s crouched beside a stray cat, offering it her sandwich. When she hears me approach, she looks up startled. But not afraid.

Just… confused. Like I am.

“Hi,” she says softly, like she’s not sure if I’ll hear.

I do.

But I can’t speak. I just nod and keep walking my throat full of words I can’t say.

Yet.

Back in the studio, I can't focus.

I try mixing a new track can’t get the layers right. I open lyrics I’ve been working on for weeks every line starts to sound like her. Everything I create feels tangled up in her presence.

It’s not just obsession.

It’s recognition.

I take a deep breath and look down at my wrist.

Invisible. But undeniable.

The thread is still pulling.

And I’m not going to fight it anymore.

YN'S POV

The morning after the concert, I woke up sore. Not just from standing on my feet for hours, but from… something else. Something deeper.

Something had shifted last night.

I couldn’t explain it not even to myself but the moment our eyes met, something ancient in me stirred. Like I had known him before. Like the universe had whispered his name into my soul long before I’d ever heard it.

Lee Jihoon.

Woozi. The name so many knew him by. But last night, in that split second when our gazes locked, it didn’t feel like I was seeing an idol.

It felt like I was seeing him.

Still, life had to go on.

Or at least, I tried to pretend it did.

I was back in my studio that morning, surrounded by canvases, brushes, and the faint smell of coffee and oil paint. Deadlines loomed like storm clouds. My manager had texted me three times, reminding me about commissions I hadn’t finished.

I needed to work.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

I shook my head and dipped a brush into crimson.

Focus.

I painted in silence for hours, only moving when my stomach grumbled or my hands started to cramp. I must’ve been hunched over for too long, because when I finally stood up, the entire room spun for a moment. My shoulders ached. My vision blurred a bit.

You need fresh air, I told myself.

So I grabbed my sketchpad and headed to the riverside.

It was quiet just the way I liked it. The wind brushed against my cheeks, cool and gentle, a stark contrast to the sticky summer nights that had been weighing the city down. I found a tree I liked, tucked myself beneath it, and began sketching whatever came to mind.

At some point, the pencil in my hand started drawing him.

I frowned at the realization trying to erase it but the outline remained.

His side profile. The delicate curve of his nose. His brows, knit in thought. His lips, slightly parted.

I groaned and leaned back against the tree, covering my face with my hands.

“This is getting ridiculous,” I muttered.

But then…

That feeling again.

That static in the air. That tug in my chest.

I looked up.

And there he was.

Again.

Walking. Hoodie pulled low. Sunglasses on. But I knew.

I knew.

His eyes found mine like magnets unmissable, inevitable.

And this time, it wasn’t a concert. It wasn’t a crowd.

It was just us. Him. Me. The tree. The wind. The silence.

Time didn’t freeze, but something inside me did.

Then he passed. Just a nod.

But that one second unraveled me for hours.

Later that afternoon, I decided to stop by my favorite café a tiny place near my old art college. The owner, an older woman with dyed red hair and endless gossip, always made me laugh. I needed normalcy. Something grounding.

I walked in, ordered a chamomile latte, and picked a sunny seat by the window.

The bell chimed again shortly after.

I didn’t look up at first.

But then I felt it.

That same weight in the air. That thread tightening around my ribs.

I lifted my gaze, and sure enough there he was.

Again.

This time sitting at the far end, barely moving, eyes hidden behind dark lenses. But I could feel his presence like a fire in the room.

I looked away quickly, heart pounding.

What was happening?

Why did I keep seeing him?

Was I just noticing him more now?

Or was the universe playing some strange trick?

The next few days were… eerie.

I saw him everywhere.

At the bookstore near the station standing a few shelves down.

At the boba place I swore no idol would ever set foot in waiting quietly with his cap low.

Even in a quiet alley near my building, where a stray cat always waited for me because I usually brought it leftovers.

I was crouched beside it, tearing off pieces of a sandwich when I felt someone approach.

I looked up.

And there he was.

He looked just as surprised.

I said hi, unsure if I imagined the whole thing. He just nodded lips tight, eyes unreadable.

Then he walked away.

And I was left there, surrounded by silence, a half-eaten sandwich, and a cat that meowed like I owed it answers.

That night, I lay in bed, eyes wide open.

I didn’t believe in soulmates. In fate. In red threads.

But now I was starting to wonder.

What if something really was pulling us together?

What if this was more than coincidence?

What if for once I wasn’t imagining things?

Woozi’s POV

He saw her again.

Fourth time in less than a week. It couldn’t be coincidence anymore.

She was crouched next to a stray cat, feeding it bits of her sandwich with a gentle smile. Her coat was too thin for the late evening breeze, but she didn’t seem to care. The wind tugged at her hair, and he caught the softest hum in her voice. She was talking to the cat like an old friend.

Jihoon stood frozen just around the corner.

He wasn’t wearing anything that would scream "idol" today. Hoodie. Beanie. Mask. Even so, she recognized him he could tell. Just like at the concert. Just like at the riverside. At the café. At the bookstore. It was always the same:

Her eyes would meet his.

His chest would tighten.

That damned invisible thread would pull.

And he’d walk away.

But not this time.

He stepped out.

She looked up, startled. Her lips parted in surprise.

They didn’t say anything for a second. The cat meowed and pawed at her knee, breaking the stillness.

“Hi,” she finally whispered, almost as if unsure whether he’d speak back.

Jihoon swallowed.

He wanted to say something smooth. Collected. Something that didn’t sound like his heart was clawing its way out of his chest.

But instead, he muttered, “We keep meeting.”

Her brows knit together in a small, amused frown. “Yeah… I noticed.”

He smiled slightly beneath his mask, then pulled it down just enough so she could see his face see that he wasn’t here as Woozi the artist, but as Jihoon the man. The stranger who felt inexplicably drawn to her.

“Listen,” he began, walking closer, “I know this is going to sound crazy, but… are you feeling it too?”

She blinked. “Feeling what?”

He paused. Looked up at the moonlit sky. “That pull. Like… there’s something connecting us.”

There. He’d said it.

She stared at him, silent. He could see the hesitation in her eyes — the same hesitation he’d been wrestling with all week.

Then she nodded, slow and careful. “I thought I was going insane.”

His heart skipped.

For the first time in days, the confusion in his head settled. He wasn’t imagining this. She felt it too.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” she asked softly, standing up and brushing off her coat. “All those times?”

“I didn’t know if it was real,” Jihoon admitted. “And I didn’t want to scare you. I’m… not used to this kind of thing.”

She smiled a little, tugging her coat tighter around her. “Neither am I.”

They stood there, under the orange halo of a streetlamp, neither quite sure what to say next.

So Jihoon just blurted it out.

“I want to get to know you.”

Her eyes widened.

“I don’t know how this works,” he said, voice quieter now. “But I keep thinking about you. Not just because I’ve seen you everywhere. It’s something else. Like… I already know you.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, clearly flustered. “I’m just a regular person.”

“Maybe that’s what I need,” he said, smiling.

The cat meowed again, circling their feet.

Jihoon looked down at it, then back up at her. “You want to walk for a bit?”

“…Sure,” she said, smiling and he could tell it wasn’t forced.

They walked slowly through quiet streets, the cat trailing behind for a block or two before giving up. Jihoon listened to her talk about painting, about overworking, about chamomile lattes and messy deadlines and getting yelled at by her manager.

He found himself laughing more than he had in weeks.

And when she teased him gently for being nothing like his stage persona, Jihoon flushed.

“I get that a lot,” he mumbled.

“Because on stage, you’re intense,” she grinned. “But off-stage? You’re kind of…”

“Kind of what?”

“…Adorably awkward.”

Jihoon groaned. “Don’t say that.”

She laughed, that soft, bell-like sound he already knew he’d chase if she ever walked away.

When they stopped at a vending machine, he bought them each a warm drink. She got milk tea. He got black coffee.

As they stood there sipping, Jihoon looked at her profile again.

The way her lashes curled naturally.

The smudge of graphite still on her fingertips.

She wasn’t just pretty.

She was real.

And for once, he didn’t want to walk away.

As they reached her building, Jihoon hesitated.

“I want to see you again,” he said.

“You will,” she answered, smiling.

“But not just by chance.”

She looked at him.

“Let me make it intentional this time.”

She bit her lip, eyes flickering with something soft. Hopeful.

“…Okay.”

That night, back in his apartment, Jihoon stared at the ceiling long after the city fell asleep.

The red thread tugged again.

And this time, he tugged back.

Y/N’s POV

Jihoon asked her out the next morning.

Not a fancy, over-the-top plan like she might’ve expected from someone famous. It was simple quiet.

“Would you… want to go somewhere? Just us?” “Anywhere in mind?” “Somewhere you don’t have to think.”

So that’s how she ended up in a small corner of Seoul hidden away from the main streets wearing her softest cardigan and sneakers, hair loosely tied. Her phone buzzed.

Jihoon: I’m two blocks away. Stay warm.

A smile slipped onto her face. She hadn’t stopped smiling since last night, honestly.

She tugged her coat tighter and waited on the bench, heart jittery. This wasn’t like the casual cafe sightings or shared glances. This was a real moment. Something that had intention. Choice.

And when he finally turned the corner hood up, mask on, hands in pockets she recognized him instantly. Not because he was famous. But because that invisible thread between them practically glowed.

“Hi,” she greeted, standing up.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice quiet.

They stared at each other for a second before both laughing. A little awkward. A little nervous. But it felt good.

“Ready?” he asked, nudging his head toward the sidewalk.

“Yeah.”

They walked.

No crowds. No managers. No schedules.

Just them.

Jihoon led her through narrow alleys and tiny shops she’d never even noticed before. They stopped at a bookstore so cramped it barely had space to turn, and she caught him watching her run fingers along the spines of old novels.

“You read romance?” she teased, holding up a worn-out paperback.

He made a face. “Only if someone forces me.”

“Oh no, you’re one of those.”

“Hey,” he chuckled. “Mystery and sci-fi have feelings too.”

She giggled, slipping the book back onto the shelf.

Then they stumbled into a vintage vinyl shop, and she caught him humming along to something under his breath.

“Is that your own song?”

Jihoon froze, then looked mortified. “Maybe.”

She grinned. “Cute.”

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, cheeks pink.

“Why?”

“Because I never let anyone see this side of me.”

She looked at him then. Not Woozi the producer. But Jihoon the man who hid behind beanies and sarcasm and long working nights. The man who felt like home.

“Maybe that’s the side I like best.”

By afternoon, they ended up at a rooftop café tucked above an old building. The sky had turned soft with sunset, spilling orange light across Jihoon’s face as he sipped a caramel latte she’d made him order.

“You like caramel,” she said.

He blinked. “I do?”

“You made a face when you saw it on the menu. The good kind of face.”

He looked down at the drink, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re observant.”

She shrugged. “Only with people who matter.”

Jihoon grew quiet.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in tissue careful, like it was breakable.

She tilted her head. “What’s that?”

“It’s… nothing huge,” he muttered, handing it to her. “Just thought of you.”

Inside was a tiny charm. A silver paintbrush.

Her breath caught.

“It’s silly,” Jihoon added, nervous now. “I saw it while walking past a craft store. Reminded me of you.”

She stared at it this small, thoughtful token and felt her heart twist.

“No one’s ever done that for me,” she whispered.

Jihoon reached across the table, brushing his fingers against hers.

“You deserve it,” he said.

They didn’t rush the day.

They let the silence breathe. Let the tension settle between shy glances and nervous laughter.

And when they got back to her apartment, the sky already dusted with stars, she hesitated at the front door.

Jihoon did too.

“Thanks for today,” she said softly.

He nodded. “I’m glad you said yes.”

She opened her mouth to say something else but he stepped forward suddenly.

Not too close. Just… enough.

His hand gently brushed her cheek, and for a moment, he looked like he was thinking too much again. Always overthinking.

So she leaned in first.

Just a little.

And that was all it took.

His lips met hers soft, warm, unsure. Not urgent. Just enough to whisper I’m here.

When they pulled back, he didn’t speak.

He just rested his forehead against hers and exhaled.

“I’m really glad I followed that thread.”

She smiled, heart racing.

“Me too.”

4 days later

The city felt different today.

Less rushed, softer somehow.

Maybe it was because Jihoon had asked her out again.

Not for a fancy dinner or a show, but something more low-key a quiet picnic by the Han River. Just the two of them, away from the noise, the cameras, the crowds.

She had spent the morning preparing snacks in her tiny kitchen. Nothing complicated, just sandwiches, venoiseries, juices, some fresh fruit, and her favorite iced tea. As she packed the basket, her hands trembled just a bit nervous anticipation fluttering like butterflies in her stomach.

When Jihoon arrived, he was carrying a folded blanket and a small portable speaker. He smiled at her, that same shy warmth she was starting to recognize.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded, slipping her hand into his as they walked to the subway station.

The riverbank was peaceful when they arrived, soft breezes playing with the autumn leaves. Jihoon spread the blanket carefully, and they sat side by side, sharing food and stories.

“Do you ever get tired of all the attention?” she asked quietly.

He looked out over the water, thoughtful.

“Sometimes. But it’s not the attention. It’s the expectations. The pressure to always be... perfect.”

She reached over and squeezed his hand.

“You don’t have to be perfect with me.”

He turned to her, eyes sincere.

“Really?”

“Really.”

For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them, the rustling leaves, and the golden sunlight.

Jihoon pulled out his phone and played a soft melody one of his unreleased songs. She closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her.

“I wrote this for you,” he confessed.

Her heart skipped.

“Me?”

He nodded, cheeks pink.

“Every note is a promise.”

Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked them away.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He smiled and brushed a stray hair behind her ear.

“You make me want to be better.”

They spent hours talking about fears, dreams, and the little things that made them who they were. Jihoon told her about his childhood, the loneliness he’d felt despite the crowds, and how music had been his only refuge.

She shared her own stories how painting saved her on dark days, how she sometimes felt lost in her own kindness, like the world was too harsh for someone like her.

Jihoon listened. Really listened.

And that made all the difference.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting pink and purple hues across the sky, Jihoon reached into his pocket again.

“Wait,” he said, pulling out a small box.

Her breath caught.

“Open it.”

Inside was a delicate bracelet silver, with a tiny charm shaped like a music note intertwined with a paintbrush.

“It’s for you,” he said softly. “A reminder that we’re connected, even when we’re apart.”

She slid it onto her wrist, feeling the cool metal against her skin.

“I love it.”

He smiled, eyes shining.

“So... about that kiss last time.”

Her cheeks warmed.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Me too.”

Jihoon leaned in slowly.

This time, the kiss was deeper full of the promise of more moments like this, more days spent discovering each other.

Later, as they packed up to leave, Y/N felt a warmth she hadn’t known she was missing. Maybe fate really did pull strings, and maybe, just maybe, those strings were leading her somewhere worth going.

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lilbittymonster · 6 months ago

Text

I found her mini too!

This was the first or second time I had ever painted a mini figure.

And I managed to get it recreated pretty closely in XIV (with the help of some crimes).

12/12/24

If you would/have made your wol(oc) in a DnD scenario what would their character sheet look like?

#maaaaaan now i'm in my cups about tiefling Kitali #that campaign had so much potential but it barely made it off the ground before it crashed and burned #weird to think that it's been five years since i played her in dnd #i've had the XIV version of her for so much longer and i really don't think i could go back #but. i do still keep 17 ranger 3 druid DMPC Kitali in my back pocket. just to take out and rotate every now and then

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deliciousangelfestival · 8 months ago

Text

The Imperfect Couple - 16

Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader

Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.

Warning: The couple's arguments could be triggering.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

It felt like your heart had just been stabbed, and then someone cruelly poured salt and vodka into the wound. The pain was so intense, your legs almost gave out beneath you, but you managed to lean your trembling body against the kitchen counter.

“How…” Hazel’s voice wavered, thin and fragile, “How do you know Ian?”

You tried to breathe, but each inhale burned your chest. “Hazel…” You fought to steady your voice. “Ian is my co-worker.” A flood of memories rushed through your mind—his cocky smile, the way he always knew how to make you laugh, and how he’d been there for you, your first real friend after your divorce from Bucky. Now, all of it was just that—a memory.

Hazel’s voice broke, still shaking. “They’re taking him to the hospital…” The line went dead.

The second you processed her words, your legs finally gave out. You dropped your phone, the dull thud echoing in the kitchen as the world blurred around you.

The sound was loud enough that Bucky came running from the room where Nate was resting. He found you on the floor, crumpled, tears pouring down your face, with your phone lying beside you like a silent witness to your devastation.

He knelt beside you, pulling you into his arms. “What happened?” His voice was soft but laced with urgency.

You clung to him, your hands fisting in his shirt as you sobbed uncontrollably. “Ian… he’s dead.” Your voice cracked, and you looked up into Bucky’s eyes, your own red and swollen. “And it’s all my fault.”

Bucky's hold tightened, trying to soothe you. “It’s not your fault.” His voice was calm, but his heart clenched seeing you like this.

But you couldn’t stop. The guilt, the grief—it all came crashing down, and your sobs turned hysterical. “If I hadn’t—if I had warned him better—” But the words became too broken to finish. The world tilted, and darkness edged into your vision. Before you knew it, everything went black.

Bucky felt your body go limp in his arms. “Y/N?” He called your name softly, panic rising as he touched your forehead. You were burning up with a fever. Without wasting another second, he gently lifted you into his arms and carried you to his bedroom.

As he laid you down on his bed, guilt gnawed at him. Seeing you like this—sick, stressed, and heartbroken—made him feel helpless. He should have protected you better. And as much as he hated himself for it, he couldn’t ignore the small, ugly pang of jealousy that struck him, seeing how deeply you grieved for Ian. Shaking his head, he forced the thought away. This wasn’t about him.

He moved quickly, grabbing a cooling fever patch and placing it on your forehead. He sat beside you, watching your flushed face as you slept fitfully, determined to stay by your side until you were better.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

The next morning, you woke up feeling like your head was floating. It took a moment for you to realize where you were—Bucky’s bedroom. Slowly, you turned your head, and there he was, sleeping beside you, still holding a body thermometer in his hand. His face looked tired, but peaceful, as if he’d been watching over you all night.

Your heart swelled with gratitude. He had taken care of you when you needed it most.

Feeling your movement, Bucky stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and when he saw you awake, he immediately sat up. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep as he reached out to check your temperature.

You gave him a small smile, touched by his concern. “I’m alright,” you said, though your voice was still shaky. “Thank you, Bucky.” You tried to get up, but dizziness hit you hard, and you swayed.

Bucky was quick, his hands steadying you before you could fall. “Slowly,” he said, his tone gentle but firm.

“I need to check on Nate,” you insisted, worry clouding your thoughts.

“I already did,” Bucky reassured you. “His fever’s gone down. He’s doing much better.”

Hearing that brought you a sense of relief, but it also made you realize how exhausted Bucky must be. He hadn’t rested enough, not with everything going on.

Still leaning against him, you looked up into his eyes, your heart heavy with a new determination. “Bucky.”

“Yes?” he answered softly.

“I won’t let Ian die for nothing.” Your voice was filled with a steely resolve. The memory of Ian’s twin brother’s death—how justice had never been served—flashed through your mind. You wouldn’t let Ian’s life end the same way. Not without consequences. Not without fighting for the truth.

Bucky looked at you, admiring the fire in your eyes despite the grief and exhaustion. His heart clenched, seeing the strength that was returning to you. He leaned forward and gently kissed your forehead. “Leave it to me,” he promised, his voice a quiet vow, as if he’d carry your burden for you.

For a moment, you felt a flicker of hope, but the weight of everything still pressed heavily on your chest. You closed your eyes, knowing that nothing would ever be the same again.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Steve sat in his study, the soft light of the lamp casting a golden glow over the mahogany desk. He skimmed through the documents in front of him, his mind elsewhere, waiting for a call he knew would come. When his phone vibrated, a brief flash of tension crossed his face. He picked it up immediately, his heart pounding in anticipation.

"Hi," he greeted, his voice calm, almost casual.

Hazel’s voice crackled through the speaker, sharp and accusing. “Is it you? Was it you, Steve?” The accusation in her tone sliced through the air, but Steve didn’t answer right away. His silence was all she needed.

"Why did you kill him?" she spat, fury lacing every word. "And I just found out what the twins did to Nate. Despicable. I will never let them near our son again!"

“It was necessary,” Steve replied, his voice low and steady. He didn’t offer any more explanation, but those few words were enough to cement the cold reality of his actions. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the polished mahogany desk, his gaze drifting toward the framed photo of the twins standing with General Carter. His jaw clenched at the sight of it. He hated that photo, the facade of family unity it represented.

"And the twins… I’m sorry. They won’t get near Nate again," he added, his voice softening, though the bitterness lingered beneath the surface.

Hazel’s breathing was shaky, but before she could respond further, Steve said, with a mix of gentleness and authority, "Come home. I’ll feel safer with you here, and I know Nate misses his mother."

A long, painful silence stretched between them. Finally, Hazel’s voice broke through, faint but resigned. “Alright.” Then the line went dead.

Steve leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply, a small wave of relief washing over him. She had listened. But just as he allowed himself a brief moment of calm, the door to his study creaked open. Peggy stood there, her eyes blazing.

“Why the surprised look?” she sneered, stepping further into the room. “Did I catch you off guard? Or were you just finishing up with your young girlfriend?”

Steve didn’t flinch. Her words, sharp as they were, rolled off him like water on stone, which only seemed to enrage her further.

“Not even going to deny it, are you?” Peggy’s voice rose in pitch, the hurt and anger clear. “So you’re not ashamed of cheating? What will the world say when they find out? The great Steve Rogers, a cheater!”

He pushed away from the desk, leaning back against it as he crossed his arms over his chest. His gaze was steady, almost too calm. “Yes,” he said, his voice a chilling monotone. “If you want to call it cheating, sure. By the law, I’m still married to you. But feelings?” He paused, the weight of his words sinking in like a blade. “I’ve never had any for you from the start.”

The words hit Peggy like a physical blow. She stumbled back, her breath catching in her throat. Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “Ha!” The sound echoed off the walls of the study. His calm, matter-of-fact delivery hurt more than any shouting match ever could. He knew this would destroy her, and yet he said it without so much as a flicker of emotion.

She thought back to the days when he was just an innocent soldier, visiting her father’s house, his manners and politeness charming her. But that image was long gone, shattered by years of resentment and lies.

“I regret every second I’ve spent with you,” Peggy hissed, her voice dripping with venom.

Their relationship hadn’t always been this cold. Steve had been old-fashioned, much like her father. He wasn’t a man of many words or affection, but there had been respect between them once. That all changed when her father, General Carter, pressured Steve to quit the military and pursue a political career as governor. Steve had resisted—he loved the military, loved his job and the people he worked with. He had been willing to die for his country.

Steve had begged General Carter to let him stay, but the old man wouldn’t relent. And when Steve had turned to Peggy for help, she hadn’t fought hard enough. She knew it was futile to argue with her father.

“He’s had a free ride,” General Carter had said of Steve, dismissing his passion for the military. “He doesn’t even spend his own money. What’s he got to complain about?”

A few days later, Steve’s resignation was approved—not by his own hand, but by General Carter’s. Peggy still remembered the day Steve took off his military badge for the last time. His face had been unreadable, but she knew it was killing him. He wasn’t just leaving a job—he was giving up his identity, and not because he wanted to.

That was the moment Steve had realized he was nothing more than a pawn. His opinion hadn’t mattered. And ever since then, he had blamed General Carter—and Peggy, for standing by, watching it all happen.

“Steve…” Peggy’s voice cracked as she clenched her fists. “You’ve become the man you hated the most.”

Steve stepped closer, his presence looming over her. He stopped just beside her, looking down with a mix of detachment and something that almost resembled pity. “No matter what’s happened between us, Peggy, you’ve been the best partner I’ve ever had.” His tone was emotionless, final. Then he walked past her, leaving her standing in the middle of the room, stunned.

When the door closed behind him, Peggy felt like she was sinking into a bottomless pit. She had given so much of herself, had tried to live up to the image of being his wife, and yet, here she was—betrayed and alone. No one understood the depth of her loneliness, the hollow ache that came from knowing she never had his love. She had only ever had his body, never his heart.

"Urggh." She clenched her chest. What hurts her the most is that Steve became the type of husband she had always longed for—but to another woman. Not her, the official spouse he had vowed to be with until death do them part.

She felt the change in him—he became more patient, started giving gifts—but it was all because of another woman. A younger, more beautiful woman. The only one who truly won Steve’s heart.

Outside the door, Steve continued walking, ignoring the faint sound of her muffled sobs from the other side. His face remained stone-cold as his assistant approached him.

“Sir, you need to see the news,” the assistant said, holding out a remote.

Steve turned on the television, his eyes narrowing as the headline blared across the screen: Breaking News: Edgar and Brock's Corruption Scandals Exposed. The dirty secrets of his competitors were now laid bare for the world to see, their reputations on the verge of being ruined forever. Their supporters and voters would never trust them again.

His assistant handed him a tablet. “Sir, here’s the latest poll data.”

Steve glanced at it, and a grin slowly spread across his face. His shoulders relaxed as a chuckle escaped his lips, building into a full, throaty laugh.

He dialed Bucky’s number, still chuckling. When Bucky picked up, Steve’s voice was smooth, satisfied. “You did an incredible job. Good work.”

🌸🌸🌸🌸

Back at Bucky’s apartment

"I couldn’t have done it without you," Bucky replied, his voice smooth but carrying the weight of their shared secrets.

You glanced at Bucky, watching him as he spoke to Steve on the phone, his tone calm yet calculated. Nate sat quietly on your lap, happily munching on his breakfast as you fed him, both of you finally feeling a sense of normalcy after everything. The air felt lighter, but you knew it wouldn’t last.

Bucky ended the call, slipping the phone into his pocket before joining you at the table. He sat down, his eyes briefly scanning Nate before settling on you, the unspoken tension between the three of you lingering like a shadow.

"You know what you just did, right?" you said quietly, keeping your voice low. "You’ve made him untouchable."

Bucky leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His demeanor was calm, almost too calm, like a storm gathering just beneath the surface. He raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. “That’s the point,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, eyes glinting with something dark, something you couldn’t quite place. “But don’t get too comfortable.”

His smile widened, just enough to unsettle you. "I may act like I’m not watching, like I’m playing the fool, but don’t mistake that for blindness. I see everything, and I hear everything."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, the intensity in his gaze making your heart skip. "Just wait. When the time’s right… we’ll make our move. And when we do, they won’t see it coming."

There was a brief silence, the weight of his words hanging in the air, pressing against your chest. Nate, blissfully unaware, giggled and reached for another bite of food, while you exchanged a tense glance with Bucky. His words were cool, but you knew the danger that lay beneath them.

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