#if that's not how it's supposed to work well

[bunbun007]

One Hell Of a Trip - Saja Boys x Reader

Wanings: Demon pacts I suppose? Not explicitly explained. Word Count: 1.3k Pairings: Saga Boys x Reader

Next ->

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ��

You should’ve never made a pact with a demon. Multiple demons, apparently.

Regardless of your religious beliefs, you knew that personally contacting the reins of Hell was a stupid, crazy idea. But then again, you were only human.

And humans needed to eat.

Didn’t they?

“I'll die if I don't do this,” you murmured, voice ever so soft, echoing in the dimly lit room. “Or maybe I will if I do. Heavens, this is so stupid… Lady, are you sure this will work?”

★

It had all started on a quiet street. You’d been walking with no real purpose, when you encountered an old lady — a beggar, by the looks of it.

You’d offered her kindness.

It was the only thing you could offer, realistically. You had nothing on you. Nothing at home, either. In fact, in a few days, you might not even have a home.

The lady seemed enamored by your sweetness and handed you a little flyer.

“The man who gave me this was very sure of its usefulness,” she said. “Maybe it'll help you. You seem like you need it.”

Ouch.

Even if she meant well. Ouch.

Still, desperate, you unfolded the flyer and read it. It was a crumpled old piece of paper — photoshopped and funny-looking, like it was made by middle schoolers promoting their DnD club.

Not judging, tho.

You held it in your hand and almost laughed at the absurdity. What if?

Realistically, what could go wrong?

It’s not like demons actually existed.

And if they did… maybe they’d pity you. In your sleepless, starved state, this seemed like a genuinely great idea.

Which is what brought you to this very moment —Sitting on the floor of your tiny apartment, placing candles in a circle like some cursed Pinterest board. “First time summoning a demon… hope you don’t mind the mess, Hell Lord,” you giggled to yourself at the pitiful joke and sat in the middle of the room.

What should you even say?

“Oh… hear ye, hear ye, demons,” you tried awkwardly. “Help me progress in my job… um, I really need it to live. I’ll return the favor if you let me live a decent life. "You looked around. “I’ll be bound to you…?”

.

.

.

Right.

What were you even expecting?

Candles bursting into flames?

A thunderclap?

The Hell Lord himself popping in through the wall?

“Well, would you look at that.”

A voice. Low and raspy, but with a slight youthful ring to it.

“Our plan keeps getting easier, doesn’t it, boys?” A series of soft laughs filled the room.

Your entire body tensed — and froze.

“Now, little one. We appreciate your help. We’ll gladly take you as ours.”Your neck almost snapped from how fast you turned toward the voice. You saw a tall figure — and before you could think, you grabbed the closest candle and threw it at them.

“THE HELL?!”

You kept throwing the lit candles like your life depended on it. And well… it kind of did. The entrance was blocked by figures.

Shadowed, unmoving.

“Who are you?! All of you?! I swear, I’ll break your necks if you come any closer!” You grabbed a nearby pillow and held it up with both arms.Your gaze flicked from figure to figure. They were tilting their heads forward… until they all slowly raised their chins.

They were men.

Attractive. Scary-looking. Men.

Still men, tho.

“Who are you?! How did you break in?!”

The man in the center took a step forward, flashing a smirk in your direction. His skin shimmered in a purple hue, tattoos spiraling across his collarbones. “Hello, human. We are your saviors—”

He flinched. “HEY! Did you just smack me with a pillow?!”

“Stay away!”

“Stop, human. I’m warning you. Quiet.”

Suddenly, your voice was gone. You tried to speak — to scream — to whisper, even. But nothing came out. It was as if your own body betrayed you, forced to obey this man’s words. And the men began to walk forward.

Each one was different in height and build — but all of them shared that same violet skin.

“We are the demons you contacted. Your saviors. Your new responsibility.”

The shortest of them — one with blue hair and an irritatingly smug face — held the crumpled flyer right up to your nose. “The owners of your soul…” They stood in front of you, forming a perfect line. And all you could do was stare.

“We are the Saja Boys."

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Of course. Demons apparently existed. And you were now bound to five of them. They had you at their mercy. ‘What do you want from me?’ ‘You work as a manager, don’t you?’ 'Yes…’ ‘Then make us famous.’ ‘Unforgettable.’ ‘Desired.’ ‘Envied.’ The man in the center smirked. “Make us be loved by everyone."

Did I stay until 12 am stressing over the format and this little fix? Yes, yes I did. I've never posted but seeing how this movie has gained popularity and how loved the boys are, I wanted to write for them.

We barely see anything from them in the movie, so I'll probably take creative liberty to write their personalities. This might work as the starter for individual series (for each member) but it all depends if you guys actually like the idea or not Jajaja.

Which reminds me!

The original prompt belong to @soldmygenderforglitter and I took some liberty to develop it! I hope you like it!!

Ppl who also liked the idea: @arieslucy @lylian333 @silverklaus

[npookie0]

Rap Your Way To His Soul

In a world where hunters fight demons every day and try to keep the Honmoon strong with their songs, you are a demon different than any other - instead of stealing souls and working for Gwi Ma, you are a niche soloist rapper who found another way to not die from starvation and block his voice. One day, the world shifts and a new boys band appears our of thin air, a demon boy band. You tried to keep away from the conflict between Huntrix and the Saja Boys, until one day you've been paired with the boys band's rapper who discovered your secret. "But Gwi Ma never mentioned another demon being on surface…?" "Yeah? Well he never said that he'd build a boys band either."

Words: [ 2954 ]

Tropes: forced proximity, you help him discover something about himself

cws: scenes of fighting, spoilers for Kpop Demon Hunters

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So I'll give you a heads up for my idea about Baby's personality before you read it! To me Baby is a unbothered king basically, he doesn't really care (his face when they're at the signing with Huntrix) but he can also be a cunning bastard when he needs to be (Your Idol rap moment the faces he makes there, the way he's smirking at Huntrix when Saja Boys takes their leave) but since his band archetype is being the baby of the group (his name is literally Baby) so I will assume that he's the Maknae and is the youngest so he will also be childish in a way, please accept my interpretation of that guy

You were a niche rapper in the Korean music industry, sometimes you were invited to some variety shows, either doing some rap challenges, do things that were supposed to bring entertained to the viewer like trying to sing a popular song that didn't include any rap, or, rarely, had an opportunity to talk about yourself.

You enjoyed these moments, interacting with your fans, performing for them, even if there weren't that many people you were still excited to give them a chance to see you again and grow a bigger audience.

Even a demon like yourself was weak to the charm of happy fans.

Though, you would hardly call yourself a demon. Besides the patterns and abilities you used for special effects you weren't that demonic. Not after you found yourself on the surface at least.

At first, you were like any other demon, trying to devour human souls, you heard Gwi Ma, you felt shame and misery. Yet, after finding your love for music everything changed, you started your small rapper career, gained fans and most importantly of all, got your soul back. Thanks to regaining your soul you were able to stop feeding off the energy stealing souls gave you, instead you got energy from your fans singing your songs with you.

You knew about Huntrix and their identity as demon hunters so you avoided them at all costs, you didn't want to fight them and lose the life you built for yourself. Every time you were invited to an event for idols, no matter how tempted you were to go, if you knew that Huntrix would be there too you would make up an excuse to not go and politely refused the introductions.

Other than Huntrix, you didn't follow any news from the high ranked pop groups, so you were unaware of the Saja Boys blow up and their rivalry with the three hunters, to you they were a boys band that you didn't really care about.

So meeting one of them on a variety show was a surprise to say the least. Especially after you saw what he was.

But, let's start from the beginning.

You got a call from Play Games With Us, they invited you to take part in a new game they came up with "Rapper Wars", since you are a soloist rapper yourself you accepted their invitation.

"Hi Y/n! It's good to see you after so long!" The host greeted you when you entered the stage. Your fans screamed and clapped when they saw you, chanting your name.

"Hi everybody! It's good to see y'all after so long!" You replied, waving at your fans.

The TV crew fixed up your and a few others rappers' make up, while that was happening you looked around the stage. You knew all the rappers present there, with some you even made songs together.

You know all of them, except one. A guy with teal hair, wearing a pink baggy sweater, yellow beanie, skinny jeans and sneakers. He had a lollipop in his mouth, he had a thoughtless expression, like he didn't really care about being there. But where the lights turned on he suddenly became all sweet, sending hearts to the camera and smiling.

Sure, a lot of idols have two personas, that wasn't a shocker, but at least they pretended to be nice and sweet if the cameras were off too.

"Hello, hello! We hope you're excited because today we have prepared a special game for everyone!" Said one of the hosts.

The other host chimed in with a big beaming smile. "The game is "Rapper Wars!" But our favourite handsome host, what is the game about? You all are probably asking yourself and don't worry, we will explain it now!"

"Yes, yes, yes. Explanation time! So, as you guys can see we have all our favourite rappers; Chaeyoung from Twice..." The host introduced each guests, while camera pointed at them to smile and wave. "And finally we have our newest rap stage star, Baby Saja from Saja Boys and our beloved soloist Y/n!"

Baby? That's an.... interesting name....

"So, in our game these talented artists will make teams of two and will have to perform together, the duo who wins with all other contestants will perform a song they have to write together in the next episode of Play Games With Us!"

After some more explanation everyone started to pair up and soon you and the guy from Saja Boys were the only people left. You made your way over to him and outstretched your hand to him.

"Guess that we'll work together now." You said with a gentle smile. You had no reason to not like him so you could be friendly.

He looked at your hand and then at your face, he squeezed your hand. "Yeah." Was his only response. Well that was definitely a start.

You two were asked to sit down in one of the "rap thinking zone" areas that the hosts prepared for all of you.

When you two sat down you took a closer look at Baby and noticed a weird shift on his skin, you focused on his neck and then you saw them; the patterns.

The same patters you had. That guy's weird behaviour and name made sense now, he's a demon. But why would a demon be in a boys band? Were the rest of them demons too? Was it Gwi Ma's idea? What if they discover you too?

You were so lost in thought that you didn't realise that Baby was calling you until he started poking you with a pen. "Hey. Hey, hey! We have to win this, so work." He pointed at the papers in front of you.

"What? Oh. Yeah, right. Sorry." You coughed and picked up the papers filled with song lyrics.

You were glad that the demonic rapper wasn't really paying attention to you so he wouldn't notice the patterns you had to bear on your own skin. Maybe having your soul helped you seeming more human to the demon.

The two of you worked, silently rapping the lines you assigned to each other. You had to admit that for a demon he was pretty good, even better than most people you worked with before.

"Do you want to perform with a choreography or just focus on rapping?" You asked.

"I don't really care." He had a similar reply to most questions you asked. You started to notice that he was lacking in dealing with interactions. Sure, maybe he was a good rapper and had some acting skills, he barely spoke and couldn't keep up the sweet act all the time. It was almost funny to look at.

"Now Baby and Y/n will be fighting Syngwon and Joel! Let's see who wins!" The host annouced and all lights turned at you, Baby and your opponents.

You shared glances with Baby, who was still unaware of your secret, and the performance began.

You felt energy fill you when the show's fans joined in, chanting and singing. You didn't pay attention to anything other than the feeling of freedom and love that filled you. You performed perfectly, interacting with the fans and encouraging them to join in.

You won. This round and then five more. You won the event.

You were filled with excitement to the brim, a mix of your own feelings and the emotions you absorbed from the fans. It felt great, you didn't even care about the weird looks Baby gave you when you stood together on the stage and said goodbye to the viewers.

"Didn't know that demons walked so freely amongst humans." You stopped in your tracks when you heard an ominous and monotone voice coming from behind you.

You were on your way back home, groceries in your hand. You slowly turned around and there he was, Baby in his full glory. Instead of cute clothes he was wearing black robes and a gat, his hair was darker, his skin was greyshly-blue with darker patterns all over it and his eyes, piercing deep into your own, were yellow. He looked similar to how you looked in your demon form.

"You didn't have to sneak up to me, y'know?" You groaned. "So, you found me out, huh?"

He smirked, circling a lollipop in his hand. "Wasn't at all hard, I saw the souls that shared their energy with you, I saw your patterns." He pushed himself of the wall and teleported right in front of you. "it's really interesting."

"What is?" You looked at him, unimpressed with his confidence.

"Y'know," he took your hand in his and your patterns showed, "the fact that a demon has a music career and doesn't eat souls." He raised an eyebrow. "Why's that Gwi Ma didn't receive any soul."

"I don't work for the tragic king of demons." You shrugged and started walking, if he wanted to talk to you he could follow you.

"Wait, what?" He asked confused, going after you.

"That. I don't do anything for Gwi Ma, I don't send him souls, I don't hear him. He doesn't know that I'm here."

He chuckled, amused by your words. "Don't joke around, we all hear Gwi Ma, it's impossible not to hear him!"

You turned to him and sighed. "Yeah? Guess I'm a human then."

Your pace fastened suddenly and teleported away from him, creating a longer distance with you.

Baby caught up to you and grabbed you by your wrist. "How did you... how did you get your soul back?" He suddenly sounded serious, there was a tinge of hope in his eyes.

You looked at his hand holding your wrist and pulled it away from his embrace. "I can tell you about it later. We have to work on a song together anyway, so why not figure each other out while we do that. hm?"

"Hah, you could rival Mystery with your secrecy. Sure, sure, demon soloist, I'll see you." He saluted you before teleporting away.

You shook your head and made your way back to your apartament. Looks like you've got yourself a very interesting artist to work with.

"So, what's the deal with you and the cute appearance?" You asked once you and Baby were in your recording studio. It was secluded so no one would hear your demon related discussion and you knew it well enough to be safe if he tried anything.

Baby looked at you from over the lyrics you were writing. "Jinu came up with the whole boys band idea, we're supposed to steal the hunters' fans and destroy the Honmoon." He shrugged.

"Destroy Honmood to feed the dying king?"

"Something like that, yeah. I don't really care, I just want to get a reward for suffering like this."

You chuckled. "Really, what a terrible fate you must be living. Wearing cute clothes and beign adored by all. What a nightmare."

Baby looked offended with your reply, just scoffed and suddenly was very eager to work on the lyrics.

"I'm so glad that this whole suffering is done for me, no more Gwi Ma, no more killing humans."

"About that, how do you not starve?"

"Hm? Oh, that." You leaned back in your chair. "Basically it's about people willingly sharing their love with me, if they share it, it flows into me like river water into the sea and that's my main source of energy."

"So that's why you went for music huh?"

"Kind of."

"Kind of?" He titled his head, confused.

"Yeah, kind of. I love singing, always did, even with my broken demon voice. I love the adoration I receive and the fans. This is why I'm still stuck in Korea even if I know that Huntrix could find me at any moment." You looked at him. "You don't feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"The happiness coming from love. Your fans love you, adore you."

Baby looked at you after hearing your words. He took some time to answer. "They're humans. I eat their souls and that's what matters."

"You don't believe that."

"I do!" He shouted. "I know what I believe, and humans are nothing but food to me. I sing to steal their souls."

"Whatever makes you happier, Baby Saja." You looked at the papers in front of you. "What if... I take you out tomorrow?"

"Huh? What?"

You ignored his question. "Do you like amusement parks?"

"..." He looked away. "I never was to an amusement park."

You perked up after hearing his answer. You took him by his hand and he jumped up in his chair. "Well, you'll be in one tomorrow! Cancel all your evil-world-domination plans, cause we'll be having lots of fun." You smiled beamingly and you could swear that you had a tinge of smile on Baby's face.

The following way was truly magical. You took Baby to your favourite amusement park and the fun started when you barely stepped through the main gates. Fans surrounded the two of you, asking for pictures, autographs, declaring their love and so on. You glanced at Baby between every fan interaction and you could tell that even if he felt a slight discomfort, overall he had fun. He eagerly signed every picture and even laughed when his fans recreated his famous "goo goo ga ga" from his first appearance in the variety show.

After the first big wave of fans you took him to a roller coaster and many other attractions. For you, they were somethings you already did so you had more occasions to pay attention to the growing kpop star next to you. And saying that he had was an understatement. Shooting targets, bumper cars, even the Ferris wheel.

You saw the light in his eyes, the excitement and pure emotions. He didn't look like a gloomy, tired of everything demon like the first time you met him. He was actually interested in the attraction he took part in.

You took a break on a bench before your last surprise stop. A corndog in your hand while Baby had a giant pink cotton candy. He swayed his legs back and forth as he pulled away pieces of the sweet snack and ate them.

"Enjoying yourself?" You asked, reaching your hand to wipe a piece of cotton candy from the man's cheek. He nodded energetically, his eyes glowing. "Didn't know you had such a sweet tooth." You chuckled.

You waited until the two of you were done eating and pulled him off the bench. "C'mon! There's one more place I want to show you." You rushed him and forced him to follow behind you as you led him through the crowded amusement park.

You reached it, the aquarium. You were wondering if taking him there was really that good of an idea since he seemed to like the adrenaline quickening attractions more, but your worries were washed away when you saw him glued to the glass and gently poking it with his finger while a fish tried to catch his finger. He looked like a kid who saw real fishes for the first time.

You were forced to hold his hand while you walked through the building or he'd get lost while he looks at sharks or something. You didn't really talk, Baby was busy watching and chasing fish - not really caring if he forced you to chase them with him. And you were watching him, seeing the slight shifts in his aura. He felt less hostile and negative than he did before, maybe it wasn't a big chance, but you saw potential in him.

You saw a chance for your new companion to find freedom.

"Hey, Y/n?" He asked suddenly when the two of you stood in the middle of the biggest room in the whole aquarium.

"Hm?" You hummed in response, looking at a hoard of jellyfishes swimming by.

"How does it feel... to not hear him?"

You turned around, looking at the man who's expression was now stiff and serious.

"Ah, Gwi Ma." You turned back to the jellyfishes and pointed at them. "I feel like them. Unbothered, just swimming by everything. They know that they won't be safe forever, but they live by present not future." You smiled and looked back at him. "That's how it's for me. I know that I'm stil a demon and the hunters may not be forgiving even if I wish they would, but it doesn't matter to me. I have the things I love and the people who love me, that's what I live by now and I know that there's no demon king who can take that away."

Baby didn't answer, he looked at his hand holding yours and...

There was a glow, it was slight, weak, barely there.

The blue glow of his soul.

It was warm, gentle, but still had some sharp corners.

It seemed like he didn't notice that, but maybe it was for the better. You wanted to see the progress yourself, for him to not feel terrified or pushed to do more or less, to maintain or reject that soul that came back to him.

"We should get back, we have a song to make." You squeezed his hand.

He pouted. "But it's so fun here."

"We can return after our performance, you big kid."

"Pfft, okay." He scoffed.

"I've got an idea for the title." You said when you left the amusement park.

"Really?"

"Yeah, we'll call it; Freedom."

Maybe it wasn't a very original idea, but in your mind it created a perfect image of what Baby could get if he and hid friends tried hard enough to accept their mistakes instead of living in endless misery because of them.

Okay my first ever Baby x reader fic done! Writing it was hard but I hope that you guys like it! The next ones will be better I swear <3 I just need to get a better hang on writing these handsome demon boys

See you my dear Kpop Demon Hunters fans

Nate <3

[moonstruckme]

hiii bb

first off all GURL YOUR WRITING IS LITERALLY TOP TIER I CANNOT WITH IT—

and second, i saw you had your requests open and while i’ve never done this before i really, really would love it if you could write a poly!wolfstar with reader coming from a pretty similar family background as sirius and gets triggered by loud noises and remus is in a bad headspace because it’s just a few days before full moon and he accidently yells at her and reader just shuts down and tries to brush it off because she thinks she’s being dramatic and tries to act unruffled but sirius sees through it and overall just hurt/comfort, pretty please? ILY

Awe thank you lovely! For both the sweetness and the request <3

cw: migraine, reader panics because of shouting/aggression

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

Remus has told you to leave him alone more than once. You know that you should, that you really ought to make yourself scarce because these moods before the full moon almost never yield good things. The issue is that you care about Remus more than consequences, and as a result you’re not very good at doing what you should. 

“Hey,” you say gently, when he passes you by on his way back to his desk with another cup of tea. “That’s too much caffeine, lovely. You’ll make your headache worse.” 

“It’ll be fine,” Remus grunts. He continues on his way, and, despite Sirius’ look, despite knowing better yourself, you give chase. 

“You’ll regret it if you have another,” you reason, following him to his work-cluttered desk, which has been shoved temporarily into the darkest corner of your bedroom. “I know some caffeine helps, but too much—”

“I know how it works.” Remus’ voice is low. Low, but not thin. He doesn’t look at you as he sits down. “I need it, alright?” 

You take a breath. Yes, you can see how you explaining Remus’ own migraines to him might not be well received. But it’s not easy to watch your boyfriend act against his own self-interest. 

Remus has described the feelings leading up to a full moon to you before. He said it feels like something sizzling under his skin, or crackling. It’s not entirely pleasant, but it gives him more energy than he ever has otherwise. Makes him restless, productive, lively. Eventually, though, that energy builds into something he can barely tolerate—that’s when the migraines usually start. Remus gets irritable, his joints ache, it’s like his body is trying to hold something no human can, waiting for the full moon and the chance for Remus’ not-human body to expel it all. 

When you think about how much energy he’s storing, that electric sizzle under his skin, caffeine hardly seems necessary. Until you take into account that Remus has hardly slept for the past three nights. Then you wonder if perhaps his brain can no longer keep up with the tireless dynamism of the rest of him. 

“Maybe you should rest for a while instead,” you try. 

“I have work to do.” 

“It’ll still be there after a nap.”

“And I suppose I may as well just wait until after the full, then, yeah?” 

“I mean, maybe.” You pick up on Remus’ sarcasm, but you don’t disagree. “You can’t be expected to just power through when you’re having such a hard time.” 

“Really?” There’s bite in your boyfriend’s voice now. Enough that you retract the hand you were about to set on his shoulder. “I can’t be expected to? That’s exactly what’s expected of me. I don’t just get a week off every month.” 

You push out a frustrated breath. “I know, and that’s not fair—” 

“None of this is fair.” Remus turns in his seat, glowering with such virulence it shocks you despite the argument you’d thought you were prepared for. “There aren’t allowances made for lycanthropy. If I told my boss that I need a lighter workload and he made the connection, he could report me to the ministry. I can’t afford to complain about how my head hurts or indulge in naps and breaks when everyone else keeps working.” 

His voice rises, and he’s suddenly taller than you, looking down on you. He stood up. Your ears are ringing. 

“If everyone else is able to handle their workload during the full, I have to, too. Do you understand that?” 

You find you can’t speak. There’s a horrible ache sitting in the base of your throat which won’t let anything out. You nod. 

“Do you?” Remus seems exasperated. Baffled by your naïveté. “I don’t want to be told that I shouldn’t be working. I don’t want to be told that I can’t have caffeine to get through it, because I know what I have to do, and that’s not something you can understand. Alright?”

“Alright,” you choke out. 

“Do you get that?” 

“Yes.” 

“Remus,” says another voice. You don’t turn, but you don’t need to; Sirius always follows the sound of shouting. It’s habit for him. “That’s enough, love.” 

“I was done,” Remus snaps. 

Sirius’ hand wraps around your elbow. His fingers feel cool, or maybe you’re only hot. You feel very, very hot. 

“Hey,” he prompts softly. Now you look at him. Sirius’ expression is all tenderness, and it feels like whiplash. “You okay?” 

You dismiss the question with a shake of your head. Your ears are still ringing. “Yeah.” 

You look back to Remus. You can’t help it. You want to fix, and to leave, and to dissolve. But Remus is the epicenter of everything, and you feel as though taking your eyes off him even temporarily is a danger. 

“Let’s be done squabbling for now,” Sirius says, his voice unnaturally light. “We’ve all said our piece, yeah?” He gives your arm a gentle tug, and you take a step back. You’d been nearly right up against Remus, you realize. Frozen to the spot where you’d gone to rest your hand on his shoulder. Sirius runs his thumb over your skin before asking again, “Are you okay?” 

Tears invade your eyes without warning. Your face burns, and you feel it screw up in an attempt to keep them from falling. “Yeah,” you say unsteadily. “I’m just—so—sorry.” 

Two things happen seemingly at once: your voice fractures, and Sirius crushes you to him. 

Remus exhales. You hear the creak of his chair taking his weight again. “Shit.” 

“Shh, I know,” Sirius murmurs, petting your head while your tears spill over to wet his jumper—Remus’ jumper, which smells like both of them and probably also you. “I know, baby, it’s okay. You’re safe here.” 

“I’m sorry,” Remus says. His voice sounds muffled, as though he’s speaking into his hands. 

“No, it’s—I’m sorry.” You sniff, trying to wipe under your eyes. Sirius keeps you held to his front. “It’s not your fault.” 

“It is my fault.” 

“I believe I said we were done with the squabbling.” Sirius kisses your head firmly. “What do you need, sweetness? Some quiet? Time to breathe?” 

“I’m okay. Really, I’m fine.” You give Sirius a grateful squeeze before letting him go. He lets you, but watches you concernedly as you swipe a knuckle underneath your eyes. The ringing in your ears has faded to near nothing, aftershocks trembling through your fingers in its wake.  “I’m fine. I just—needed a second. Sorry.” 

Sirius makes a quiet sound. “Stop that. You don’t have to be sorry.” 

Remus nods his agreement. His head is in his hands, you can see now, but he lifts it up to look you in the eyes. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you.” 

You shake your head. “You were right. I was insensitive. And I don’t know why I reacted like that, I’m just being dramatic.” 

“Oi,” Sirius cuts in sternly, though half as stern as he’d usually be even to tease you. “I’m dramatic. Get your own personality.” 

That gets your lips to twitch a little. You watch as Remus sends him one of his fond, exasperated looks. 

“You weren’t being dramatic,” Remus says to you. “I shouted at you. However angry I was, that’s not alright. I’m sorry I scared you.” 

“You didn’t scare me.” Your eyes are beginning to burn again. You try to blink through it. “It was just—it was—” 

“I understand,” he says, softly. His expression is still taut with pain, but some of the harsher lines have melted away. “I’m sorry anyway. Do you want to come here?” 

Sirius hums satisfiedly when you go sit across Remus’ lap and wrap your arms around his shoulders. He draws his hand up and down your back slowly, with enough pressure to ease away any lingering tension coiled around your spine. You breathe out. Sirius doesn’t hold out long before he’s there too, curled around the two of you and squeezing heartily. 

“You two aren’t allowed to fight,” he mutters, kissing your head and Remus’ in turn. “In order for me to be petty and vain, I need you to be the sensible ones, understand? This is a delicate ecosystem.” 

“I don’t know,” you hum. “I think Remus should get breaks some way or another around the full moon. Can’t you take a sensible shift once a month?” 

Sirius lets out a sigh like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, but you hear the gentle sound of him pressing another kiss to Remus’ head. “Suppose so. Only once a month, though.” 

[hyacinth-in-a-haze]

Morning routine- Yandere kidnapper! x fem reader!

This is incredibly Yan nanami coded, and I refuse to apologise

@snail-day you understand the vision

---------------------------------------------------------

There is starting to be a routine to these days now.

He likes to let you sleep in most mornings, preferring to get up himself to do the chores and get breakfast ready for the both of you. Today he has chosen to make you a treat and go for pancakes, allowing them to come to room temperature on the kitchen table while he gets you up.

Your routine begins with the unlocking of your hand cuff while he peppers your face with kisses. Even though by now you've mostly settled into your role as his sweet little lady, he cannot be too secure. (Especially after the incident with you trying to break open the child safety locks in the bathroom cabinet) he always without fail will check for any bruises or sores to kiss better as you lay limply in his arms. You used to be much more of a wriggler he remembers but he supposes you probably still have some of the sedative in your system. No worries, he can simply carry you to the bathroom. Sitting you down onto the little shower stool he installed after your last accident caused you to hobble round the home for a few couple months. He decided the stool was a good precaution to avoid any further accidents between you two.

He unbuttons your sleep shirt easily before turning the water on, making sure it's just perfect before he cleans you off from the night before. Taking extra care when his fingers graze your inner thighs to only wash off the memories of last night with a tenderness he didn't show you then. Tilting your hair back to rinse shampoos and conditioner- a small fortune spent on what goes into your routine. Once you're clean it continues, he wraps you warmly and sits you down to your ten step skincare routine. Always setting a two minute timer exactly for him to brush your teeth. You're still so lethargic for this, opening your mouth without resistance. Before you'd end up spitting out blood by the end of it, but now he can be much more gentle.

Again he carries you to the bedroom, drying your hair before he picks out a new outfit for the day. Your wardrobe consists mainly of sundresses, not because he prefers how you look in them. But because they are just far more accessible for the both of you, easier to slip on and off. He helps you up again, you can walk now but he just wants to be safe when it comes to you, taking your arm to carefully lead you to the table.

By now your pancakes and hot chocolate are lukewarm as he cuts them into bite sized pieces. Gently feeding you as he calls out sweet little praises, dabbing at the syrup that falls down your chin with a delicate sigh. Your eyes don't react much to this anymore, each swallow is wary as if you wonder which bite will contain the sedative that keeps you frozen on the sofa while he is at work. But if you refuse to eat he is not above forcing nutrition into you by any means necessary. For all the gentleness that he performs now, it has cost you every sharp tooth and nail you fought with.

Once the plate is clear he gives you the little cup of your vitamins and pills. He tries to make sure your diet is well rounded but unfortunately it is hard to keep your vitamin d levels up from within the flat. Perhaps one day the two of you will have a garden with a tall fence around. Then maybe you could go outside for a bit each day, maybe without supervision. But for now you'll only feel the sun on your face through an open window. The pills have changed since you first were brought to your new home, originally it was only sedatives and birth control. One to keep you complacent and the other because a baby right then would have not helped you to settle down. Now the sedition is at a much lower dose, carefully weaning you from it to avoid any long term effects, and the birth control has swapped places with the prenatal vitamins, just in case any happy accidents occur. On some days they change, after your last accident he withheld any pain relief for a week to make sure you learned the lesson properly. He wouldn't want to have to teach you again.

He takes the cup up to your lips waiting for you to swallow them, you open your mouth when finished to prove no pill was stashed away. Your obedience is rewarded again with another flurry of kisses, trailing down your neck to the collarbone. He only stops once his alarm goes off, reminding him to leave for work in ten minutes, grumbling as he fixes his tie and loads the dishwasher.

He takes you to the living room finally, placing you down on your side of the sofa, a blanket draped over your shoulders and a second left over your legs. He reminds you that there is a snack plate and a lunch box ready for you in the fridge for when you get peckish. There are different hobbies to occupy you within arms reach, all of them domestic and soft just as he wants you to be. Embroidery, knitting, reading. The remote is available but he has most things on child lock so there isn't a point. He places a sippy cup of water down on the table as though that's nothing out of the ordinary before he crouches in front of you expectantly.

You lean forward and graze your chapped lips against his forehead. He brightens up and returns the kiss to you with all the passion you lacked.

“Goodbye my heart, I'll call you once I'm on break.”

He reluctantly makes his way to leave, making sure to not slam the door on his exit. Leaving you to collapse into the nest of pillows and wait.

He didn't even leave your cane to help you get around.

[batsandbirdbrains]

Ok Dick biting Hal as a kid has got to be one of my favorite headcanons of all time. Like atp it IS canon to me. But now I’m imagining Dick biting all the members of the JL at least once because they’ve done something that’s either pissed him off, or pissed Bruce off. Hal is obviously bitten first and everyone thinks he’s exaggerating or being a big baby about how much it hurts. Then Clark gets bitten because Bruce got hurt on a JL mission where Clark was supposed to be watching his back. And to be fair, Dick growled at him before he bit, which was far more warning than Hal had received. When Dick sinks his teeth - some of which are still baby teeth - into Clark’s meaty, Kryptonian arm, it shouldn’t hurt. But somehow Clark is tearing up as he lets out a pained howl. It takes both Aquaman and the Flash to remove Dick. Clark doesn’t use that arm for two days, wincing every time he jostles it. How and why Dick bites the others is up for interpretation. Eventually, once all of them have been bitten, they call a meeting about it. Not to get him to stop or anything, just to figure out why it hurts so fucking much. They’re all throwing out various theories when someone says “No seriously, what hell does that kid put into his bites?” when Dick emerges from the shadows and says, deadpan, “Vengeance.” before cackling evilly and disappearing. They all shudder before deciding to never piss him off or talk about his biting ever again.

Also now I’m kind of imagining Dick and Slade fighting for the first time when Dick is just a little gremlin and Slade is like “pffft as if this fourth grader could beat me” only to panic when said fourth grader sinks his teeth into him so hard that he still has the scar years later.

I'm imagining Bruce seeing how Dick's go-to attack is to bite people, and he immediately makes a specialized mouth guard for him. It perfectly molds to his teeth, but it's extra sharp and leaves a different imprint than Dick's actual bite. Mostly so no one can compare dental records or anything to the scars that Dick will no doubt leave on many, many people. It has to be updated regularly when Dick is still young because of him losing his baby teeth.

The first time Dick bites Superman is because he brought Batman back to the Batcave in terrible shape. They'd been on a mission together, it was supposed to be quick, easy, no big deal. And now Dr. Leslie and Alfred are working on him in the Batcave medbay, and Dick just turns to Superman with tears and rage in his eyes. And he launches himself at him and attacks.

Clark yelps as soon as he realizes ouch, he can feel that! What the hell!

"Dick! Dick, let go!"

"You promised you'd bring him back home safe!" Dick cries, but his words are muffled, his teeth still sinking into Clark's arm. "He got hurt!"

"I know, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Clark says quickly. "But he's going to be fine, Dickie, it's mostly just a broken arm and a concussion!"

Dick is growling and hanging off Clark's arm, until Alfred comes out and announces that Bruce is ready to for visitors. Dick unlatches quickly, then scampers over to Alfred, still sniffling. As soon as he catches sight of Bruce, he starts whining and crying and cuddles next to him on the bed.

Clark never makes fun of Hal for the ankle guards again. Dick really does have crazy sharp teeth. Clark's arm is bruised for days around the puncture marks, and he's left with a scar on his arm in the shape of Dick's mouth.

A few months later, Dick has started hanging out with Garth a lot. They become pals. Very good friends. Best friends, almost.

And Garth hangs out with him one day and looks so glum and down in the dumps and says how Aquaman was mean to him during training, but it's okay, it was Garth's own fault. That doesn't sit well with Dick. No one makes his friends upset and gets away with it.

The next time Dick accompanies Bruce to the Watchtower, Dick locks in on Aquaman and chomps right on his arm. Like eating a fish stick. Aquaman yelps and tries to pry him off, asking him what happened and what's wrong and why the hell is Robin biting him?

"Don't be mean to my friends!" is all Dick says before he stomps off to go back to Batman's side. Before he reaches Batman fully, he turns and locks eyes with Aquaman, making that creepy I've got my eye on you gesture. It sends a shiver down Aquaman's spine.

He bites pretty much every other JL member for various reasons between the ages of 8-11. When they eventually call a meeting for it, Batman just stares at all of them with an unimpressed look.

"Perhaps you should try not upsetting him," Batman tells them, then turns on his heel and leaves. Dick, who'd been hiding under Batman's cape, grins at all of them and sends a taunting little wave before the cape covers him up again.

Dick first encounters Deathstroke at the ripe age of nine. During said encounter, Dick is terrified. Deathstroke is talking about wanting to make Dick his apprentice, how he's going to steal him from right under the Bat's nose, and Dick panics.

And he resorts to biting the exposed skin he sees when Deathstroke tries to nab him by his cape.

He damn near bites Deathstroke's hand clean off at the wrist. It startles Slade so bad that he shouts, throws Dick off to the side, and is distracted just long enough for Dick to run away and get back to the Batmobile.

Dick is panting and a little freaked out as he relays the story to Bruce from the safety of the Batmobile as Bruce drives them home. Bruce reaches over and pats Dick's head, his own heart beating so hard in his chest.

"Good job, chum," Bruce says softly. "Use every weapon you have. Always."

Dick nods his head, wrapping his cape tight around him.

[rainrot4me]

Creepypasta Men Twitter Links - Part 2

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๑ jeff the killer

Jeff knew he was right to kidnap you, you were just too pretty to not take home. It’s been a week now, do you think anyone’s still looking for you? Do you even care?

Jeff loves when you try and run. When you think you even have a chance of getting away from him. He might let you get a few feet away, but he’ll he dragging you back onto his cock with a laugh before you can get your hopes too high.

Jeff isn’t a graceful man. The most gentle he can get is when he’s fingering you open for his cock, holding you down and prepping you just how you like it.

Jeff loves when you get all nasty and depraved. You’re so desperate to cum you’ll do whatever he says whenever he wants it. He always makes sure to reward you for being so filthy.

Jeff gets so hard when you let him go as fast as he wants. You don’t try and stop him, just lay there and take it like he knows you can. You’re nothing but a fleshlight to him anyway.

The people in the room next to you could probably hear every knock of this headboard against the wall. But Jeff didn’t care. If he was going to have to spend his night in a filthy, two-star motel, then he was going to find something to make it enjoyable.

๑ ticci toby

What was Toby supposed to when you kept grinding back on him in your sleep? He couldn’t just ignore it, not when your panties are already soaked and leaving wet-spots on his boxers. Was it cause you were dreaming about him?

Toby only wore a condom because you were nervous about getting pregnant. But proxies can’t reproduce, no matter how many times they cum deep in your cunt. Looks like you finally figured that out…

Toby can’t believe he’s never done this before. How has he never fucked you when it feels this good? When you grip him so tight. He doesn’t think you’ll be able to stay just friends after this, not now that he knows how wet you get when he touches you.

Toby knew you climbed onto his lap because you wanted his cock, but he was going to make you work for it first. If you could come on his fingers, then he might just give you what you want. If he’s still up for it.

Toby who doesn’t know how to touch you yet. Doesn’t know where’s he’s supposed to put his hands or how he’s supposed to hold you. But what he does know, is that moving his hips like this makes you get really tight on his cock.

Toby knew this was bad. But when the proxies accidentally gave you too many sleeping pills, he was put in charge while the others went to find something to reverse the effects. He’d be quick, he promises. You’ll never even know he used you like this.

๑ eyeless jack

Jack always enjoys making you watch yourself cum in the mirror. Forcing you to look at every expression, every noise, every lewd thought that comes out of you. Be careful not to look away, he likes to stop and make you beg him to start going again.

Jack knows exactly how to angle his hips so he hits every sensitive spot inside you. You’re falling apart on his cock, barely making a sound from how choked out you are, body completely at his mercy.

Jack knows his way around your body. Every inch, every curve, every spot that makes you cum so hard you’re drooling. He always loves what pressing right there does to you.

Jack knows you can’t fit him inside yet. That’s alright, he’ll make sure you both still feel good.

Jack won’t always admit to his oral fixation, but when you’re dropping to your knees and begging to suck his cock, he can’t help the growl that tears from his throat. Just how much spit can you get all over yourself, huh?

Well good morning to you, too. Jack can barely get his hollow eyes open before he’s looking down and seeing your panties hooked around your ankles. At least let him wake up first so he can really show you how good he can make you feel…

๑ masky (tim wright)

It took forever for you to stop crying every time Masky broke into your home and dragged you out of bed. But when you finally stop begging him to stop and start begging him to go faster, he can’t help but reward you for being so good.

Masky hates when your stupid panties get in the way. But he doesn’t have the patience to take them off, so it’s not his fault if he ruins them.

Masky and you were supposed to take a quiet little getaway trip to his cabin near the lake. So when you stroll out from the bathroom in a tiny little lingerie set, he can’t be held responsible for just how loud he makes you. There’s no one around to hear you cry anyway.

Masky said he was sorry. He didn’t mean to make you upset. There had to be a way to make it up to you, he’d do anything. Anything.

Masky can’t help himself. Not when you’re laying on the motel bed across from him and arching so sinfully in your sleep. You keep shifting your hips, spreading your legs like you know what you’re doing to him. He’ll be gentle, but he just can’t resist it anymore.

Masky is starting to second guess taking that viagra. He didn’t know it would affect you so bad, he can hardly keep up when you’re riding his cock so fast it’s practically going numb. At this rate, he’ll cum before you do.

๑ hoodie (brian thomas)

Hoodie loves it when you can’t stop. As soon as he quits thrusting, your hips are moving to make up for the lack of stimulation. He could almost laugh, he’s got you so cock-whipped you don’t even realize it, or maybe you just don’t care anymore.

Hoodie always wonders when the two of you leave his bedroom why you get so many stares. You’re not being that loud, right? It doesn’t matter to him when you feel this good anyway. You can be as loud as you want when you cum on his cock.

Maybe this will teach you to talk back to him. Hoodie only wants what’s best for you, but if that means being bent over his lap and getting spanked so hard you’re crying, then that’s just what he’ll have to do.

Hoodie never would have thought being gone for so long would’ve made you so eager. It was only a couple of days, but apparently that was enough for you to push him into the coach and have your way with him. Maybe he should go on missions more often…

Hoodie can’t hide the boner in his jeans any longer. If you’re going to walk around town in those nasty little shorts, then he can’t be held responsible for what he does when he drags you back to the truck.

Hoodie knows he can have you any time he wants. He’s earned that right. It doesn’t matter how busy you are, if he decides he wants your cunt, then that’s what he’ll get.

๑ ben drowned

Ben can’t get enough of your new shorts. What is he supposed to do when you parade around in them, leaving absolutely nothing to his imagination. It was only a matter of time before he ripped them off of you anyway.

Ben has worked so hard lately. You think he deserves a little reward for being so good.

You bought this new vibrator for you and Ben to try. But when he takes a hold of the toy, and it starts vibrating at a pace faster than any of its normal settings, you just know he has something to do with it.

Ben always promises he’ll watch a movie together without having sex. But it’s always your hands that start to rub his leg first. The two of you never make it halfway in before you’re completely lost in each other.

Ben can’t believe you’re still cumming. What is this? Round 4? 5? It’s all good with him, he won’t stop until you’re sobbing and he’s shooting blanks. But until then…

Ben is too lazy to put it all the way in. You’ll be fine if he just fucks your thighs, right?

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[shikitsuka]

It's absolutely greenwashing and sadly looks like it's working

Yees give us your old clothes for a coupon and we'll recycle them! Go buy more clothes we made!

The end is there's still more clothes, often plastic ones that keep shedding microplastics and will Be There for a long time

But then of course it's working, all that advertisements are supposed to do it create needs you didn't have before seeing the advertisement. Advertisements seek to make you buy More

The only way that companies geared towards profit would honestly encourage the whole Re cycle is if there was some monetary reward put in place for how long x thing they sold is in use

That or just straight up scarcity making it impossible to actually buy more. Like clothes before fast fashion, in hard times, where they'd come from your seamstress mother that'd sew them for you. Cloth is expensive. Each piece takes time to sew. So of course then you're gonna have few clothes but they'll be good quality and last for long. And you're gonna take good care of them because that's just what you do to Important Things. Which will make them last even longer.

No longer fit to wear out even with repairs? Home clothes. Too ragged for home clothes? Cleaning rags until they disintegrate.

What I'm saying I guess is that we have a hard habit that we need to make, being bombarded by advertisements trying to spark us buying more, and with no scarcity naturally motivating us to preserve. Being wasteful is easier, now. Repairing takes time. Quality clothes will cost more. Actually ethically made clothes? Even more. It's so much easier to keep buying cheap bad quality clothes that will then demand More Frequent repairs and will totally disintegrate faster too. Why bother, throw it out. Buy some new ones. And of course since they're so cheap you might as well buy 5 more shirts as a treat.

I think without developing some sense of duty about not wasting, some internal belief that will reward you in place of the repair process being discouraging, it's impossible to truly stick to the whole reusing cycle for long. It's not meant to be rewarding or easier, companies are hard at work so that it isn't. The reward has to come from inside you

Remember "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle" ? I feel like there's been a distancing from the "reduce" and "reuse" part and a favoritism towards "recycle" by corporate American.

Capitalism can still thrive with recycling in the mix. You buy Plastic Thing 1, throw it away after one use, and they take that and recycle it into Plastic Thing 2 and sell it back to you. All while continuing to harm the environment.

Reusing puts a damper on things. They can't sell you Plastic Thing 2 when you're still using Plastic Thing 1. Plastic forks, for example- there is literally no reason why you can't reuse plastic forks more than once (aside from maybe microplastics, but it's too late for that)

Reducing is the one everyone wants to ignore. Just don't buy Plastic Thing 1. You don't need Plastic Thing 1. Pick up a set of metal forks and use those for years. Convenience is killing the planet

[eraserbread]

i LOVE ex husband gojo with all my heart🤞🏻

pls do one where he catches you still wearing the ring 🙏🙏

oh, it's the perfect day to love ex-husband gojo... ✧

→ f!reader, drinking, smoking, angst, suggestive but sfw

for two people who swear they never want to see each other again, you and satoru do have a funny way of always bumping into each other.

living in different neighborhoods, you still frequent the same stores in his—and vice versa. his friends are your friends, and satoru was your friend before you started dating. a part of you wishes it stayed that way. yes, he was a debilitating flirt who made sure you felt his need, but it was cheeky—fun.

now, you're staring at him half-lidded, barely able to see the glisten in his eye from across the room.

you have to give it to your friends. they definitely tried to keep you two apart, but sometimes, it's impossible. suguru knew the bartender here, but shoko didn't tell you that suguru was the one who invited her out—you should've known.

now you're standing with your back to the wall, fingers squeezing the cup's rim so tight you wouldn't be surprised if it shattered in your grip.

satoru is so fucking tall, towering against the doorway, hidden behind dark glasses. his hair is shorter, all mussed up with delicate precision. half-done button-up shirt, tight pants, glossy shoes—you're gritting your teeth.

"who's dying first: you or suguru?"

shoko's leaned over the marble bar, long hair pulled back in a clip. she's cradling a cigarette between her fingers, exhausted but tipsy enough to hide it over against your wound demeanor.

she reads that ugly look on your face, then turns over her shoulder. you can't believe she laughs when that familiar, lanky body comes into view.

"how was i supposed to know gojo would be here?" she replies unenthusiastically. there's no way satoru didn't notice you two here, but you can tell suguru is trying to keep him at bay—perhaps he didn't even know. actually... scratch that. suguru definitely knew.

and it's such a slap in the face because you were sober. it's been two weeks since you crawled in toru's bed. no contact was going beautifully.

"suguru, then. got it." you deadpan, steely eyes cold and harsh as they bore laser beams into satoru's shadow. he's hunching down, talking to some strange girl with a hand on her shoulder. suguru's laughing next to him, no care in the world.

you swallow down the rest of your bitter drink, gulping it twice to quell the aftershock. then, you slam it down on the bar next to shoko, hands shaking as you storm off to the bathroom.

lucky you—it seems like he didn't even notice you. in the oddly pristine bathroom mirror, you're avoiding your ruffled reflection at all costs, hands wet and shaking as you strain and work at your ring finger, trying to rid the evidence of satoru's ring from your skin.

it wasn't even your size—the ring was his grandmother's—but you loved it. he never asked for it back after signing the marriage away, so you kept it—not as a sign of love, but one of wealth and purity. it's a small, priceless ruby rock blending in with your dark outfit seamlessly.

there's no way you drank enough to be struggling and shaking like you are, but not even wetness from the faucet could make it slide off of your hand. it gets stuck at the worst moment—you feel like you're gonna hyperventilate.

just as you feel the metal start to give, the unmistakable creak of the bathroom door renders you silent and still. you're too on edge to look behind you, shaking like a candle in the wind as it draws shut. the lock clicks.

"crazy running into you here." satoru's voice—the one that haunts your dreams—splashes over your back like ice water. you sputter. "it seems like every time I've seen you since, you've been drunk... or high on something. I don't like it."

"i-i-i'm-i'm not h-high." you stammer, squeezing your eyes shut in meek embarrassment. "you s-should leav-leave."

"well, i locked the door... i'm sure we have a few minutes to ourselves." he coaxes, deep voice sweet and tempting as he gives it to you. you're finally able to look up at the reflection, fire spreading through your veins at the sight of him this close. you can't see his eyes under his dark glasses—thank god.

you hope he didn't notice your shaking hand covering the ring.

"you stopped calling me..." he muses, closing in on you and the water-stained sink. you're starting to sweat with nerves, thighs buzzing in anticipation as his heat grows unbearable. "and showing up. made me worry."

"i can't keep running back to you when I need sex. it's not right."

"but, you know i can give it to you exactly how you need it." he whispers, the front of his toned, hard body pressing against your back. you let your head hang, embarrassed that you aren't pushing him away and running for the hills. no, you relax under his touch. your hands fall.

between the kisses satoru is pressing to your neck, he notices the small shine on your finger. your jewelry reflects the light, and you wear a lot of it. most of the silver bands and diamond bracelets were from him, but that ring on your finger...

he reaches out, snatching your hand in his grip. under his glasses, his eyes are wide and focused, gaze quivering like he's staring at his demise.

you choke in surprise. "what?!" his grip is tight, your fingers flex and strain in his hold, heart falling when you realize what he's fixated on. "l-look, I just had it o-

"why did you start wearing it again?"

it's an odd question, but satoru knows you took it off the day you left him. he kissed it the night prior once you tucked into bed—there's no way he'd miss its return. for some reason, this gets him going. his blood pressure rises. seeing his family ring on your finger felt like a leash and collar keeping you connected forever.

his guts swim.

"i-it matched my nails. stupid, i know-

he shuts you up, bringing your spindly finger to his lips. he stares at the pristine, spotless glimmer against the hue of your skin and the shine of water, and just can't help himself.

he leans in, closing his lips around the ornament like he was trying to suck it off.

you feel so trapped, his free hand is crossing across your tummy, thick forearm flexing as you wiggle. you claw at the meaty flesh on his arm, head falling back into his chest.

you hate how good he feels. you hate the security of his body pressed to yours... you're so ashamed, you wish this ground could open and swallow you whole.

[azzinator3000]

Locked Doors 

Word count (so far): 2K 

Content: Friends-to-lovers, secret relationship, intense sexual tension, UConn season 2023/2024

Warnings: Mature Content (Minors DNI)

CHAPTER 1 - SOFT SPOT

Paige wasn’t sure what scared her more — that Azzi stayed the night, or that Paige kind of wanted her to. No, actually — not kind of. She wanted it. She definitely wanted it. 

Which was… a problem.

Because this wasn’t supposed to be like this. They had their thing, you know? Their rhythm. Their rules. Well, not rules exactly, because neither of them ever really said anything out loud. 

But there were rules.

Azzi was right there, asleep in her bed. Paige could hear her breathing, could see the soft light hitting her brown skin, the little rise and fall of her shoulders under Paige’s old t-shirt. God, she hoped she was wearing underwear. Paige was honestly too scared to check. 

A part of her felt dirty for even thinking it, for looking at Azzi like this, for wanting something so uncomplicated to suddenly become so messy and demanding. But the dirtiness was mixed with a thrill, a possessive burn in her gut. Azzi, here, in her bed, wearing her shirt. It felt… right. Too right.

And it’s not like this was the first time. This was college. They did this. That’s just what it was. 

Paige didn’t even know if Azzi liked girls, she never asked. She never asked because — well, she didn’t want to hear an answer that would ruin this thing they did. 

Maybe Azzi just liked her, and that was easier to sit with. The idea that Azzi was only drawn to her, Paige Bueckers, not the concept of girls in general, was a selfish thought. But it was a comforting one, a private vanity she clung to.

Paige knew she liked girls, of course she did. She always knew. She’d been messing around with girls long before Azzi ever showed up on campus. 

But that wasn’t something she could say, not out loud. Not as Paige Bueckers. 

Paige Bueckers? She’s a shooter. She’s clutch. She’s marketable. She’s not gay. 

Well, she is, but not in a way that fits the story people already wrote for her, the one with the clean, straight lines and the wholesome, All-American appeal. It was an unspoken contract, signed in endorsements and public appearances, that her private life would remain just that: private, and preferably, utterly conventional.

It was weird, right? That she was bothered people just assumed she was straight, but she also never really corrected them. She accepted that this was how it had to be. 

Except… then there was Azzi. Azzi, with her soft voice, her big heart, her perfect family, her laugh. Azzi, who Paige would do literally anything for. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t even a secret. It was just Paige and Azzi. That’s how they worked.

 Paige would tape over the windows to block the sun, but after Azzi started, well, showing up more often, she stopped doing that. She let the light in, even though she hated it in the morning, because Azzi was scared of the dark. Paige could never let her be scared. 

And now here they were. Morning. Quiet. Paige sitting there, hugging her knees to her chest, trying not to lose her mind, realizing Azzi slept over. Azzi stayed. That wasn’t their thing. Their thing was the stolen moments, the frantic rush, the quick, desperate relief, and then the return to their separate lives. Azzi rarely spent the night. 

And the girls? The girls definitely saw them. Paige vaguely remembered the door creaking open last night, the shuffle of shoes, someone whispering, and Paige trying to laugh it off, like it was nothing, like, haha, we just fell asleep. But no one really said anything. 

A soft rustle from the bed. Azzi stirred, a soft groan escaping her lips as she burrowed deeper into the pillow, her dark curls splayed against the white cotton. Paige’s breath hitched. God, she was beautiful, even rumpled and half-asleep. 

The morning light, which Paige usually abhorred, seemed to halo Azzi, highlighting the caramel tones of her skin, the gentle curve of her neck. Paige felt a familiar possessiveness clench in her chest, a primal urge to keep this sight, this moment, all to herself. She wanted to lean down, press a kiss to Azzi’s forehead, feel that soft skin against her lips. But she didn’t. Not yet. The rules, unspoken as they were, still held a subtle power.

Azzi’s eyes fluttered open, blinking slowly against the sunlight. For a moment, she looked disoriented, then her gaze landed on Paige, sitting on the floor by the bed, and a slow, sleepy smile bloomed on her face, dimple flashing. That smile. That fucking smile unraveled Paige every single time.

“Morning,” Azzi mumbled, her voice thick with sleep, a little hoarse. She stretched, arching her back, and the t-shirt rode up, just enough to reveal a sliver of toned midriff. 

“Morning, Princess,” Paige responded, her voice coming out a little rougher than she intended. 

But then Azzi’s face changed. Like, she remembered. Like her whole body tensed up all at once. 

“Wait—” she sat up, eyes wide now. “Oh my God. I stayed over.” Paige’s stomach dropped. This was it. The moment the fragile bubble burst. “Azzi, it’s fine.” Paige tried to keep her voice even.

But Azzi was already spiraling, grabbing her phone like that was gonna solve something. “No, no, no, this is bad. They’re gonna think—like, if the girls saw me leave this morning, they’re gonna think there’s, like, something going on.” Her voice was a frantic whisper, her eyes wide with genuine alarm. 

She glanced at the door, then back at Paige, her caramel skin looking paler in the bright morning light.

And Paige just blinked at her, sitting there like—what? You think they don’t already know? You think they didn’t know when we disappeared last night, mid-Jena’s dance moves? You think they haven’t known for years, since we were barely teenagers and I couldn’t keep my eyes off you at USA camp? Since your first UConn party?

Paige’s throat went a little dry. She didn’t know why. Maybe because she’d just realized Azzi was scared. Like, really scared. Like, this wasn’t just pretending-it’s-nothing scared. This was don’t-even-let-them-think-it’s-something scared. 

or Azzi, this was still just a casual hookup, a fun, illicit thrill with a friend. Paige felt a hot surge of annoyance, mixed with a deeper, more painful sense of embarrassment. 

“It’s fine,” Paige said quickly, forcing the words out, because Azzi was pulling on her shoes like she was about to sprint out the door, her movements jerky with anxiety. “I told them you were drunk. That’s why you stayed.” Lie. A complete, unadulterated lie. She hadn't said a word to anyone. 

The girls had let them be, as they always did. But Azzi’s shoulders relaxed, just a little. The tension drained out of her, replaced by a visible wave of relief. And Paige wanted her to feel better. Even if it meant lying. 

Azzi gave her this soft little smile, still half-flustered, but grateful. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Thanks, P.” She zipped up her jacket, grabbed her small bag, and gave Paige one last, quick, almost apologetic glance before hurrying out the door.

Paige just nodded, watching her go. The door clicked shut, leaving a silence that felt heavier, colder, than before. Paige wanted to scream, to break something. She wanted to grab Azzi and shake her.

Paige sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, the spot where Azzi had been still warm, a ghost of her presence. She pulled herself up, her movements stiff, and headed out to the kitchen, a restless energy buzzing under her skin.

KK was there, leaning against the counter, scrolling through her phone, eating dry cereal out of the box because, you know, of course she was. Aubrey was perched on a stool nearby, humming along to something in her headphones, probably already awake for hours, having finished her morning lifts. Ice was nowhere in sight, likely still passed out.

“Well, well, well,” KK grinned without looking up, a spoon clattering against the cardboard box. “Look who finally came out of her love nest.” Ice took off one headphone, a knowing smirk on her face. “Took you long enough, P. We were starting to think Azzi had you chained to the bed.”

“Don’t start,” Paige muttered, pulling open the fridge aggressively, the harsh fluorescent light doing nothing to improve her mood. She wasn’t even hungry. She just needed to do something, anything, to dissipate this frustrated energy. 

The thought of Azzi’s panic, the casualness of her exit, grated on her nerves.

“Okay, but like—” KK’s grin only widened, “—are you gonna tell us when the wedding is or should I just pencil in spring? We need a head count for the national championship party, might as well combine.” “Shut up.” Paige’s voice was sharper than she meant, laced with a bitterness she usually reserved for bad calls on the court.

She slammed the fridge shut, rattling the bottles inside.

KK raised an eyebrow, finally looking at her, her expression losing some of its playful edge. “Whoa. Okay. Relax. We’re just messing around.”

“Yeah, well, maybe don’t.” Paige’s voice was, icy. “You guys don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“We literally do,” Aubrey interjected, leaning forward on the stool. “We heard you two stumble in last night. And we saw Azzi leave just now, looking like she’d run a marathon”

 “You don’t.” Paige’s jaw was tight. She knew they knew. She’d always known they knew. But Azzi didn't. And that was the problem. 

That was Azzi's problem, and now it was Paige's.

KK tilted her head, studying her, a rare seriousness in her eyes. “Okay. You’re mad. Like, actually mad.” She held up her hands, like, I’m out of this. 

“Whatever’s going on, it’s between you and Azzi. But don’t get all cold with us when we didn’t do anything. We’re literally just trying to support  whatever the hell that is.” 

Paige clenched her jaw. She knew that. She knew KK wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Paige wanted something that wasn’t hers to want.

This was supposed to be her senior year, her championship run, and instead, her heart was getting twisted into knots over a girl who saw them as nothing but a 'night rush.' It was messy. It was a distraction she couldn't afford.

Just then, the door to the room opened again, and Azzi came out, wearing her jacket, still looking a little shaken but smiling now, all soft and sweet again, like the panic from earlier never happened.

 She’d clearly just come back from her own room probably to grab something or just to make a point of leaving Paige's room properly.

“Hey, guys,” she said to KK and Ice, her voice light, innocent. Then her eyes found Paige’s. She brushed past Paige, lightly bumping her shoulder, a casual, friendly gesture that felt like a slap in the face. 

“You okay, P? You look… intense”

Paige looked at her, and yeah, her heart softened immediately, which was annoying. 

Like, seriously? Seriously? You’re just gonna melt like that? All that anger, all that frustration, it just… evaporated the moment Azzi’s eyes met hers. 

Paige Bueckers you’re pathetic

“Yeah,” Paige muttered, forcing the word past her tight throat. “I’m fine.” The lie tasted bitter. 

Azzi smiled at her, real and bright, and Paige hated that it made her feel better.

KK watched the whole thing, chewing slowly on her cereal, her gaze shifting between Paige’s softened expression and Azzi’s guileless smile. Aubrey, too, had put her headphone back on, but she was definitely watching, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“Huh,” KK said finally, once Azzi had turned to chat with Ice about their morning practice schedule. 

“So, you’re all sharp with us, but with her, you’re soft. Interesting.” 

Paige shot her a look, a venomous glare that usually made KK back off. “KK.” 

“Just saying.” KK shrugged, unbothered, her eyes twinkling. “Guess we know what your weakness is, Bueckers.”

But Paige couldn’t even stay mad because it was true. She was soft with Azzi. That’s how it worked. 

Paige could act all tough with the rest of the world, she could be the fierce competitor, the unyielding superstar. Azzi? Azzi was the soft spot. Always was.

[iatrophilosophos]

Hmm well my thoughts are as follows

I am an anarchist and thus not invested in how we build systems of knowlege that effectively interface with the legal system because i do not believe we should have a legal system, generally speaking, so none of my responses here are actually going to answer that for you.

The dichotomy of "science vs vibes" is both incredibly funny and incredibly annoying to me, and a complete failure of imagination or grace on behalf of all who propose it.

This is of course what thr academy dose and why I hate it. It's the cornerstone of maintaining the western progress narrative: academic ideas are good and order, all others are chaos and vibes.

Science is a tool. It is also a religion rivaling Christianity in scale, scope and obsessive-yet-liturgically-uneducated believers. I am interested in science as a tool; I am fully disinterested in fundemental faith assumption of science (that the universe is governed by consistent and knowable laws). Science as religion pleads an optimism about how its *supposed* to work and discards objects of criticism as heretical. I refuse to engage with this perspective. The purpose of a system is what it does. However, i am going to endeavor to talk about the fundemental flaws of science that would still be present without capitalism and specifically bad-faith (academic def; do not earnestly believe what they have said to be true) actors. I am doing this because I DO think this critique is essential to understanding the limitations of science and how we utilize it + other systems to our best advantage.

Science is a toolset for generating a predicitive model, because humans love predicitive models. They're very useful! They help us make choices like how to care for plants and the land, what foods to eat, what medicine to take. There are actually many other tools for generating predicitive models, and I will speak to one shortly. Science accomplishes this by identifying an observation, hypothesis and variables, running scenarios in different configurations to see what may happen, and concluding something either about the experiment itself or the nature of the world. We accomplish those conclusions these days through the application of statistics, which can do some really nasty shit--not just making results seem more promising than they are!

Science is optimized for big answers on a fast timescale. It is a really useful tool in a lot of applications. In the medical field, I can say wholeheartedly that im a big fan of the scientific model as applied to communicable pathogens. I like cultures and i like testing novel antibiotics to see if they do what we want them to do. The situation of a mass outbreak is one where we want a big fast answer.

However, this tool has a lot of limits that I dont think are adequately described by just talking about the replication crisis or specific scientific atrocities. I want to push back on the idea that its "throwing spaghetti at the wall"; cuz i think we both know thats not actually true. Its testing hypotheses based on observations.

Observations are cultural. I firmly believe that one of the problems with psychiatry is that the perceptions, the "common knowlege" as is being derided here, of what Madness is and how it works predate science significantly, and they're ugly. The lobotomy is not throwing ugly evil shit at the wall and seeing what it does. The lobotomy is the "observation" that a certain kind of mad person is the way they are because they are over-active, too much, want stuff too badly, are plagued with an urge to sin so great that it must be excised before they can be saved by willpower and prayer (therapy). The hypothesis then follows: if we have "observed" that Mad people are "too much", we cut part of them away. If we have "observed" that Mad people desire incorrectly, we inhibit their ability to desire. In this way, the logic of the lobotomy is still active in the world and still being used to generate atrocities that I firmly believe we will look back on as a horrific stain on the history of official medicine in 10, 20, 50 years.

Psychiatry and psychology are easy to poke holes in, but this issue is at play in other areas of medical science as well. I am less well versed, but my associates in cardiology will very-unhappily tell you that a similar caliber of "observations" into the nature of human beings, specifically Black people, plague their field and cause deaths they themselves have witnessed firsthand.

The other foundational problem with science is statistics. This is why science as a legal basis actually sucks shit, though as I said im not really interested in constructing more legally-appriopriate knowledge sets. Statistical analysis as the bar for evaluating experimental results can tell us what works most of the time in most cases; especially in those high-quality mass-scale studies. There will be a number of cases where something doesnt work that works most of the rest of the time, and a number of cases where something works that doesnt most other times. I fucking care about statistical outliers. I am one. People i love live in this space. Land i love lives in this space. I believe there is value in high-reward low-risk low-likelihood interventions being widely available. I fully and completely reject the cultural value that most people is good enough, let alone the bar to strive for.

So, alternatives? There isnt one alternative because I dont subscribe to science as religion and thus I do not require it to be an all-encompassing world view or thrown on the trash heap; and i feel this way about other predicitive modeling tools. I believe in doing things that get the results i want for myself, my loved ones and social relations, and the land we participate in; without exploiting others in the process and in a way that hopefully supports others in achieving the same. Many tools fit in that box. I will however take this moment to soapbox about what im gonna term "conversational knolwege" because I think its an interesting model that kind of precursors our modern understanding of citations but retains a lot more nuance.

One benefit of science, and i think WHY it lends itself to systems such as legality, mass medicine, and so on: it endeavors to replace interpersonal trust and deep individual basis of knowledge. Who this benefits is a hell of a question: on the day to day scale, we can say it benefits the average person. It's nice not to have to trust your doctor, a person you probably dont actually know, who has financial and social interests that might diverge from your own, to have your best interests at heart: let alone agree with you on what your best interests actually ARE or have the knowlege and decision making skills to help you get there. Its nice to believe that everything will be okay, that there is an answer, and that you arent personally responsible for making hard decisions in the world. On the mass scale, this way of living doesnt benefit us, it benefits power. Medical codification as a stage of empire is an entirely different can of worms i could talk about forever but suffice to say: medicine is a constant cultural practice present among all people. States get big. In the same way they endeavor to retain power over people by preventing them from feeding themselves etc; they outlaw, burn, and replace the common medical culture with a system more conducive to control. Prescientific medical models have also been used in this way; as are the state-backed nonscientific medical models traditional Chinese medicine and Ayurveda (medical nationalism is another can of worms we can talk about with all three, western industrial, tcm, ans Ayurveda, but especially tcm...its rlly fucking interesting. Don't even get me started on the medical models of colonized countries that fall somewhere between these three powers. Aaaa! I love this shit. Anyway).

Point being: this benefit is damage control for a society that perpetuates itself via deskilling the population. What does generation and transference of knowlege look like in populations with high individual skills?

One answer is conversation. It goes like this:

Person A spends their life engaging with an area that they are passionate about and have a high aptitude for. Maybe its a field of medicine, drug production etc, maybe its a field of engagement with the land like food production or having trails that dont erode to shit or building structures that work well for the beings using them. They come to an understanding of the world based on what they personally see happen (notably, not "vibes", watching something over years is NOT the same as reading half of three news articles and adopting a worldview based on it, I think we can all agree that the latter is an unhelpful way to engage with information). They collect students who learn those worldviews. Maybe they write a book or in oral traditions, pen a folktale with something important to say about the world. Person B is one of their students just starting out in the world. They compare this worldview to what they experience. They travel, sometimes hundreds or thousands of miles, to meet a person with the same role as person A in a different community. Person B learns different things and, by transporting what person A knows into a new context, finds problems with it, and finds where it succeeds. Person B teaches. Person C, a student of person B, has a both what person A and person B thinks, and continues the process adding their own voice to the conversation. Person C carries these three perspectives and communicates them to person D, by saying who told them what they have to repeat and in what context. This "citation" is then allowed to carry elements of personality, reputation, and nuance in trust. This happens over and over again for thousands of years. Every lifetime makes it better.

The problem with this engagement of knolwege is that it is slow. It leads to understandings of the world that are not as good at adapting to the chaotic and rapidly changing conditions of our modern world and its documented to be not as good at responding to drastic shifts (e.g. natural disasters) in history. It requires every individual to participate to at least some degree in the stewardship of knolwege. It requires willingness to break from dead ends and acknowledge we were wrong. Ugly things have happened when we fail to do this and especially when social configurations make it harder: for example, societies that abuse their children are responsible for some of the gnarlier and more shocking historical medical practices, because doing something to someone when they are a child is an easy way to make humans keep doing stuff that sucks (sumn we're otherwise fairly good at avoiding).

What it is very good at is creating skillsets that are nuanced and treat situations as individual; it is good at making knowledge systems that account for statistical outliers. In part, it is because its a system that DEMANDS an answer to *why* something is known: even moreso than science, because a citation doesnt suffice, we are forced to interrogate to trust.

Maybe, especially to folks who are already fully bought in to the logic of the academy, this system cannot shine a candle to the imagined benefits of a perfect science. As I said, I refuse to engage with the imagined benefits of a perfect science, because we might as well start talking about what we should do if the moon is made of cheese. And what the real world right now has to say is that a large swath of interventions generated in these traditional modes WORK, when trialed in good faith; with limitations for drastic shifts in climate, bodies etc occurring over the last few hundred years, +/- the severing of many of these traditions and thus their ability to grow and change approximately concurrent with industrialization and the acceleration of *gestures* All This Shit. (For example, many plant-based drugs that were exceptionally low risk 100, 200 years ago now carry much higher risk or unknown risk profiles in an age of pharmacuetical prescriptions and way more possible drug interactions).

So, that is a way of answering "how do you know?" That is neither a scientific citation nor "vibes". I am personally most interested in hybrid strategies and novel study models because of my aforementioned investment in working with statistical outliers AND the rapid shifts in the world that are occurring in our lifetimes. I think it is imperative to reject science as religion and the comforting position that we'll solve all problems by following the right rules. I also think that its a mistake to resign ourselves to "the best we have", because the best we have doesnt fucking cut it, definitely not for me or people I care about.

So idk if thats the weigh-in you wanted but its what I got. Im not gonna put hella cites in a fucking Tumblr post i wrote before breakfast for one friend, and anyway most of this info is the synthesis of rlly diffuse inputs across historical texts, medical anthropology, conversations with mentors across the spectrum of academy to licensed practice to traditionally educated practitioners to wingnuts like myself, and a ton of dives into random questions about topics across the above spectrum. I can provide my standard entry reading list upon request and as always my #1 reccomendation for people who are new to medical anthropology is The Expressiveness of the Body by Shigehisa Kuriyama. Peace ✌️

"these researchers published a paper on something that literally any of us could have told you 🙄" ok well my supervisors wont let me write something in my thesis unless I can back it up with a citation so maybe it's a good thing that they're amplifying your voice to the scientific community in a way that prevents people from writing off your experiences as annecdotal evidence

[dreamwritesimagines]

Declassified [12] - Pressure

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves, you are so amazing🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 And please let me know what you think! 🩷

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: Having a high pressure job has its consequences.

Warnings: Explicit language, panic attacks.

Word Count: 4.9k

Series Masterlist

The news of the breakup spread like wildfire.

To be honest, you hadn’t expected anything different. This had to be one of the rare times that Caleb hated being in PR because even you could tell that he was working way too hard.

And of course, your name had been brought up multiple times, but so far there wasn’t anything actually threatening thanks to Bucky and Hazel having attended the gala together right before they broke up. 

“Mom, how did you know dad was the one?”

Your mother looked up from the bowl she was mixing the cake mixture in, then let out a laugh.

“What brought this on?”

“Just curious.” You dangled your legs from the high stool and sipped your coffee before putting the mug on the kitchen island. “Also, I would like to ask again, why are we in the kitchen? You don’t cook.”

“I’m baking.”

“You don’t bake either.”

“Well, one of the girls in my spiritual retreat said it would be a good bonding practice between mothers and daughters.”

You pulled your brows together.

“I guess today is good as any to start,” you murmured. “Fine, okay. We’re bonding, see? Tell me how you knew, other than the fact that he dazzled you with money.”

“Oh I didn’t care about the money.”

You tilted your head. “Uh, are you sure? I mean no offense obviously, but I always assumed money played a part. Safety and all that.”

“I did feel safe with him but that had nothing to do with the money.”

“So you were actually in love with him.”

“I was and I am.”

You made a face. “Oh come on, that I don’t buy. You can be honest, there’s no way you’re still in love with him.”

“Why not?”

You let out a laugh. “Because he’s evil?”

She rolled her eyes and started pouring the mixture into the cupcake tray. “He’s not evil, honey.”

“Well…” You cleared your throat. “I mean he has been bribing and extorting politicians for decades so that things work the way he wants them to work. That’s like, textbook bad. Disney movie bad.”

“Funny, I heard a lot of people say Bucky Barnes is a bad man, but you seem very eager to defend him.”

“That has nothing to do with—okay, let’s never ever put Bucky in the same category with dad ever again,” you said with a laugh. “It’s kind of like lumping The Night King and Jon Snow together.”

“I didn’t watch that show.”

“They’re like complete opposites.” You took another sip of your coffee. “Let me put it this way; Bucky would sacrifice his own life to save someone, dad would sacrifice the whole world to save himself.”

“And you, and me.”

You made a noise of disagreement.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” you said. “You yes. Me, doubtful.”

“He does love you, you know.”

“No he doesn’t.” You shrugged your shoulders. “And I don’t mind, really.”

“He does,” your mother insisted. “It’s just that, you’re both very stubborn and don’t know how to communicate.”

“That and our political stances and our principles and our goals are very different.”

“So what?” she asked as if it was just trivial, and you scoffed a laugh.

“You seriously don’t mind what he does?” you asked. “All those people he hurt? All the corruption?”

“I’m not interested in what he does at work. I’m interested in what kind of a man he is with us, his family.”

You grimaced. “That’s not how it works, mom.”

“It’s how it works with me.”

You rubbed at your eyes, heaving a sigh. “I guess this just proves it.”

“Proves what?”

“I’ve always thought that…” you trailed off. “I’ve always thought you and him were just meant to be together, but I wasn’t supposed to be in the picture.”

“Never say that!” She gasped. “We love you!”

“That’s not it,” you said with a weak smile. “No, you guys make sense together, in some very weird and unhealthy way. But I don’t, you know what I mean?”

“That’s so not true,” she said, putting pieces of chocolate into the batter in the pan. “And as I’ve said, your father loves you and me. What he does at work doesn’t matter.”

“It actually does,” you said. “You might be able to pick and choose, but I wouldn’t be able to do that.”

“Is that why you broke up with Max?”

“That dickhead voted for the opposition.”

She turned to you. “Please tell me you didn’t break up with him over that.”

“See? It doesn’t matter to you,” you said. “But it matters to me. And hey, it’s a good thing I dumped him, apparently he was cheating on me anyway.”

Her jaw dropped and she reached out to squeeze your hand. “Aw I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I don’t care,” you said. “I mastered the art of detachment thanks to the revolving door of nannies you guys kept changing when I was little, so it’s okay.”

“Well, we just didn’t know who was the best for you.”

You bit at your lip to hold back your retort.

“How’s everything at work?” she asked. “Are those rumors still going on?”

“Well, to some extent but no picture or anything,” you said. “Just whispers.”

“And you like him?”

“Professionally, yes.”

Bullshit.

It was a good thing that your mother hardly ever spent time with you, she didn’t know how to read you.

The truth was that every day your feelings for Bucky were getting deeper. You knew that Hazel was right, you knew the risks but somehow, when you thought about him kissing you…

Your brain just refused to be logical.

Granted that didn’t mean you were going to throw all the caution to the wind, but you were wondering if something was wrong with you if that didn’t intimidate you as much as it was supposed to.

“A lot of my friends think he’s too handsome to be in politics.” Her voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “And they have a lot of questions.”

“About him?”

She hummed and walked to the oven to take a look at it. “Which button do I turn?”

You jumped from the stool to turn the button. “This one.”

“Aw thank you,” she said as she put the tray in, then closed it and turned to you. “So what’s he like?”

You took your seat again. “In politics?”

“In his daily life. Why did he and that girl break up?”

You cleared your throat. “Um, difference in opinions.”

“On what?”

“No idea, that’s what I’ve been told.”

She hummed, sitting down as well. “And you guys are close?”

“Professionally.”

“But you consider him a friend as well?” she asked. “I don’t know many people who are friends with their boss.”

“You don’t know many people with a boss.”

“Fair,” she admitted. “But that’s irrelevant. Tell me more about him, we’re all curious. Is he nice?”

“Oh absolutely.”

“To you? Even with all these rumors?”

You couldn’t help but smile, then nodded your head.

“He um…” you trailed off, biting your lip. “He’s amazing, mom. I know a lot of people think there are still traces of the Winter Soldier in him, but it’s not like that at all. He’s the sweetest, I’d trust him with my life. He even—”

You stopped yourself and your mother leaned in, curiosity shining in her eyes. “What?”

“He got Blinky back for me.”

She blinked a couple of times in confusion. “Who’s Blinky?”

Of course.

You hesitated for a second before you forced yourself to smile and shook your head.

“It’s not important,” you mumbled. “Anyways, enough about me, how was your retreat?”

                                                *

The next day, you didn’t even have the time to go to lunch. You had to work on the draft Bucky had asked you to, and of course you had volunteered to go over the revisions Lucas had sent you just so that you could impress Congresswoman Gray, and your phone kept buzzing with emails every two minutes.

And for some reason, everything was louder today.

You took a deep breath, willing your heartbeat to calm down as you clenched and unclenched your hands, staring at the screen before you deleted the last line, and added a new one.

“Please don’t tell me we’re back to skipping lunch for work.”

Your fingers froze over the keyboard before you looked over your shoulder to see Bucky watching you, leaning against the doorframe.

“I had a protein bar and like two cups of red eye, I’m fine.”

His worried gaze raked over you, making your heartbeat even faster.

“I thought we had a deal.”

“I’ll eat when I’m done with this.” You nodded at the screen and he came to lean against your desk, making you bite back a smile.

“Birdie.”

You heaved a dramatic sigh at his teasing tone and looked up at him. “Hm?”

“Let’s have lunch.”

“You literally came back from lunch.”

“I can eat again.” He started tilting the screen of your laptop down but you batted his hand away, then fixed the screen again. “It’s a metabolism thing.”

“Super soldier metabolism?”

“Mm hm.”

“Good for you, I’m too busy,” you said. “I already spent enough time doing nothing with my mom yesterday when I was supposed to go over this, so…”

“You were with your mom?” he asked. “How did that go?”

“Dad wasn’t home so it was fine. Ish.”

“Fine-ish?”

“My mom doesn’t really know much about me but the parts she knows, she loves to dismiss,” you said. “They make a terrific couple with my dad, terrible parents though.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “Without them, my old therapist wouldn’t have been able to buy her second Ferrari, so I guess it wasn’t a total disaster.”

“And you can tell me all about it while we’re having lunch.”

You turned to your laptop. “Take a powder, Barnes.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the clear confusion on his face but it turned into an amused smile, a chuckle escaping his lips.

“How did you…?”

“Hey, I could have an extensive vocabulary.” You grinned at him. “You don’t know my lexicon.”

“Right. Why do I feel like you googled 40s slang?”

“I once saw you google if lavender is edible, so how about we stop pointing fingers?” you asked and he shook his head vigorously.

“In my defense, Kelsey got me a lavender latte and insisted I had to try it.”

“And what did you think? Your assistant was trying to poison you?”

He shot you a look as if you were asking him a question with a very obvious answer. “It’s Kelsey.”

You thought for a moment, then shrugged your shoulders.

“Fair enough,” you said. “But come on, she—”

You stopped talking when your phone started buzzing, making both you and Bucky turn your glances to the screen, and you both frowned at the same time.

“He’s still calling you?” Bucky asked and held out his hand for you to give him the phone, but you shook your head.

“I’ll handle him,” you said and answered the phone. “Max, go fu—”

“Wait wait, don’t hang up,” he cut you off. “I swear, this will be very civil and you’re gonna want to listen to what I have to say.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back on your chair while Bucky kept his eyes on you.

“What?” you asked crossly and he took a deep breath.

“I saw that piece about you and Barnes.”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

“A journalist contacted me,” he said in a rush. “He wanted to know whether there was anything going on between you and him while we were still dating.”

Your stomach dropped, your eyes snapping up to Bucky before you gritted your teeth.

“And let me guess,” you said. “You told him you’d think about it and now you’re calling me to ask for something.”

“No actually,” he said. “I told him we broke up because I cheated on you, because you put your career over our relationship, the very same career you wouldn’t risk for anyone much less your boss.”

You pulled back slightly. “…What?”

“I gathered ambitious bitch sounded better than greedy slut. Not that you’re either of those but you know, the guy was an asshole.”

 You let out a surprised laugh.

“You’re telling me you had the perfect opportunity to fuck with me and you didn’t take it?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re not asking for anything in return?”

“No, I just wanted to let you know,” he said. “If they called me, it means they’re working on a piece.” 

You frowned, drumming your fingernails on the desk.

“And why would you do this without asking for anything in return?”

He fell quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Tessa said she’d leave me if I didn’t go to therapy,” he said. “And my therapist made me realize it wasn’t cool, what I did. What with keeping Blinky and stuff.”

“By ‘stuff’ you mean cheating on me, or the ultimatum or going behind my back at voting?” you asked and he took a deep breath.

“Yeah. Sorry about all that.”

As much as you wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, you figured this was at least just a little progress.

Very little, but either way.

“Well, what do you know?” you muttered. “I mean you’re still an asshole, that goes without saying but I appreciate the heads up.”

“My therapist says I have um… he says I am scared of emotional intimacy. That’s why I cheated on you, he says.”

“Yeah Max, because he can’t say you’re an asshole. You’re paying him.”

“I guess.” He snorted a laugh. “How’s DC?”

“Full of people who’d love to step on your back for their own gain. I haven’t slept in two days.”

Bucky shot you a disapproving look but you waved a hand in the air.

“So you’re having the time of your life?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s good—” He started but you heard another voice coming from the other line, probably his assistant. “I uh, sorry, I gotta go. Work thing.”

“I gathered,” you replied. “It’s almost five minutes.”

“…Yeah, that wasn’t cool either,” he said. “Also sorry about that.”

“Listen, how about I send you a list of things you should be sorry for and we can get all of them out the way?”

He let out a chuckle. “That’d make therapy so much easier. Can I call or email you to apologize then?”

“Call me and I’ll see if I’m in the forgiving mood,” you said and hung up, then looked up at Bucky.

“So, great news,” you said. “A journalist asked Max if you and I had an affair while I was with him, but he said no.”

“And he didn’t ask for anything in return?”

“He’s doing therapy, as it turns out,” you said. “My belief in psychology has been renewed because honestly, if they can make Max apologize…”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a smile and you bounced your leg, biting inside your cheek.

“We need to find who this journalist is.”

“I will.” His voice was completely calm. “And I’ll take care of it.”

“You can’t threaten him.”

“If he didn’t want me to threaten him, he shouldn’t have dragged you into whatever nonsense he’s working on,” he said, making your heart skip a beat. “That’s just not how it works.”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “I thought I was the one protecting you.”

He winked at you. “It’s a two-way street.”

You rolled your eyes at him playfully as he turned his head to look at the approaching footsteps before Caleb appeared at the door and let out a groan.

“I’m like two seconds away from assigning a chaperone to you like we’re in Georgian era,” he said. “Bucky, you might be familiar with that.”

“Wrong century, Caleb.”

“Well, how about we don’t start another fire when I’ve just extinguished the other one?”

You held up your hands and turned your attention to the screen, your cheeks burning and Bucky heaved a sigh, then pushed himself off the desk.

“Make her eat something.”

“I will but did you have the chance to think about what I said?”

You looked between them. “What did you say?”

“Caleb thinks we all should have a barbeque at my new place,” Bucky said. “Something something PR.” 

“It would show you’re still relatable and that you’re doing fine after the breakup.”

“That’s not a terrible idea,” you mused. “I haven’t been to your new place yet, and I missed Alpine.”

“And the team would love it,” Caleb added and Bucky’s gaze stopped on you as if he was torn between ideas, then cleared his throat.

“Yeah, whatever,” he told Caleb who pumped his fist in the air in victory. “Just let me know when.”

“Will do!”

“And I’m not locking Alpine in the room,” he said as he walked into his office. “She gives me an attitude for days when I do that.”

Caleb approached you to plop down on the chair next to your desk.

“Thanks for convincing him.”

“I barely said anything.”

“Well, I’ve been begging him for a week and one word from you…” he trailed off and you shook your head, then turned to him.

“Caleb.”

“Hm?”

“There’s something you need to know as Bucky’s communications director.”

His grin wiped off his face in a second. “What?”

“There’s a journalist,” you said. “And apparently he’s been asking questions about me and Bucky.”

Caleb ran a hand over his face, cussing under his breath.

“Of course,” he said and pulled out his phone. “It was getting a bit too peaceful today, so why not? Be right back.”

You watched him walk out of the office and pressed your hands on your eyes before you dropped them, straightening your back.

“It’s fine,” you murmured to yourself as you turned your attention back to the screen. “It’s totally fine.”

                                      *

As your anxiety would show you; it was not, in fact, fine.

You had spent the whole day working, and now almost everyone had left but Kelsey and Bucky, both of whom were in a meeting with Congressman Murray.

And you. Working overtime.

It was already dark out, and the only thing illuminating the office was your laptop screen. You could feel the migraine slowly making its way to your temples. For the whole day, your chest hadn’t stopped feeling tight, like you couldn’t get enough air into your lungs especially after Max had told you about the journalist. In addition to all that, the work you had to cover was getting bigger and bigger, you still had one hundred pages to go over, and to make the necessary edits.

In other news, you might have bitten more than you could chew.

You typed away at the keyboard, forcing yourself to hum a melody in hopes of calming yourself down before you got up from your chair to make your way to Bucky’s office. You grabbed the file from his desk and went back to your desk, but before you could sit down, your phone buzzed on the desk, the screen lighting up.

From: Dad

We need to talk about the journalist.

And just like that, your line of sight grew narrow, darkness swallowing everything else other than the phone.

To your terror, you could feel the familiar tingling spreading over your face as your throat tightened, the breath you were taking getting stuck there. A fire burned through your chest, twisting your heart harder and harder while it tried to escape from your ribcage. You could feel your whole body beginning to shake, the floor getting wobbly underneath your feet like quicksand as you took a step back, grasping at your throat with one hand.

You’re not dying.

It’s a panic attack, you’re not dying.

Except that you were sinking.

You held onto the desk with one hand and managed to crouch down to sit on the floor as the room started spinning, your heart pounding in your ears. Nausea crashed down on you while you tried to get enough air in your lungs, your other hand balling up into fist tight enough to cramp.

You’re not dying.

You couldn’t even tell if it was tears or cold sweat running down your face; it was probably both. Your hand on your throat slipped down to your chest to press on it in hopes of soothing the pain there while you forced yourself to take another breath.

You’re not dying.

You see a laptop, you see a chair, you see a—

You hadn’t even heard Bucky stepping into the office before he rushed to you, his hands grasping your upper arms, almost frantically checking you for injuries like he wanted to see if you were bleeding.

“Birdie?”

“Not dying,” you managed to gasp out. “Panic attack.”

That made him stop only for a moment, a look of absolute relief crossing his face and he let out a breath.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re breathing very fast right now, can you breathe with me?”

You nodded your head, taking a shaky breath at the same time as him, then exhaled. For almost a minute, you followed his lead and once you weren’t breathing as fast, he gave you a small smile.

“There you go,” he said. “Five things you can see?”

That made your eyes snap to his as you took another breath. “How do you—?”

“Five things,” he said and you exhaled.

“Laptop,” you rasped out. “Chair. Papers. Desk. My fox figure on my desk.”

“Four things you can hear.”

You tried to focus, pulling your brows together.

“Your voice,” you said. “Footsteps from the hallway. AC.  Um…”

“One more.”

“The laptop running,” you said, pressing your palm on the floor. “And three things I can feel are…the marble floor, and sweat dripping down the back of my neck, which is fucking disgusting—”

“Birdie, focus.”

“And um, the wind. From the AC.”

“And two things you can—”

“Smell. Your cologne and paper. I just printed a bunch of stuff.” 

“And one thing you can taste?”

“Blood. I bit my tongue too hard.”

His eyes searched your face and you let out another shaky breath, exhaustion creeping up on you as you leaned your head back to the wall. Bucky hesitated for a second before he sat beside you, leaning back against the wall.

“How do you know grounding techniques?” you asked after a pause and he shrugged his shoulders.

“Mandatory therapy.”

“Ah,” you said, fixing your eyes on the ceiling. “Interesting.”

“And I’m guessing this is not your first panic attack?” he asked, making you scoff a laugh.

“Nope,” you said. “Been having them since I was like twelve.”

Bucky’s brows pulled into a frown. “Twelve?”

“Yup,” you said. “As it turns out, if you put too much pressure on a kid and yell at them whenever they didn’t meet the expectations, their brain gets messed up. Who would’ve known?”

“I’m going to kill your father.”

“You can’t,” you said. “If he’s dead, who’s gonna go around crossroads to make deals for people’s souls?”

“Birdie.”

“I’m fine,” you said even if your arms felt way too heavy when you raised your hand to wipe the sweat off your forehead. “This happens, no big deal.”

“How often?”

“Not regular,” you said. “Sometimes. But let me tell you, I would not last a day back in the 1940s. I saw those documentaries, my husband would send me off to an asylum and they’d try to lobotomize—”

“I’m giving you time off.”

“Tough shit, I’m not taking it.”

He gave you a look. “I’ll change the locks to the office.”

“I’ll work in the hallway.”

He ran a hand over his face as if he was straining his mind to come up with a solution and you wiggled your brows despite exhaustion.

“Sorry. I guess you shouldn’t have hired me, huh?”

“If I hadn’t hired you, neither of us would be here,” he said and thought for a moment. “Well, I wouldn’t be, at least. You would have probably made someone else win so you’d be here.”

“I wouldn’t have worked for someone else,” you murmured and he licked his lips.

“Please take some time off.”

“Nope.”

“You either take some time off, or I’m hiring someone to help you out with the workload.”

Your eyes widened. “Bucky, no.”

“Bucky yes.”

“I don’t trust anyone else with what I do,” you said. “They’re gonna miss something, some detail and then I’ll have to go over what they did anyway.”

“Either vacation, or this,” he said, his voice signaling this was not open to discussion. “You’re not leaving me with many options here.”

“There is an option!” you exclaimed. “The system we have works.”

“It obviously doesn’t if you haven’t slept in two days and the workload is triggering a panic attack.”

“It didn’t though!” you insisted. “It’s a coincidence, not a chain of events.”

“I’m not risking it.”

You huffed out, slipping a little on the floor and crossing your arms while Bucky’s lips twitched into a fond smile.

“You’re pouting.”

“I’m not pouting, I’m contemplating,” you corrected him and gritted your teeth, then rolled your eyes. “Fine. I’ll give the okay though, whoever you hire. I need to make sure they can handle this whole thing.”

“Didn’t think otherwise.”

You let out a noise of displeasure, exhaustion still heavy on your whole body and you leaned your head on his shoulder with a tired sigh. He dipped his head to nuzzle into your hair, making your stomach do a happy flip and you played with the bracelet around your wrist.

“Bucky?”

He hummed into your hair. 

“How did it go with Murray?”

He raised his lips from your hair so that you could hear him; “We’re not talking about work right now.”

“But—”

“Nope.”

“Fine,” you said with a pout. “How are you handling the breakup?”

That made him fall quiet for a moment before he cleared his throat.

“I’m fine.”

You lifted your head and sat up straighter to look up at him better.

“Are you?” you insisted. “For real? Because I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. I mean no offense but Hazel is kind of perfect.”

“She is,” Bucky said immediately. “She really is, but I don’t think—uh, I don’t think I was the right person for her.

Your heart sped up again but this time instead of dread, all you could feel was excitement rushing through your veins.

“…Oh,” you managed to say. “Why not?”

That made him fall quiet for a moment, his gaze slipping down to your lips before it snapped up to your eyes again. You couldn’t help but notice his throat bobbed nervously, and he took a deep breath as if he was trying to gather up courage.

Which was insane.

You had seen him throw himself in danger over and over again without so much as a second of hesitation.

“Because,” he started, his voice soft, “Birdie, I—”

“Hello?” Kelsey’s voice carried out from the doorway, snapping both of you out of your daze. “Guys?”

You loved Kelsey but you could swear that the urge to scream at her was way too strong.

Bucky closed his eyes for a moment as if he shared the sentiment, then opened them again, his jaw tightening. You sat up straighter and raised your hand from beside the desk.

“Over here, Kels.”

“What the fuck are you two doing on the floor?” Kelsey asked as she made her way to you and you exchanged glances, then turned to her.

“I…we—uh—”

“I think better when I’m sitting on the floor,” Bucky cut you off and Kelsey tilted her head.

“What?”

“Yeah, it’s a habit from the 1940s.”

Kelsey looked from him to you while Bucky stood up, then offered his hand for you to take it, a warmth spreading from your hand to your arm. You were still exhausted, but you looked up at him and mouthed ‘thank you’. Bucky squeezed your hand in an assuring manner, and you turned to Kelsey.

“Are we going home?”

“Sure, let’s.”

“Call me when you get home?” Bucky murmured and you nodded your head, giving him a small smile, then grabbed your purse off the desk and followed Kelsey out of the office.

“Please don’t tell me you two were having sex on the office floor.”

You let out a laugh, then shook your head.

“We were talking about his ex,” you said and cracked your neck, making a face. “And oh, before I forget, Caleb says we’ll have a barbeque at Bucky’s place this Saturday.”

“At Bucky’s place?” she asked. “All of us?”

“Mm hm, the whole team and I think Sam and Sarah will come too.”

Kelsey grinned at you.

“Just let me know if you happen to find yourself in his bedroom and need me to distract others,” she joked. “During the house tour, that is.”

You pushed at her arm gently.

“There’s gonna be people there,” you reminded her. “Lots of people. Hypothetically, even if Bucky liked me like that—”

“Did they raise you in a convent?”

“That would still be impossible,” you said as if she didn’t interrupt you. “Which by the way, he doesn’t.”

“Uh huh.”

“I don’t even think he finds me hot, to be honest with you,” you said. “It’s like Hazel said. He entertains my crush, that’s it.”

Kelsey threw her head back.

“You are so oblivious,” she groaned. “This barbecue—”

“Will be just a barbecue,” you said. “Some PR thing, that’s it. I assure you.”

[freesoul-07-blog]

Pick a Pac: Tarot 💗

Hi lovelies! This was originally suppose to be a four pile reading. However, the cards I got for the final pile lowkey gave vibe of 2nd pile of the last pac I did.

And honestly, I didn't feel like interpreting the cards again. Maybe the the collective needs to hear new messages for a change? 🙆‍♀️ If not, your crush just want us to leave them alone lol. And I respect that.

Your crush's current feelings for you 👀💥💦

How do you choose your pile? Take a deep breathe and meditate on these images. And whichever picture draws your attention the most is your pile. Tho feel free to pick more than one pile, it may have additional messages.

Pile One

Hi everyone, so right now I feel your person is working hard. They are likely focused on making money, learning new skills, & pretty much anything that would help them grow and succeed. Page generally represent new energy / early stages ... so i won't be surprise if they recently started working. Or planning on building a business. Or even trying to ground themself in reality. However, I'm also seeing a little backward energy with image of the card, as in, they are moving ahead, but not completely over the past. So that was the second card i had pulled out, but it gives off very present energy to me forcing me to interpret it first. Now, looking at the first card, I'm definitely sensing some kind of missed opportunity that this person is thinking about. Maybe they were a little heartbroken with the bloodstains. I can see there are three cups that fell and there is a lot of blood spilling. It also gives me a little three of cups energy. Okay, so I'm getting a message here that your crush and you likely did not have a concrete connection. Maybe the feelings were not even expressed here? Whatever your situation is, this person is feeling the loss of this connection. A opportunity that never truly lifted off the ground.

As I said, they're working on something, building a career maybe, but something happened recently that tug a reunion string in their heart. Maybe they ran into you accidentally? Maybe you texted? Maybe someone mentioned you? Either way, that caught them thinking about the missed opportunity. Thinking about what was years back, or months back, or weeks back, take how it resonates. I'm also seeing that with the blood spilling out of the three of cups, I'm seeing it's just fresh, somewhere they did not expect for them to still feel this way. Whatever the feelings are, I guess it resurfaced, and then they realized that, okay, maybe I still feel something, yeah, again, it also giving like a grass is greener on the other side energy, to an extent. What I'm feeling is, they are so caught up in this five of cups, three of cups energy, they're not seeing the two of cups behind them, like they think missed opportunity, they're thinking about their own resurfacing feelings and maybe like crushing on you again, that they're not noticing that maybe this connection is mutual, maybe you also feel this way, maybe you are also experiencing the same emotions.

I think this pile is mine, because tell me why am I channeling the messages that is resonating so much, okay. With the presence of three of swords here, I'm seeing this situation was likely painful for them at first. Maybe when they first liked you, when they first had feelings for you, before this reunion, it was strong & intense. I feel they were really hurt by something.

Maybe they had communicated about it for some of you.

I'm getting right now they are in a place that they are probably thinking about the pain as well, what they had experienced. They are in their mind thinking about how the situation could also go wrong, you know, like if they were to take a step towards you, if they want to, if they are considering that, then it might turn into something really heartbroken for them. And there is potential of despair for them. Regardless, with the communication energy here, they might be thinking about approaching you. There is a lot of thinking here. They're considering their emotions, they're considering their pain, they're considering the potential pain that possibly come if they try to rekindle something or if they try to initiate something. That's what I'm getting.

Another scenario I am getting is maybe they are in a relationship or situation that is no longer serving them. Maybe an ex, maybe a complicated relationship, family, anything that they are struggling with. Maybe they are in a process of letting go. Trying to heal and self reflect. It could be related to you, but it could be related to something else as well. I was going to stop the reading here, but I ended up pulling few more cards to understand what is going on. And those cards did not want to come out, so I feel like they are in a very guarded energy. So let's see what is trying to come now.I am getting that they are thinking about some kind of new beginning with you. They are feeling it, that they are feeling some kind of spark when it comes to you.

And I always associate this card with Universe giving you an opportunity, a new beginning. So I feel that this is fated to an extent for some of you. I feel Universe has some play in it, you know. Season is changing. And I feel this specific connection is probably there for both of you to step up into your better self.

I am getting that maybe some of you are not paying attention to yourself and rotting in bed and just neglecting yourself or your health or general aspects of life. And maybe this connection, oh wait, I'm probably channeling this person's energy as well. So take it however it resonates. For some of you, your crush is likely not doing well. Not paying too much attention to them. Having a bit of a glow down. And maybe this is Universe's way of, you know, pushing them to have their game up, to pay attention to themselves, trying to impress you so that, you know, this connection grows into something more. That's what I'm getting. This is definitely some kind of divine intervention. And the reason I feel this way again is because even I was feeling this way. I'm like, I was very much in my single era, not caring, you know it's been so many months since I last went on a date or had feelings for someone. So I was such in a chill space and suddenly I ran into this person and we had a little K-drama moment and I'm just like, bro, I'm not even feeling my best right now. And suddenly I feel like that Demi Lovato song: But you ... make me wanna act like a girl. Paint my nails and wear high heels. I don't remember, I think Heart Attack is the song's name, so it might be relevant to some of you.

But I feel right now is a moment that it's kind of a shift in your crush's personality, maybe for you as well, where both of you are urged to take care of yourself and be best. And yeah, be attractive, bro, you're attractive. Step into that energy. I'm also getting that one or both of you are not in a place to be in a relationship or start any kind of situation. I saw a meme early in the morning that when I'm enjoying my single era and suddenly I start liking someone. Bro, what the fuck? I don't want to like you. Something like that. And I feel maybe it's one of those energies. One or both of you are feeling that it's a very unrequited situation. That person may think that you don't like them. They also look at your situation with a very watery energy. Maybe they are a water sign, pisces specifically. I feel it's very pure, but at the same time kind of unrealistic. You guys might be similar, you know.

For some of you, you both might have similar traits, similar feelings I'm getting, because this person kind of looks at you in a way that, also maybe you're like smaller than this person and they like that thing about you. I'm seeing this person with a soft smile looking at you and they feel like you are this one true love. But one true love is like a very intense emotion, right? And since this card was in a reverse, I feel they do have this one true love feelings for you but keep it hidden. I also feel for some of you, this is a very back and forth energy, may have been happening for years on end, maybe 10 years, maybe 5 years, take how it resonates, but I feel after all this time, this person looks at you in a very like a soft way. And, matter fact, the Ed Sheeran is also coming through. Like, we were just kids when we fell in love, not knowing what it was. Like, maybe this person likes you, or liked you, without knowing why. You know, it's just like how magnets are? They are just drawn towards each other. And I'm not getting opposite energy, I'm getting very similar vibes from both of you. You guys are likely similar to each other, but the way they look at you is very original, you know?

For example, you know how Ariana Grande has so many clones? So, I feel like they look at you as this OG thing, and kind of morphing into you. Like, there is similarity between you both, but at the same time, they are kind of taking on your traits without realising or deliberately for some of you. #1 fan award goes to 🫠🫶

However, irrespective of these feelings, it's very internal.

They're not doing anything about it. They want to. I can feel it. But at the same time, they're not able to understand why they are so drawn to you.I'm also feeling that they might not be in a best emotional state. They might have mood swings. Yeah, a little emotional regulation is out of place here. I also feel like they look at you in a very high light, bro. Like you are this star person (as I mentioned already) and when it comes to you their emotions just runs high and they can't stop thinking. Like they just feel a lot when it comes to you. You quite literally are a celebrity in their eyes maybe. Yeah, and I feel there is some kind of past connection or some kind of forbiddenness to you. Like there is just yearning and yearning and yearning but nothing keeps happening. Nothing happens here.

I'm also sensing they see hope with you oh my god another song is coming through i don't know if you guys know clinton kane but there is a song called i think I'm in love and this specific line i heard "but with you i see hope again" ... i feel they feel that about you oh my gosh this is such a beautiful energy i'm dying. I'm also sensing that they are probably in a healing phase right now. They are experiencing a sense of composure, calmness. Maybe with the Fool card in reverse earlier, I feel they are coming out of it. They're recognizing their traits that are not really serving them. Again, there was some other card that spoke about the same thing. They're realizing the things that cause them pain, things about the relationship that is not good for them. And they're coming like, wow, maybe this is my wish fulfillment.

Maybe this is the reward for all the work I have done so far.They have this internal knowing about you. You know, they just feel drawn to you and they just feel this kind of connection, spiritual even, with you. Deep down they just feel very hopeful with you. And they feel like maybe there is a chance this time. "And darling, this is more than anything I've felt before you're everything." You should listen to that Clinton Kane's song, it's very beautiful. It kind of ties to Perfect by Ed Sheeran also. Similar message I'm getting actually.Yeah, I also feel that they feels nervous around you, but kind of playing it cool at the same time.Your crush likely feels that you're very mysterious. They look at you as their other half. You know, they just feel like you guys fit. They just feel like you guys are... kind of meant to be. In some way or another. They just have this deep feeling about it. Even if it does not work... or it's not working out... or it did not work out. I'm seeing this fruit, pomegranate. I don't know what it means. But I guess it means sweet. It means very... Fruity.

I'm not getting sexual vibes necessarily. But it might resonate with some of you so feel free to take it. They also intuitively feel that there is more you than what's visible. They definitely see you as very spiritual. Very wise. Very intellectual. So at this moment, they are just like waiting and trying to figure out what to do about this situation. They might make subtle moves without making it too obvious. They might create opportunities for you two to run into each other. I feel like there would be subtle moves from this person. Maybe they would message you. Or maybe they would say something on their Instagram, if you guys are connected on social media. There would be some kind of subtle way of showing their feelings.

With this moon energy, they also think that you're very secretive, like they don't understand what you feel, what you think. However, when it comes to intuition, they most certainly pick up some cues about you. I don't know, Vernon from 17 pop up into my mind, so maybe your person's personality is like him. They could be very logical, very practical, I know Vernon is T, so maybe your, crush has very logical, practical side to them. Now, I'm also seeing that this person thinks that you have been through some things. They can look at you somewhere they feel like you have experienced things that have really blindsided you, that really cut you in pieces that you don't talk about, that have had you distancing yourself from people, possibly not taking care of yourself.

Maybe they feel that you are trapped in some way. If that does not resonate, then I feel it's just, there is some kind of trapped, unsure, uncertain energy here that this person feels. Maybe they are going through something in their life that makes them feel this way, but since we are doing a reading in context to how they feel about you, I feel maybe they look at you in this way, to an extent. In respect of these feelings, I feel they crave some kind of security in relationship. So, if you guys want to come together, they might experience some possessiveness, a sense of wanting control over what you are doing, what you are feeling. So, there is a warning here. Another thing I am getting is, I have heard this thing also. You should not date people who has a history of liking you.

For example, if someone has liked you for a while, when you start dating them, they are actually dating you with this image of you in their mind that they like. So, when you don't play the part as how they have imagined you, they might not like it. They might not know how to deal with it. I don't know if this makes sense, but I do feel it's important to date people who like you for who you are and not what they think you are. I feel right now their foundation of how they perceive you is very... past Sense. It keeps giving very this thing did not work out way, lost opportunity, reluctance to getting into something, not mutual, etc. You know it's very one-sided energy and that makes them try to control the narrative in a way. If this is not about control then maybe they think that you're focused on your work, your materialism, your structure. However that resonates with you.

So that's it for your pile. I hope you liked it. Comment down below if it resonated. Your comments really help.

Pile Two

Your crush sees you as someone with a tough exterior. I know the man is holding a globe but it looked like a coconut to me. Maybe at one point you were his whole world too and now you're just ... you. Someone they used to know. Someone they still still hold a space for deep inside them. I also thought of "you used to have a face like a magazine, now you look like anyone" ~ change of heart by 1975

There’s something about you that feels heavy. Maybe you’ve been through a lot? Maybe they know parts of your past, or maybe it’s just the vibe you carry... but regardless, it makes them stop and think if they’re even ready to walk this path with you. (As I am channeling this message I keep thing about my ex love. The person I was hopelessly in love with & experienced immense pain with. So I do feel, this could be twin flame connection too)

For some, you both could’ve had an ending already & currently not on speaking terms. However, even if it wasn’t something between you two directly, there’s this “dark night of the soul” kind of energy hanging in the air. And if I am being honest, they don’t feel super elated when it comes to you. And it’s not because you aren’t special, it’s just... heavy. They might look at you as someone who struggles with self-worth. Like you’ve been feeling lost lately, unsure what direction to go in. And maybe, in that haze, you did something impulsive and that’s part of why things are the way they are now. If not you, then them. They might be in that confused space themselves. Not knowing how to come forward. Not knowing if they even can.

Before I even pulled the cards, I felt freaky energy around this pile. So for some of you, this was a physical thing. A very hot, very strong attraction that fizzled or never fully bloomed. Could be karmic. Could be one of those soulmates who come in just to mess everything up so you learn how to choose yourself. And the crazy part? They might feel that way too. Like you’re here to trigger something in them. That’s why this connection feels so mirrored.

Right now, from where their feelings are for you, everything’s stagnant. And they kind of want to keep it that way. Not because they don’t care, but because they’re not ready to open up emotionally. They do look at you as someone who challenges the norm. Maybe you did something that shocked them. Maybe you stood up for something. Maybe you’re queer. Maybe you live in a way that’s loud and honest and unapologetic. Whatever it is, it made them stop and look. Lowkey, they’re impressed.

Even if they act like they’re not.

You’ve got that “I do what I want, my life my rules, you only live once” kind of vibe and it fascinate(d) them. You might’ve even torn their mask off, seen parts of them that no one else gets to see. I don’t think they were ready for that. Also, since the start of this pile, there’s been this hip-thrusting melody stuck in my head. And I’ve been trying so hard to remember the lyrics but all I see is blurry dance moves with guy. So I feel like... this was very sexual for them. Especially in the beginning. And they’ve tried to suppress it. Maybe it was an entanglement, a one-time thing. But it wasn’t forgettable. It meant something. Even if they pretended it didn’t.

For some of you, this person might’ve been a player. But you? You didn’t feel like just another body. You cracked them open. You shook something loose. You made them rethink things. Cowboy Like Me by Taylor Swift could be relevant here. Pile 2... I don’t know. The energy in this reading felt short. Rushed. Like your person didn’t want to sit in these emotions. Like they wanted to get it over with.

So, I'll end your reading now. Let me know in the comments if it resonated. See you in the next one.

Edit: Okay, so I had completed your reading this evening but woke up in the middle of the night with a jolt of panic. I saw someone. & immediately I started thinking about your pile throughout the time I was half awake. I feel your person is still haunted by your memory. In the waking life, they got nothing much to say but subconsciously they are kinda scared of you & possibly what they feel for you. I can hear hanbin's verse from into the i-land. Another song that's coming through is parents by yungblud. This genuinely giving LGBT connection for some of you. When I turned on my phone to channel this message, I had to put my device on dnd cause they were too many messages. So I do feel they don't like facing the downloads that they get about you. I won't be surprise if you even appear in their dreams cause I was dreaming when I woke up. I don't remember anything about it tho. This is actually a theme of your reading... not remembering shit. Whatever went down between you two, your crush really got you buried deeper in their subconscious & hate reminiscing about you in physical world.

Edit 2: Okay. I finally found the forgotten song. The line that has been stuck in my mind was "pool full of liquor & you're dive in it" ... & as I had got the energy from this reading, this song is about get drunk , smashing, and if I'm being honest I thought of peak Justin Bieber. Whoever your crush is, on surface they are living their life, hitting clubs, meeting important people, smashing it... but lowkey I'm getting a violating energy. Maybe to an extent it's happening consensually & in fun way but there is a dark twist to it as well. Maybe they are spiraling and indulging into anything and everything that would keep them floating on surface. It could be your energy as well, so please take how it resonates. (Song: po up drank Lloyd)

You may resonate with the original track as well:

I double checked into the i-land and the verse I heard was "chingu ya nanun da" & turns out Hanbin's line was actually "you're another me, I'm another you" & that really confirms the mirroring energy of this reading so far. There's also repeating message of "let's run for our life" & honestly, I am genuinely concerned about you my pile two.

Idk if it's relevant to you but when I went back to sleep again, I woke up with a dream again.

Me and this specific person were at a closed room gathering where the organisers were sharing some knowledge, felt like they were teaching some practice. The person I was familiar with had some injury and had to walk with those support sticks. Now, long story short, the organisers that beating the people there ... me, this person & few more were not touched cause we didn't disobey them, but remaining folks got beaten to a point, one of them peed their pants and almost fainted. They asked us to leave, so I left thinking this person would follow me. I forgot about his injury and waited downstairs. After 5-7 mins I went back up to check why he is not coming and then I properly saw he is not able to walk, his leg is injured. Now, the bad guy came out of nowhere and asked us, why are you still here so started making excuses but something shifts as he starts behaving creepy with me. Now, suddenly I have no memory of the injured guy. All I thought in this moment, we have to escape, but he cannot run, but again, the guy is not really near me. Escaping felt next to impossible because the area is their and we can get found in snap of the fingers. So, I was just thinking of the plan. Again blur after that, and suddenly I am on road, with creepy people in car where I thought I'll get help. I passed it and sought help somewhere.

End of the dream.

I am getting very sticky, very dark energy from this pile. I tried to provide as much information I could. Maybe the dream will resonate with some of you. Please take care 🤍 Let me know, if it resonated. I'll possibly to another reading for your specific pile to gain more information if you want.

Pile Three

Right of the bat, I feel your person admires your strength. Do you have anger issues by any chance??? Maybe your crush has been this soft/ nurturing presence in your life who has seen you crashing. Lashing out. And gently hold you through the episode. You have very fiery energy to you (could be a leo) & your person is either a water sign or taurus/ libra placements. Very gentle & intuitive energy I am getting from your person. They do have mother like feelings for you. Naturally protective. They may have witness you having some kinda transformation & maybe you're in a process of breaking some cycle. Maybe a loop that you cannot / couldn't seem to get out of. They look at you with someone who has too much going on. Too many people tugging at your energy. Maybe you're fighting with multiple people all at once. You could be in a bad unfulfilling situation that this person is able to see.

The energy I am getting is "Fighting in only your army. Frontlines, don't you ignore me. I'm the best thing at this part. (You're losin' me by Taylor)" ...I really feel you're experiencing a fall put of a relationship. Could be platonic, could be career wise. Something that got you crumbling and this person has very outsider energy as they are witnessing it. It also giving "And you passed right by I was in the alley, surrounded on all sides" ~ long story short Taylor Swift

& strangely enough the line before this was "Like the war of words I shouted in my sleep" & it's 2.45 am as I doing this reading. I had woken up scared. So maybe for some of you, pile two would resonate with as well. They also see you as someone who super grounded & stable as far as your finances are concerned. But somehow the image on the card is giving lonely energy. So, I don't think they can see through how despite the composure, despite someone who comes across with immense self trust, rooted in practicality & knows how make / sustain abundance ... you are deep down defeated. Like you literally won a battle but at what cost??? It's reminding me of that Taylor's speech where she won too many awards during 1989 era yet at the end of the day she had no one to share that happiness with. On paper you have everything, but you still feel hollow. You are likely burned out too.

Your person can see you as someone who is facing challenges but refusing to learn from the past patterns. You're too stubborn right now. Maybe what you have experienced has made you skeptical of things and you no longer want to rely on anyone. Maybe you lost people, maybe someone closer to you unalive themself too. I see that you have this alternate scenario in your mind where you often think about this person where there is no pain. No pushbacks. Just laughter. Maybe you have experienced people who would enter and leave your life as they please and it got your heart blocked. You no longer want to love anyone. It's giving eight by iu ft suga. Your person wants you to come out of that energy and focus on what's still here. Maybe them? They want you to assess the way you're living life. You seek help (cause they want to help you). They want you to celebrate small moments of victories. And push through the challenges. You're one survivor pile 3. I am so proud of you. Your person can definitely see that your burden by your past that you're letting go of the toxic mindset.

For some of you, you could be traveling to take a break as well. You may have a lot on your mind, & this person wants nothing more than to unload your burden. They want to tend to your injured adult self and pamper your inner child. They want to take you away from all this pain, just like the man on the boat taking the woman & child away. Maybe it's a long journey. But your person wants you to drop the sword now. They want you to stop fighting all alone on battlefield. They are here now. Let them take care of things. They are manifesting a new beginning with you. They want you to stop hesitating & embrace what you have right now. Live in the moment with them, will you? Angel baby is significant here as well ... except you're Troye Siwan.

Having said that, they are acknowledging that you're not in the best emotional situation right now. Your inner world is a mess and you're liking crashing big time, no wonder we started the pile with the same energy. They really want you to work on your emotional regulation. How can they help you if you don't wanna help yourself? So please step up into your authenticity & approach your situation with discernment. If you've been jumping to conclusions without any facts, then please change that. So that's it for your reading my pile three. If this pac resonated with you, please let me know in the comments below.

I am sending you so much love 💞💫 See you.

[sunflowerry-vol6]

IF YOU WERE MINE || CEO Harry x Reader

characters count: 7682

summary: your husband opens your marriage, while his best friend Harry is determined to steal you

“So I decided to open our marriage.” I almost choke on my champagne as your husband shamelessly brags about it with a smirk to all our investors. Tom and I practically grew up together. We both came from wealthy families, and our parents have been friends forever, so it was already decided for us before we were born — like the rest of our lives. We went to the same kindergarten, the same school, the same university, and took over our fathers’ companies.

But we’ve changed — and Tom, not for the better. He’s one of those people you stay friends with because you have a long history, not because you want to. If I met him now, there’s no way I’d become friends with someone like that. Honestly, I would’ve cut him off if it weren’t for you. I don’t know how it happened; I don’t know what he did to deserve an angel like you.

I can’t even count how many times I’ve wondered and imagined myself in his place. I would take proper care of you. I would show you what you deserve. Hell, I would worship you. You’re incredibly beautiful, caring, kind, witty, and smart — God, you’re smart. I remember how many times you literally saved his company from bankruptcy, yet he never offered you a position or invested in your own business. But I did.

That caused us to spend more time together, but still, you never told me about this. You don’t like it, do you? Who would like having their husband rail other women and then brag about it to people from his work? God, he’s embarrassing you.

“Is it a one-way thing?” My voice cuts through all the filthy comments of these middle-aged balding men.

“No, of course not. She’s welcome to do it as well. But you know how she is — always loyal.” That sly smirk on Tom’s face makes my hand curl into a fist. Oh, y/n, sometimes I wish you were more vicious.

I nod as my eyes dart around, looking for you. There you are, politely smiling and shaking the hand of some rich guy — another deal in your pocket. You look so radiant in that dress, and I shamelessly make my way to you.

“Can I steal you for a second?” I whisper in your ear as I lean in from behind.

“I’m all done here, H,” you smile and turn to me.

“Great,” I smile softly. “Another deal?”

“There’s never too many investors,” you wink, and I can feel my knees getting weak.

“Atta girl,” I chuckle softly. “Do you know that your husband is bragging about your open marriage to everyone?” I watch your cheeks turn pink. Of course you didn’t — what a wanker. “So I was just wondering, since your relationship is now open, would you consider going on a date with me?”

Just say yes, and I’ll show you how you should be treated. After that, I know you won’t be able to go back to him or anyone else — because nobody will treat you as well as I will. Do I intend to steal you from your husband? Make you exclusively mine? God, yes. You were supposed to be my wife from the start, and now I’ll fix it.

Your lips part slightly, like the question took the air out of you, and for a second—just a second—the polished grace you always wear like armor slips. I see you. The real you. Not Tom’s quiet trophy wife, not the brilliant negotiator charming investors, but the woman who once told me she hated champagne but drank it anyway because it was “expected.”

You look up at me, blinking slowly, as if you’re measuring the weight of what I just asked. Your voice, when it comes, is quiet—but not uncertain.

“You’re serious.”

“I’ve never been more.” My voice is steady, low, only for you. “I meant every word. You deserve someone who doesn’t just admire your loyalty, but returns it. Someone who doesn’t make a joke out of you in front of a room full of men with gold watches and empty morals.”

You look down for a moment, and I swear I see your lashes tremble.

“It’s not easy,” you whisper. “Walking away from a marriage with a man you knew over a decade, even when it no longer fits.”

“I know,” I say, gently. “But you wouldn’t be walking alone.”

You let out a soft breath that’s not quite a sigh, not quite relief. “Tom didn’t even tell me he’d… announced it. I only found out last week. A phone notification. Can you believe that?” You laugh, but it’s brittle, hollow. “He didn’t even bother to look me in the eye.”

I clench my jaw. “That’s because he knows he couldn’t face yours.”

Your eyes find mine again. The pink in your cheeks has faded into something stronger now—resolve.

“And if I said yes?”

I smile, slow and real, every nerve in my body lighting up.

“Then I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. No champagne. Just us. And no pretending.” I lean a little closer, my voice dropping. “And if you let me… I’ll start showing you what it’s like to be loved properly.”

There’s a flicker in your gaze, something that feels dangerously like hope. And then—God help me—you nod.

“Okay.”

Just one word. But it’s everything.

From across the room, Tom raises his glass to you like a man who still thinks he’s in control of the game. But he’s already lost.

He just doesn’t know it yet.

We leave the gala early.

Not dramatically—no slammed doors or shattered glasses—but quietly. Elegantly. You slip your hand into mine like it’s always belonged there, like this was inevitable. And maybe it was. Maybe everything in our lives has been leading up to this exact moment: you and me, walking out together while the rest of the world isn’t paying attention.

Tom doesn’t even notice. Too busy laughing at his own jokes, surrounded by men who clap each other on the back and call it ambition. I don’t look back. Neither do you.

The ride to your place is silent, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s heavy—with everything we haven’t said. Your dress brushes against my arm, and every time the car takes a corner, your shoulder leans just slightly into mine.

You unlock the door, and I follow you in.

It still smells like him here—his expensive cologne, his taste in leather furniture, the soulless art he insists is “investment-worthy.” But as you kick off your heels and toss your clutch on the console table, something changes. The energy shifts. You walk barefoot through the hallway, not as someone’s wife, not as a socialite or business pawn, but as you.

Raw. Real. Ready.

You pause at the foot of the stairs and turn to me. “Are you still serious?”

“I wasn’t making a move,” I say. “I was making a promise.”

That stops you for a second. And then you nod slowly, eyes glimmering with something that’s not sadness anymore. Maybe it’s freedom. Or maybe it’s the first spark of something new.

You hold out your hand.

“Then come upstairs.”

It’s not sex—not tonight. Not yet.

You change into something soft. I take off my jacket and roll up my sleeves like I’m preparing for something sacred. And maybe I am. You let your head fall against my shoulder as we sit on the couch in the guest room—yours, not his—and talk.

About everything.

The things you wanted and never got. The things you dreamed of and had to bury. The ache of being seen but never understood.

And I listen. I hold your hand. I offer nothing but truth.

“I would’ve chosen you a thousand times,” I whisper. “Even if you came without the company, the elegance, the money. Even if you came to me messy, angry, torn—I’d still take you.”

You look at me with eyes that are both shattered and shining. “I don’t want to belong to anyone.”

“I don’t want you to,” I say. “I want to stand beside you. That’s all.”

A long silence settles between us, but it feels like peace. Your head leans against my chest. You breathe in. And when you exhale, it’s like you’re finally letting go of a weight you’ve carried alone for far too long.

Tomorrow will be complicated.

But tonight? Tonight, you sleep in my arms, safe for the first time in years. And for the first time in my life, I know exactly what I’m fighting for.

Taglist: @pauli-loveslouistomlinson @cherryberrystompers @hontpwk @avensgreenvans @venusnettles @nanaisinmars @sincerely-yours-marsbar @fallingwillow @myonlyangel13

[virtual202]

Seems like the influencer word is really a German thing then. And yeah, it doens’t fit perfectly either. But then we’d have to create a whole new word and I think people are too lazy for that.

And— yes. People tend to not care about what they don’t feel— or maybe it’s just my philosophy because I believe people to be inherently selfish (due to the reasoning in sentence above). However, that does cause them to demand more and more for their own gain, forgetting that others are sentient beings as well. The more abstract something is, the more we alien-ize* (for example, we understand ‘animals*’ less and sympathize with them less**) things. At least some people realize they’ve been pestering someone and stop when they’re being told.

I think it’s true when you say that we’ve been straying farther and farther from the idea that work can be fun AND raise money, and that what you do is primarily for enjoyment, not raising money. Our society just doesn’t work like that anymore due to everything being monetized (capitalism?). However, that is a problem of the society, not of the small amount of people protesting against it— like many problems the society has.* And Like most, if not all problems of society, this is incredibly hard to fix.

Not to mention, social media is incredibly young. Older than AI, but still very young. Humans are a fast adapting race, but I don’t think we’re supposed to adapt this fast to new changes, especially when you are, essentially, a large group banded together and not a single person who makes their own laws. New things constantly come up and overwhelm the old, removing it from the display shelves at a rate that we can barely keep up with. Society is changing slower and the official laws are adapting even slower. Social media is, essentially, a wild running horse with no one to stop or redirect it, and that causes such problems like shifting priorities and public opinion/behavior that leads to things like the posts mentioned above.

*: (did I write that right? Is that a word? Because my keyboard is saying I wrote that wrong but there’s also no word like that)

*: Even though we’re animals ourselves, we often seem to ‘forget’ about that and assume that the other person is talking about every animal that is not human.

**: for example, people often say that one should not weight one life against another, but were one to choose (if you take the trolley problem here, for example,) between saving a dog and five humans, the choice would undoubtedly (for the major majority) fall onto the human. In other words, only a select few would go for the dog, or make no choice at all.

*: For example, there has been… (I am unsure what it’s called) something like under-maturity going on and people have been calling it out. Problem is that people feel like 15 when they’re physically 18. I’ve seen another post of someone saying to ‘suck it up’ the other day and that ‘everyone feels like this’ and I wanted to scream and tell them that no matter if the majority feels like this or not, this is not supposed to be! This isn’t okay! There are reasons for this! And if it’s where the human life’s are going because there is more and more to learn at school, more competition and less time for people to mature, maybe the law must be changed! Society should learn to adapt to the generation, not the new generation should adapt to society. However, since it’s common for veterans to show newbies how things are run, this is often pretty hard. Actually, it’s a tradition atp. Slow dev. is often better than fast dev. but you can’t always stay the same. Actually, it has to do with other factors as well and that’s how the development is set. Hold on this is way too much to think about.

idk how to word this properly but wrt the fanfic thing you reblogged earlier. Why do fanfic writers have such different expectations than any other content hosting platform?

Like lets take youtube as a point of comparison, Engagement like comments and likes largely exists to boost the works place in algorithm, thats why youtubers put in calls to action and other engament bait. Few with decent reach even read the comments and the audience shouldnt try to develop any weird parasocial relationship with the youtuber. Fanfic authors ask for likes (kudos, because the websites gotta use nonstandard language for some reason) and comments despite them not having any impact on an algorithm, and seem to want the audience to try and develop a relationship with the author based on tumblr posts like that one.

Why the radical difference in behaviour away from the norm? And honestly with all the (usually) metaphorical blood spilled online about parasociality why are authors really surprised that the audience tries to keep their distance as is best practice with any other content producer?

okay I am going to answer this as kindly and as calmly as I can and try to assume that you are asking this in good faith. because my friend, the fact that you feel the need to ask is, to me, The Problem.

[this is, for the record, in response to this post]

fanfiction writers are not *posting content.* (I also have reservations about engaging with the term "content producer" or "content creator" but let's put that aside for now, I'll circle back to it.) you say "they seem to want the audience to try and develop a relationship with the author" as though it is strange, off-putting, and incomprehensible to you, when in fact that is the point of writing fanfiction. it is a way of participating in fandom. it is a way of building community and exchanging ideas and becoming closer with people.

if authors wanted to solely ~generate content~ that would get them attention (?? to what end, the dynamic you have described seems to equate algorithmic supremacy as winning for winning's sake, as though all anyone wants to do is BUILD an audience without ENGAGING with them, which I cannot fathom but let's pretend for a moment that is, in fact, true) then like. if that were the case why on earth would they choose a medium in which they categorically cannot succeed and profit, because it isn't their IP?

you are equating two things that are not at all the same thing. to the degree that parasocial relationships are to be avoided, and "that person is not trying to be your friend they are trying to entertain you, please respect their boundaries" is a real dynamic -- which it is!! -- like. you have to understand that the reason that is true for the people of whom it is true is because it is their JOB. they are storytellers by profession, and they are either through direct payment, or sponsorship, or advertising, or through some other means, profiting off of your attention. i don't say this to be dismissive, many wonderful artists and actors and comedians and any number of a thousand things that i enjoy very much go this route but they do so as a *career choice.* and so when you violate the public/private boundary with them, you are presuming to know a Person rather than their Worksona. the people who work at Dropout or who stream their actual play tabletop games or who broadcast on TikTok or YouTube are inviting me to feel like i know them to the degree to which that helps them succeed in their medium and at their craft, but there MUST be a mutual understanding that that's a feeling, not a fact.

however.

a fanfiction writer is not an influencer, not a professional, and is not looking to garner "success." there is no share of audience we are trying to gain for gain's sake, because we are not competition with one another, because there is nothing to win other than the pleasure of each other's company. we are doing this for no other reason than the love of the game; because we have things we want desperately to say about these worlds, these characters, these dynamics, and because we *want more than anything to know we are not alone in our thoughts and feelings.* fanfiction is a bid for interaction, engagement, attention, and consideration. it is not meant to be consumed and then moved on from because we are NOT paid for our work, nor do we want to be. the reward we seek is "attention," but attention as in CONVERSATION, not attention as in clicks. we are not IN this for profit, or for number-go-up. there is no such thing: legally there cannot be. we are in this because we want to be seen and known.

like. please understand. i am now married to someone i met because of mutual comments on fanfiction. our close friend and roommate, with whom i have cohabitated for over a decade now, is someone I met because of mutual comments on fanfiction and livejournal posts. that is my household. beyond my household, the vast majority of my closest personal friends are people with whom I built relationships in this way.

you ask why fanfiction writers want THIS and not "the norm," but the idea of everything being built to cater to an algorithm to continue to build clout, as though the only method of reaching people is Distant Overlord Creator and Passive Receptive Audience being "the norm" is EXTREMELY NEW. this is not how it has always been!! please think of the writers of zines in a pre-internet fandom, using paper and glue and xerox to try and meet like-minded people in a world that was designed for you to only ever meet people in person, by happenstance, in your own hometown. imagine the writers of the early internet, building webrings from scratch to CREATE a community to find each other, despite distance. imagine livejournal groups, forums, and -- yes, indeed, of course -- comment threads IN STORIES -- as places where people go to *converse.* in the past, we had an entire Type Of Guy that everyone knew about, the BNF ("Big Name Fan") whose existence had to be described via meme because it was SO DIFFERENT THAN THE NORM. treating fellow fans like celebrities or people too cool for the regular kids to know was an OUTLIER, and one commonly understood to lead to toxicity.

in the past, I have likened writing fanfiction to echolocation. i am not screaming because I like hearing the sound of my own voice, though i can and do find my voice beautiful. i am screaming so that the vibrations can bounce back to me and show me the world. the purpose is in the feedback. otherwise it is just noise.

does this make any sense? can you see, when i describe it that way, why an ask like yours makes me feel despair, because it makes us all sound so horribly separate from one another?

perhaps I will try another metaphor:

a professional chef who runs a restaurant will not have her feelings hurt if you never fight your way into the kitchen to personally tell her how much you enjoyed the meal. that would, indeed, violate a boundary. professional kitchens are a place of work, and you have already showed her you enjoyed the meal by paying for it, or by perhaps spreading your enjoyment by word of mouth to your friends so they, too, can have good meals. you show your appreciation by continuing to come back. if a bunch of people sitting around randomly happen to have a conversation about how much they love the food, it wouldn't hurt that chef's feelings to not be included in the conversation. however: EVEN IN THIS INSTANCE, it is ADVISABLE AND APPROPRIATE to leave a good review! you might post about how much you like this restaurant on Yelp, and it would probably make the chef feel great to see those positive comments. but the chef doesn't NEED them, because the chef is, again, *also being paid to cook.* that's why she started the restaurant, to be paid to cook!

i am not being paid to cook.

i am at home in my own kitchen, making things for a community potluck where i hope everyone will bring something we can all enjoy together. some people at the potluck are better bakers, some better cooks; some can't cook at all but are great at logistics and make sure there's enough napkins for everyone; some people come just to enjoy the food, because that's what the party is for. and if I, as this enthusiast chef who made something from my heart for this reason alone, learned after the fact that a bunch of people got together in the parking lot to rave about my dish but no one of them had ever bothered to tell me while I sat alone at my table all night, occasionally seeing people come by to pick up a plate but never saying anything to me -- of course that would bother me, because I am not otherwise profiting off the labor I put in. this is not a bid to be paid, because if someone WERE to say "hey, great cake!! here's five bucks for a slice" i would say no, friend, that is not the point and give them the money back. i'm not trying to Get Mine. I am in it to see the look on your face. I'm in it so you can tell me what about it moved you, so that I can say back what moved me to make it in the first place. so we can TALK about it.

because what happened in the first place is this: one time I had a cake whose sweetness, richness, flavor, intensity, and composition moved me so much that I *taught myself to bake.* so I could see how much vanilla and sugar was too much, so I could learn how to make things rise instead of fall flat, so I could even better appreciate the original cake by seeing for myself the effort and talent and inspiration that goes into making one even half as good.

learning to do so is a satisfying accomplishment in and of itself, yes.

but I also did it because at the end of the day we should EAT the cake. and it's a lonely thing, to eat alone when a meal was always designed and intended to be shared.

so, to answer your last question: i'm not surprised, i'm just sad. because somehow two things that were never meant to be seen as the same have been labeled "content," and thus identical. and it diminishes both the things that ARE intended to be paid for AND the things that are not, because it removes any sense of intimacy or meaning from the work.

i hope you know i'm not mad at you for asking. but i'm frustrated we've come to live in a world where the question needs to be asked, because the answers are no longer intuitively obvious because we're so siloed.

[twstedfreak]

When The Moon Remembers | jinu kpdh part 1

A princess cursed to forget. A warrior doomed to remember.

Synopsis: A princess dreams of a man she’s never met—until he walks into court as a mysterious envoy. Haunted by echoes of a forgotten past, she’s drawn to him by a pull she can’t name.

Content: ANGST, early joseon dynasty themes, grief, past life death, reincarnation trauma, NOT BETA-READ BY OTHERS!! (only me), implied violence, psychological distress, dissociation, loneliness, isolation, forbidden romance, memory loss, unreliable narration, power imbalance, mild body horror, identity crisis, OPEN ENDING(?)

wc: 16.8k

A/N: ok so hi this is my tribute to jinu, thank you for reading my work,, i've been making this for 3 days straight... my back fcking hurts mannnn... just like how it hurt when jinu...... but yeah (spoiler alert: i'm not that good with endings i'm sorry...) this will only be a 2 chapter or 3?? fic idk,, it depends... it's supposed to be just a standalone fic but.... "dang only 1000 blocks allowed per post tumblr!" says tumblr LMAO so yeah,, thanks to my friends who supported me in making this,, they contributed to my dellusions LMAO<3 I love you jinu,, imma mke a smut fic soon so bye y'all,, pls patiently wait for the part 2 i'm working on it ToT (as well as the other fics,, I had in stored collecting dust LMAO) BYEEEEE HOES LOVE YLLL

The palace was silent in the hour between night and dawn. Not the stillness of sleep, but a breath held—as though the very walls were listening. Even the cicadas had gone quiet, their nightly song swallowed by something ancient in the air. Outside, the moon hung low and red, veiled by mist, casting long, skeletal shadows across the garden. Jade tiles shimmered with dew. The lattice doors of the women’s quarters remained shut, their painted blossoms fading in the dark. Lanterns had long burned out, their wax cold. Even the wind dared not stir the plum blossoms resting like offerings on the stone paths.

You moved barefoot through the garden, your silk hem damp and trailing behind you, whispering secrets to the stones. Your hair, unbound for the first time in days, hung loose down your back, its weight unfamiliar. The court would call it reckless. The guards, irresponsible. The court ladies would hide their gasps behind sleeves, calling it shameful. But in this hidden hour, with no one to witness, you were not the princess. Not the daughter of kings. Not the nation’s quiet pillar of grace and restraint. Not the bride-in-waiting, raised to be a symbol carved from jade and silence.

You were simply a girl. A girl aching for breath that wasn’t perfumed with politics. A girl who longed to feel the cold of stone beneath her feet, the damp of the world on her skin, to exist—if only for a moment—untouched by titles.

The Queen Mother’s Garden was your sanctuary, though no one called it that but you. To the rest of the palace, it was sacred ground—an ancestral space preserved for ritual offerings and seasonal rites. But to you, it was a secret world carved out of duty. A place where the weight of names dissolved into shadows and wind. The stone paths curled between groves of plum and bamboo, the air sweetened by moonflowers. A stream murmured softly through the heart of the garden, its koi sleeping beneath lily pads that shivered when touched by starlight. Small bridges arched across the water, unused at this hour—silent guardians of your solitude.

This was where you could breathe. Where the silence did not judge. Where the stars did not care for your lineage.

They called you wise, and said it like it was your greatest virtue. They spoke of your grace, your stillness, your beauty. A granddaughter of emperors, trained since birth to smile without speaking too quickly. You were praised for never stumbling, for weeping only behind screens, for knowing which words to say and which to swallow.

But no one ever asked what it was like to be watched always. No one asked how it felt to walk hallways lined with bowed heads, to sit beneath silk banners stitched with your future as though it were already sealed. No one asked if the wisdom they admired had cost you your voice.

Sometimes you dreamed of the world beyond the palace walls. Not in vivid details—but in feelings. Wind in your face. The roar of a river. Laughter not muffled by propriety. The kind of laughter that burst from the chest, unshaped by etiquette. You dreamed of color and noise, of dirt on your hands and no one scolding you for it but dreams were not for princesses. They were indulgences. Dangerous. Unbecoming. And so, you carried your yearning like you carried your name—quietly, with perfect posture. Yet tonight, something felt different. The silence wasn’t quite empty. The shadows seemed to bend differently. As though something—or someone—was watching.

Not a servant. Not a guard.

Perhaps, in that strange, fragile moment between night and dawn, when even the sky hesitated, you allowed yourself to believe—just for a breath—that this garden wasn’t empty.

That perhaps, you weren’t alone.

You drifted across the flagstones, the hem of your white under-robe soaked through with dew. Your slippers had been left behind, somewhere near the veranda, forgotten in your haste. A thin breeze tugged at your sleeves and cooled the warmth of your skin. You should have felt peace in this place. You had, on other nights. But tonight… Something was different.

The stillness felt too deliberate. Too heavy. As if something waited.

Your steps slowed as you passed beneath the archway leading toward the lotus pond. The usual murmur of night creatures… The frogs, the crickets, even the rustling birds—had gone silent. In their absence came a soft, rhythmic sound. Not natural.

Metal.

It was the distinct sound of a blade being drawn across its sheath, a slow, deliberate hiss.

Then came the growl.

Low and deep, like it rose from the belly of the earth. It did not sound like any beast you knew. Not a tiger. Not a wolf. It was… wrong. It stirred a primal part of you, an old fear buried in the marrow of your bones.

You stopped.

The wind held its breath.

From the corner of your eye, movement—something slipping between two stone lanterns, too tall and too bent to be human.

And then you saw it.

A creature—if such a word could apply—emerged from the shadows. Its form was skeletal, but bloated in places, like something had worn the skin of a man and never quite learned how to fit inside it. Its fingers were claws, each joint stretched and cracking. Its mouth was a jagged split, yawning impossibly wide, as though it had no end. The entire thing shimmered, black smoke rising off it in threads that pulsed and curled like burning incense.

Its eyes locked onto you—no irises, only molten red, like embers burning in a kiln.

You could not move. Your body refused to obey you. It was as if the very air around you had thickened, turned to tar. Your breath caught in your throat, chest rising in small, shallow gasps. You tried to scream. Nothing came.

The creature took a step forward, its limbs dragging behind like shattered branches.

And then—

Wind.

But not natural wind.

Something tore past you, so fast it sucked the air from your lungs—a streak of motion cutting through the garden, silent but precise. You turned, stumbling back, just in time to see him.

A man. Not a palace guard. Not a courtier.

He moved with such deliberate grace it made the world feel slow. His robes were dark, almost black, but close-fitting, like armor made of cloth. His hair was tied back tightly, and in his hand gleaming, curved, and lit by moonlight—was a blade.

Not like the ones you had seen in royal ceremonies. This one was old. Hand-forged. Marked. He did not hesitate. The creature lunged and he was there.

His sword moved like a whisper. A gleam. A blur. Then another. A step forward. A twist. A low grunt as the demon shrieked, staggering back, black smoke erupting from its chest as the blade found its mark again. He was not merely fighting it. He was like dancing with it, leading it in some ritual.

You tilted your head with disbelief and watched, heart pounding, unable to speak, unable to move. The final blow was almost silent. His blade sliced through the creature’s neck in a clean arc.

The demon froze, mouth open in a silent scream, then cracked, splintered, and dissolved into ash. The smoke curled, shimmered, and faded.

Silence returned.

The man did not look at it. He turned, instead, to you.

Even in the dark, you could see the sharp cut of his jaw, the sweat beading along his temple, the slow rise and fall of his chest. But it was his eyes that stopped you: dark, steady, and strange.

He said nothing at first. Neither did you.

He took one step forward. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” His voice was low. Even. Like someone used to hiding what they felt.

You found your own voice, thin but clear. “You’re no palace guard.”

“No,” he replied. The word was quiet, yet final. A single syllable that seemed to carry the weight of lifetimes, slicing through the silence like a blade through silk.

You stared at him. In the pale light, his face was partly shadowed, but you could still make out the sharp angles of his jaw, the tension around his mouth, the way his eyes—dark and deep as midnight ink—refused to leave yours. He looked at you not like a stranger caught in wrongdoing, but like someone searching for something he'd almost forgotten. Something fragile. Familiar.

“Then what are you?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt. It wasn’t a demand. It was a whisper edged with wonder and fear. Not just about the monster he had slain, but about him—this man who had appeared from nothing, fought like a ghost, and stood now as if caught between worlds.

He didn’t answer right away.

A wind stirred, brushing through the garden with soft fingers. Your hair lifted around your shoulders. His robes fluttered at the edges, but he remained still, as if time held its breath just for him. His eyes narrowed slightly. Not in suspicion—no. In something gentler. 

Recognition, maybe. Grief. 

He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.

Seconds passed.

He looked away, just briefly, as though the truth were too dangerous to speak aloud. And when he looked back, his expression had changed. Composure returned. Whatever vulnerability had surfaced was gone, locked behind a wall built by years of silence.

His voice was quiet when it came.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing you should remember.”

You blinked.

He stepped back, already beginning to turn, and something in you surged forward—an instinct, a knowing, a longing that made no sense.

“Wait—”

But the word barely left your lips before he was gone.

Not running. Not leaping.

Gone.

Like a breath exhaled into cold air.

As if the garden itself had imagined him.

All that remained was the whisper of the wind, and the faint scent of burned ash where the demon had vanished.

He returned three days later, not as a shadow that night, but as an honored guest stepping through the palace gates in broad daylight.

You heard his name before you saw him.

Whispers moved like ripples through the outer court that morning. Word spread fast in a place like this, where secrets were traded like silk and silence was only ever temporary. A foreign envoy had arrived from one of the southern border provinces—one long isolated by both mountains and tradition. His house had been loyal for generations, said the ministers. His presence was no more than political courtesy, said the scholars.

But your breath stopped the moment the court herald spoke his name.

Jinu…

Just that. No clan. No house lineage offered. No title beyond “messenger in service of the southern warlord.” It was a name spoken without weight, but it fell upon your ears like a stone into still water.

You stood beside your father’s throne, head bowed, hands folded neatly in front of your layered sleeves. A ceremonial fan hung at your wrist, a delicate thing of white silk and gold-leaf paint. You clutched it harder than necessary.

Then the doors opened.

He entered as the rest did. Through the tall central gates reserved for honored guests of the royal court. The midday sun poured in behind him, framing his silhouette in white light. For one impossible moment, it was like the dream had followed you into waking. Like the air changed shape to accommodate his presence.

He walked slowly, with the quiet grace of someone used to scrutiny.

And yet, he did not bow his head in reverence the way others did. He bowed only once, fluidly, with the precision of a man trained in old customs but untouched by vanity. The hem of his robes brushed the red silk mat before the dais. His eyes stayed low.

“Your Majesty,” he said, voice steady. “I come on behalf of the southern province of Naeul. My master offers peace, and his gratitude for your enduring protection.”

You barely heard the formalities. You were too busy watching the way his shoulders were tense but fluid, like a swordsman out of place among politicians.

He did not look at you.

Not once.

But you felt him.

His presence was like a string pulled taut across the space between you. Not visible, not tangible but unmistakable. It resonated through your ribs, your spine, the backs of your teeth. Like a bell you could not hear, but whose vibration you felt in your marrow.

You nearly stepped forward.

You nearly forgot the protocol drilled into you since childhood.

But instead, you inhaled slowly, carefully—and tilted your chin just slightly toward your father, as if your only concern was the formal script of receiving guests. The court watched your every movement, but no one noticed the way your fingers trembled against the fan.

Not even when you turned your eyes away from him too quickly.

The next morning, a hush fell over the inner court as the Council of State assembled.

Dawn’s light filtered through the tall latticework windows, casting the hall in a softened gold. Pale beams stretched across the lacquered floors, pooling at the feet of court ministers as they filed into place, their robes whispering like the hush of wind through reeds. Beyond the carved columns, incense smoke curled in slow, deliberate spirals, heavy with the scent of pine and frankincense. The day had not yet begun for the outside world, but inside the hall, the kingdom was already breathing its politics.

You stood behind the painted screen in the upper gallery—a place where royal daughters could listen, though never speak. Women were not meant to linger in council, not openly, and certainly not attentively. But you had always lingered, silently absorbing every syllable spoken in these chambers.

Today, you waited not for decisions, but for a name.

Jinu…

He arrived with no fanfare.

There was no trumpet to herald his steps, no servant trailing his robes. And yet, the moment he entered, the temperature in the room shifted. You felt it first in your chest—a slight tightness, like breath caught before the descent of a storm.

He wore dark robes again. Simple but striking. The kind of simplicity that was chosen, not forced. The fabric undyed silk or finely brushed hemp hung cleanly from his shoulders, cinched high at the waist in the southern fashion. A silver clasp gleamed at his throat, unadorned save for a faint engraving worn smooth by time. It caught the light briefly, like a memory flickering into view.

His hair was neatly bound not in the looped knots of noble sons, nor the rigid topknot of military men. It hung low, gathered in a black ribbon, a few strands escaping to graze his cheekbones. No sign of vanity, no jewelry, no house sigil.

He might have seemed unremarkable to the others.

But to you, he moved like someone misplaced by time.

His steps were neither rushed nor cautious. Each was exact. Balanced. There was no hesitation as he took his seat two rows back from your father far enough to remain silent, but close enough to command attention when needed. He did not scan the room. He did not shift in discomfort. He simply sat, spine straight, hands resting lightly on his knees, the picture of restraint.

When the council began, the room filled quickly with debate, First the harvest, then the tension with the eastern tribes, then the matter of fortifying the southern ridges before winter. Ministers argued with polished voices, their sleeves trailing as they gestured, voices weaving praise and strategy with veiled self-interest.

Jinu said nothing.

Not at first.

Then the Minister of the Interior, an older man with silvered brows and a mouth like a drawn string, turned to him.

“You, envoy. From Naeul. What does your lord say of the border? Are your watchtowers still standing, or have the mountain spirits finally swallowed them whole?”

A few chuckled.

You leaned forward slightly, waiting.

Jinu didn’t bristle. He didn’t flinch. He simply inclined his head—precisely once—and answered.

“The towers still stand, Minister. The rivers flooded early this year, so supplies were delayed, but the passes remain clear. The tribal scouts were seen five nights ago. They haven’t crossed the ridge, only watched.”

His tone was quiet, but not timid. Calm. Even.

He neither flattered nor flinched.

When asked about reinforcements, he answered plainly: “The southern lords have begun stockpiling grain and salt. They await your command.”

When prompted to speculate on whether the tribes would move before the snows came, he responded, “Perhaps. But fear clouds good planning. Naeul will prepare either way.”

You saw it—how the words landed.

No excess. No embellishment. Just the truth, tempered like steel.

Where another man might have taken the chance to curry favor—to lavish praise on the king, to humble himself before the ministers—Jinu did not.

He did not speak to be remembered.

He spoke because it was necessary.

And yet he was remembered all the same.

A few of the older ministers glanced at each other. One frowned, tapping the end of his ink brush against the wooden ledger with more force than necessary. Your father did not react, but you saw the way his fingers paused against the sleeve of his robe, just briefly, as though absorbing something new.

Jinu sat unshaken.

His hands rested calmly in his lap, long fingers lightly curled, the sleeves of his robe slightly parted to reveal his forearms. It was there that your gaze lingered—upon the scar.

A thin mark—faded, but deliberate—ran along the edge of his right arm, too clean to be an accident. Not self-inflicted, not ceremonial. A blade’s kiss. A wound from a different time.

And still he remained composed, every inch of him a study in stillness.

You couldn’t help but wonder how long he had practiced that kind of control.

You, hidden behind the filigree screen, felt exposed in contrast. Your fan had long since drooped in your hand, forgotten. Your pulse thrummed against your throat, beating in time with something you couldn’t name.

And then it happened.

A moment.

Small.

The room shifted—attention turned to another minister, a scroll unrolled, a disagreement erupting over a tax law that had little to do with demons or blood or truth.

And his eyes moved.

Not to your father. Not to the throne. Not to the scrolls or the gold or the empty flattery pouring from tired mouths.

But to the left. To the gallery. To you.

Only for a second.

Not long enough to be called a glance. But not short enough to dismiss.

There was no expression in it. No challenge. No softness. Just... awareness. A weight.

He knew you were watching.

And not once—through the long hours of that council, through every question and answer and silence—did he seek you again.

But he didn’t need to.

The silence between you had already spoken.

The hall had quieted.

Voices that once rose in elegant argument had settled into muttered agreement, the tension having drained with the afternoon light. Dust motes hung in the air like ash. Another hour and the servants would arrive to draw the screens, to offer tea and fruit to drowsy ministers nodding off between scrolls and silence.

But before the assembly could be dismissed, your father, seated tall in his crimson robes, shifted his weight—and the room returned to stillness.

“Send word to the western garrisons,” the king said, his voice low but firm. “Begin preparations to fortify the southern ridges before the first frost. I want updates from Naeul before the week ends.”

He turned slightly then—just enough to make it clear who was being addressed.

All eyes followed.

Jinu met the king’s gaze without pause. He bowed his head slightly, but did not lower his eyes.

“The southern ridges are already being watched,” he said. “But your Majesty’s concern is not misplaced.”

The Minister of War gave a soft scoff. “They are only mountain passers. Starved tribes and outcasts. They bark, but rarely bite.”

Jinu did not flinch. “Not all who pass through the mountains are tribesmen.”

That silenced the room.

Your father tilted his head. “Speak plainly.”

Jinu hesitated.

Only for a moment. But you saw it—like something inside him weighed whether truth belonged in this room.

“They are not all men,” he said, finally. “Some of what moves in the passes does not carry names. Or needs.”

A low murmur stirred through the court like wind across tall grass. The scribes looked up from their inkstones. One of the younger nobles narrowed his eyes, voice touched with disbelief.

“What do you mean?”

Jinu remained still. Measured.

“The locals call them mountain spirits,” he said. “Whispers. Shadows. They speak of things that do not leave tracks. Things that drain the heat from a man’s bones long before snow falls. Things that do not bleed when cut.”

The War Minister frowned, voice taut with scorn. “Tales meant to frighten children.”

Jinu’s voice remained even. “Then you haven’t sent enough men.”

Silence.

A single breeze stirred one of the high windows. The incense, long since burned down to glowing embers, released its final breath.

Then your father spoke again—soft, but cold.

“And you’ve seen these… things?”

Jinu looked up then, truly looked. His expression did not shift. But something in his voice did.

“I have fought them.”

A pause.

“And they are growing bolder.”

He did not elaborate. He did not need to.

There were no more scoffs. No more questions. Only a silence so complete it felt alive. Some in the chamber looked away. Others frowned—not in disbelief, but in discomfort. In knowing. These were not the words one said aloud in a hall like this.

But they lingered all the same.

And for the first time that morning, no one answered him.

That night, sleep did not come easily.

You lay awake long after the palace had gone still, your mind haunted by the memory of what you had witnessed in the garden. No amount of ritual tea or deep-breathing chants could dull the image—the blackened creature, hissing and clawed, melting into smoke under the sweep of a stranger’s blade. Nor could you stop thinking of the man himself: the calm of him, the silence, the unnerving steadiness of his gaze as he told you to forget. There had been something in the way he looked at you—something familiar and foreign all at once, like a name on the tip of the tongue. And yet, you knew, with a certainty that defied reason, that it was not the first time you had met him.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook your thoughts, dragging you beneath the silk sheets and soft shadows into sleep. But it was not the kind of slumber that brings peace or numbness. It was deep and weightless, as if your soul had slipped into a world not quite your own.

You dreamed of a lake.

It stretched endlessly in every direction, a vast surface of frozen black glass that mirrored the star-choked sky above. Snow fell gently, in slow spirals, but the air did not feel cold. It was still, not lifeless, but suspended—like the entire world was holding its breath. You stood at the lake’s edge barefoot, wearing robes you had never seen before, layered and crimson, too ancient to belong to the present. And across the expanse of ice, barely visible through the pale haze, was a figure.

A man.

He stood facing you from the opposite shore, distant but clear in your mind. His outline was softened by the mist that hovered above the lake, his cloak stirring slightly in a wind you couldn’t feel. He made no move to approach, but you could feel his presence as keenly as your own breath. Something about him filled the air—an ache, a weight, the gravity of an old bond stretched across the void of time.

You couldn’t make out his features. His face was cloaked in shadow, but you could sense the sharp lines of it, the solemn set of his shoulders. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. But you knew him.

Not from life. From something deeper.

Recognition flared in your chest, sudden and inexplicable. It was like stepping into the ruins of a house you didn’t remember building and finding your name carved into the doorframe. The pain that bloomed in your heart wasn’t fear—it was longing. The kind that only comes when you find something you’ve been searching for without knowing it.

You took a tentative step toward him, and the snow ceased to fall. The world seemed to narrow to the space between you, impossibly wide and unbearably close. His hand rose slowly—palm outward, not to beckon but to offer. There was no desperation in the gesture, only patience. As if he had waited for this moment longer than any mortal should.

Your hand twitched at your side, but you did not move.

Your voice caught in your throat. You wanted to ask who he was, why this dream felt real, why you felt as though your heart would break if you looked away—but the words would not come. And somewhere in that deep, quiet place inside you, the answer pulsed like a heartbeat.

You’ve been here before.

The silence around you shifted. You could almost hear him speak, his voice brushing the edge of your thoughts. He said your name—not the one used in court, not the title passed down by blood and duty, but something older, softer, secret. A name buried beneath the layers of lifetimes. A name only he would know.

You felt your breath catch again. And then, as you finally moved to step forward, to speak, to reach for his hand—

—you woke.

The sound of your own breath filled the room as you sat upright, heartbeat thundering in your ears. The embroidered blanket tangled around your legs. The silk cushions were damp beneath your palms. Outside, the horizon was beginning to pale with the earliest breath of dawn, and your chamber was steeped in the cold hush of pre-morning stillness.

You stared at your hands, trembling slightly.

Your chest still ached, like you’d been holding something too heavy, too sacred to carry. You didn’t speak for a long time. Only when the silence in the room became too much did you whisper aloud, voice barely more than a breath.

“What was that…”

It was a dream, you told yourself. Nothing more.

But your soul knew better.

This was not the first time you had stood at the edge of that lake. Not the first time you had seen him. The image, the pain, the weight of it—it was too real, too familiar. You had dreamed of him before. Many times. Maybe even countless times.

The only difference was: this time, you remembered.

And that terrified you more than forgetting ever had.

The royal court gathered under the morning light, as it did every week, with the same rhythm, the same rigid protocol—sun streaming through the high lattice windows, incense curling from brass bowls set along the stone floor, ministers bowing as they approached the platform where the king and his court sat. A harmony of tradition. Ceremony choreographed like a dance.

You had performed this role so many times you no longer needed to think about it. Your posture was flawless, hands resting gently atop one another in your lap, face carefully composed into the serenity expected of a royal daughter. The stiffness of your ceremonial robe—layered silk in golds and crimsons—did not discomfort you anymore. The weight of your jewelry, the tight coil of your hairpins, the unyielding etiquette: these were your armor.

And yet… something in the air felt different today.

You noticed it before your mind could name it. A quiet shift. A stillness in the air just before the wind stirs. Not danger, exactly. But awareness. A subtle pull at the edge of your senses.

Then, the foreign envoy was announced.

You heard the name—Jinu—spoken in the subdued tone reserved for minor visitors. He was introduced without flourish. No grand lineage, no royal crest, no temple blessing. He came, the official said, on behalf of a border province plagued by strange disturbances, seeking spiritual consultation. The court barely paid attention. Their eyes glazed with disinterest. One more traveler with one more meaningless story.

But not yours.

Your gaze, unbidden, found him as he entered.

And for a moment—only a breath—you forgot how to breathe.

He stood near the side of the chamber, away from the dais, his robes plain but immaculately kept. There was nothing in his posture that demanded attention. He bowed modestly. His hands remained folded behind his back. But something about him stilled the space around him—as though the world became quieter where he stood.

He did not look at you. Not immediately. But even without meeting your eyes, you felt his presence as surely as you felt the weight of your crown.

Your fingers tightened slightly in your sleeve.

You didn’t know this man.

You were sure of that.

And yet the sight of him sent a ripple through your chest—quiet, invisible, but deep. Your breath hitched, and your gaze faltered. You turned away, forcing yourself to focus on the scroll being read before the king. You had duties. Responsibilities. You were a daughter of royal blood, seated before the highest council of the land.

And still...

You looked again.

He hadn’t moved.

He stood quietly in the filtered sunlight, half his face in shadow beneath the high ceiling. And then, just as your gaze lingered too long, his eyes lifted.

He met your gaze.

Not with arrogance. Not with curiosity. Simply—certainty.

Your heart stuttered.

There was no gesture. No expression. He looked at you, and the world seemed to tilt slightly, as if something within it had suddenly clicked into place. Not shock. Not confusion. Just that strange, quiet pull.

Like a forgotten promise finding its voice again.

You looked away, quickly, hoping no one noticed. You felt your heartbeat in your throat. You pressed your palms together in your lap to hide the faint tremble in your fingers.

You didn’t know him. And yet… it felt like you did.

You told yourself it was imagination. Court fantasy. A passing fascination with a stranger who, by sheer chance, possessed a face that stirred something unnamed in you. But you knew better. The feeling was too sharp, too immediate.

Like waking from a dream you didn’t know you’d had.

You dared another glance.

He was still watching you—but not in a way that felt improper. He wasn’t studying you, wasn’t trying to read you. He looked at you the way one looks at something long lost and finally found. Quiet awe. Sorrow. Reverence.

And something else.

That same aching familiarity that burned in your chest burned in his eyes, too.

You looked away again—this time not from fear of being caught, but from the ache. From the sudden heat behind your eyes. From the undeniable truth that something inside you had moved, shifted, cracked open in his presence.

And yet you didn’t remember him.

Not truly. There were no images. No stories. No names to cling to.

But the feeling was there. Restless. Longing. As though your soul had recognized something your mind could not.

You stayed quiet for the remainder of the court session. You listened to the debates about border tensions and sacred omens and temple resources. You answered when addressed. You nodded at the proper moments. But your body moved like it belonged to someone else. Your thoughts drifted—again and again—to him.

Jinu.

You turned his name over in your mind like a prayer. Or a question.

By the time the meeting ended, and the ministers began to file out with the rustle of silk and murmurs of satisfaction, your heartbeat had not slowed. You stood with practiced grace, stepping down from the dais with your ladies-in-waiting close behind. You walked slowly, carefully, as tradition required.

But before you exited the chamber, you dared one final glance over your shoulder.

He was watching you again.

No smile. No sign of invitation.

Only that silent, steady gaze.

Your steps didn’t falter, but the rest of you did. Your heart. Your breath. Something pulled inside you, deep and invisible, as though the space between your body and his was not empty but full—tied by something you didn’t yet understand.

You passed through the painted doors, the court fading behind you.

But that strange ache—deep in your chest, low and pulsing—stayed.

The corridors of the inner palace were hushed as you left the audience chamber. The echo of court voices faded behind you—syllables clipped and formal, dissolving into the polished stone floors. Your attendants trailed at a respectful distance, but you did not acknowledge them. You moved forward in silence, eyes fixed ahead, posture flawless. On the surface, you looked composed. Regal. Untouched.

But your hands trembled slightly within your sleeves.

You dismissed the court ladies with a wordless flick of your fingers the moment you reached the marble walkway that led toward the garden pavilions. They bowed quickly and retreated, leaving you alone. As always, they obeyed without question. You were a princess. You were not expected to explain your solitude—only to make it look intentional.

You stepped past the carved doors and out into the garden.

The air was warm with early spring. Plum blossoms stirred gently in the trees, their petals falling like soft, scattered prayers. You let the scent of them fill your lungs, as if breathing deeply enough might quiet the restless ache inside you.

The garden was quiet this time of day—too early for poets and too late for priests. Just the wind and the birds and the slow hush of water trickling through the stone basins beneath the flowering trees. You walked slowly, your slippers barely whispering against the path of worn stone, your silk sleeves trailing behind like ripples on still water.

And still, you could feel him.

Not his presence, exactly. Not his footsteps behind you, or a shadow hiding among the trees. No—it was more abstract than that. A pull. A thread. A quiet knot of tension beneath your ribs.

You didn’t know his face before today.

You were certain of it.

And yet, when you saw him... something in you had moved.

It wasn’t attraction. At least, not in the way your court tutors had described it in whispered warnings. It was deeper. Heavier. A quiet sense of knowing, like standing in a ruined temple and realizing you had once prayed there long ago.

You paused at the edge of the pond, where koi glided beneath the lilies in lazy circles. Their scales shimmered gold and red in the light, their movement hypnotic. You stared at them without really seeing.

Who are you?

The question bloomed unspoken in your mind, over and over again.

Why do I feel this way?

You had met many men before—envoys, scholars, distant noble sons presented for approval. You’d seen beauty, heard flattery, danced with politics. And yet none of them had made your heart tighten the way this stranger had by simply standing still.

His eyes...

Even now, the memory of them made your fingers curl tighter into your sleeves. They hadn’t been soft. Or kind. Not even curious. But they had looked at you like they had known you. As if your presence was expected. Remembered.

That was the part that terrified you most.

Because you didn’t remember him.

And still, part of you ached as though you’d lost him.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the pavilion bench, your skirts spreading like ripples of silk around your legs. Your shoulders sagged slightly—not with exhaustion, but surrender. It was difficult, being someone else all the time. The princess. The example. The daughter of heaven.

But now, in this quiet moment, you weren’t sure who you were anymore.

You stared at your reflection in the pond. The woman staring back at you wore your face. She sat straight, elegant, draped in gold and scarlet. But her eyes...

They were filled with a strange longing.

A yearning that had no name.

And the more you tried to ignore it, the stronger it became.

The stillness of the garden wrapped around you like a second robe—soft, warm, protective. You remained seated on the pavilion bench, watching the water ripple with each passing breeze. Yet your thoughts had drifted so far from the koi pond that you barely noticed when the wind picked up, carrying with it the faint scent of woodsmoke and pine.

You straightened.

It was nothing—just the wind, you told yourself. But your heart disagreed. That invisible thread tugged again, pulling from somewhere just out of sight.

And then—there it was.

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate. The kind that did not wish to intrude, and yet could not help but be heard.

You turned your head just slightly, eyes lifting past the flowering tree at the corner of the path.

He was there.

Jinu.

He walked slowly, his steps as silent as breath, his hands tucked behind his back in the manner of one deep in thought. He was alone, which you hadn’t expected. No court escort, no attendant. Just him, weaving through the garden like a shadow that belonged to the light.

He didn’t see you at first. Or if he did, he pretended not to. His gaze was cast slightly downward, thoughtful. His posture—calm. But even from a distance, you could sense it: the tension coiled within him. Controlled. Contained. But always present, like a bowstring drawn tight but never loosened.

You stayed still, your breath quiet.

He moved closer.

Not toward you exactly, but in your direction—along the same curved path that wound around the reflecting pool, past the stone lantern, beneath the arch of the plum tree just now shedding its blooms.

And then, as he passed within several paces, he looked up.

His eyes met yours.

There was no startle. No surprise. Only stillness.

A pause in time.

He stopped walking, just for a breath. The two of you locked in that strange, silent space—neither of you speaking, neither daring to move. You felt your pulse surge beneath your ribs, not from fear but from the overwhelming familiarity of him. Not his face. Not his name.

Him.

Something behind your ribs ached. You could see it in his eyes, too—that same restrained unrest. Like something within him recognized you, not with certainty, but with sorrow. As if he were witnessing the shadow of something he had once loved and lost.

You parted your lips. You didn’t know why. You weren’t going to say anything—you didn’t have the words. But the weight of the silence was unbearable.

Then, quietly, he gave a slight incline of his head.

It wasn’t a bow. It wasn’t courtly or rehearsed. It was something simpler. More personal. A gesture of acknowledgment… as if to say, Yes. I see you. I feel it too.

You returned the motion with the barest tilt of your chin.

And just like that, he moved on.

No words passed between you.

No names exchanged. No explanations offered.

But as he disappeared down the path, your eyes lingered long after his footsteps faded.

The silence he left behind was not empty.

It was full. Heavy. Stirring.

Like the breath just before a name is remembered.

Or a promise is broken again.

You did not see him again for three days.

Not among the lacquered pillars of the royal court, where officials and nobility moved like clockwork—smooth, rehearsed, distant. Not on the walkways of the garden, where spring had begun its slow bloom in soft blossoms and fragrant winds. Not even in the corridors between dawn and dusk, where you sometimes passed scholars and foreign envoys with a nod that meant nothing.

You looked, without meaning to but he was nowhere and still, his presence lingered in your thoughts like perfume—light, haunting, impossible to forget. You tried to dismiss it as a momentary fascination, the result of a long court session and a strange glance. A passing thread. Something foolish but the mind forgets. The body remembers.

Your body remembered how your breath had caught. How your gaze had clung to his as though it were some distant memory returned in flesh. You remembered the weight of his stare, not oppressive, but undeniable. As though it had reached past your skin and recognized something inside you before you even knew to resist.

You told yourself it meant nothing but moments, you were learning, could bend the fabric of things.

Could unmake silence.

Could rearrange the world without a single word.

On the fourth night, sleep did not come.

You lay beneath layers of embroidered silk, the sheets cool against your skin. Above you, the ceiling gleamed with gold-painted clouds, dragons frozen mid-flight across the lacquered beams. Your hair had been loosened from its ornaments, your maids dismissed hours ago. The palace was wrapped in silence—thick, total, endless.

And yet you were not at rest.

The moon was full that night. Not soft and silver, but low and gold, casting molten light across the polished floor. Its glow stretched in long, quiet ribbons—touching the corners of your chamber, slipping through the slats of carved windows, turning the air into something ethereal.

You breathed in and the ache was still there.

It sat beneath your ribs—not sharp, but constant. A tension. A pull. As though a thread had been tied somewhere deep in your chest, and now something far away had begun to tug it gently, insistently.

You rose without thinking.

You did not ring the bell.

You did not call for your ladies.

You left the bed like a ghost shedding its bindings. You moved through the room on bare feet, the cold wood grounding you. There was no lantern in your hand, no slippers on your heels. You stepped into the corridor as you were, silk brushing softly around your ankles, hair falling like ink down your back.

There was no fear. Only certainty. That something waited.

The halls were hushed, lit only by moonlight. The lamps had long since been extinguished. Shadows stretched from every alcove, still and solemn like silent sentries. You passed beneath the painted beams without looking up. Past the shrine room. Past the winter garden. Toward the plum grove.

The doors to the outer garden yielded to your hand with no resistance and there—beneath the flowering trees—you found him.

Jinu.

He stood at the far edge of the reflecting pool, his back to you, his posture still but not tense. One hand was clasped loosely behind him, the other resting against the small of his back. He was not dressed for an audience—no formal sash, no fan, no ribboned adornments. Just simple black robes that rippled faintly with the wind.

He did not move as you stepped into the garden but you knew he had heard you.

You hesitated. The garden was nearly silver beneath the moon, every leaf aglow with soft fire. The scent of plum blossoms was heavy, dreamlike, falling in slow spirals to the stone path. There was no sound—only the quiet trickle of water from the carved basin, the faintest creak of tree branches shifting overhead.

And him.

You moved forward, slowly, steps careful. Measured. As if approaching a memory. You said nothing. Nor did he. Only when you drew near—near enough to feel the warmth of his presence—did he turn. Slowly. Deliberately. And then your eyes met.

There was no surprise in his expression. No smile. Just stillness.

His gaze was steady, dark beneath the moonlight, as though he'd known you would come. As though he'd been waiting—not out of impatience, but something quieter. Something deeper. Recognition. He didn’t bow. You didn’t speak.

And yet, somehow, everything in the world narrowed to the space between your gazes.

You had faced nobles and generals, monks and sages. You had sat above the court in your layered robes and heard confessions of sin and pride. You had danced the politics of a nation with perfect grace. But in that moment, you forgot all of it. Because he looked at you—not like a princess. Not like a sovereign's daughter. But like something sacred. 

Known.

Found.

When you finally spoke, your voice was quieter than you meant it to be. “I thought you had left.”

The words hung suspended in the moonlight, delicate as a breath. He did not look away. “I was told to remain in the city. The disturbances haven’t ceased.”

Your hands remained folded inside your sleeves, the picture of royal composure, though your pulse had begun to race. 

“I see.” You turned slightly, angling your gaze toward the still water of the pool, unwilling to meet his eyes for too long. You felt unsteady beneath that stare—not weakened, not embarrassed. Simply… exposed.

As though every mask had been gently removed, one by one. Then his voice came again—low, graveled slightly by something you couldn’t name. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

You tilted your head slightly, spine still straight, voice soft but sure. “I’m not.” you replied with confidence.

His expression changed at that. A breath, no more and then, quietly, he smiled. Not the smile you were used to, those polished things nobles wore like veils. This was different.

Faint. Quiet. Honored. As though he understood what your words truly meant and what it had cost you to say them.

You looked at the still pond with a heavy expression. “Jinu.” Your voice was quiet, but it carried.

He turned toward you not with surprise, not with haste. Just quiet readiness. As though he had been waiting for your voice, not expecting it, but welcoming it all the same.

You studied him in the moonlight. The way he stood, unmoving, hands folded behind his back, the fall of his robe gently stirred by the wind. He looked like someone out of time, like a statue carved from shadow and memory.

You let the silence linger a moment longer.

And then, with no more ceremony than a breath, “You saved me.” You said with certainty.

He didn’t deny it. His eyes flickered downward, briefly, before finding yours again. “You were alone,” he said softly. “Something waited in the dark.”

You felt it again, that cold stillness from the other night—the way the air had shifted, how your body had known before your mind. The way fear had curled its claws beneath your skin before vanishing into the wind the moment he appeared.

“What was it?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away.

“Something old,” he said finally. “And hungry.” 

A pause. You tilted your head slightly, keeping your expression composed despite the knot beginning to form in your throat.

“And you knew it would come?”

“I knew something would.”

You didn’t let yourself react. Not outwardly. You were still a daughter of the court. Still the blood of kings. Your face remained smooth, still. But your gaze sharpened—narrowed, searching his face for something hidden.

He didn’t flinch beneath it and that, more than anything, unnerved you.

“Why didn’t you tell the court?”

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he replied. “Would they believe me?”

You didn’t answer because you both knew they wouldn’t.

The following days, the palace slept but you did not. You walked beneath the high eaves of the eastern corridor alone, moonlight slipping through the carved screens like lacework over stone. Your sleeves whispered as they trailed behind you, the silk glinting faintly in the silver glow. You walked slowly—not with hesitation, but with intention. Every step you took was as measured as a poem. Composed. Controlled. As you had been trained to be from the moment you could stand in the throne room without wavering.

But tonight, for all your practiced grace, something inside you was not still. It had started days ago, this strange shift. A change so quiet it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not you. And not him.

That morning, your royal duties had passed in a blur. Your voice had echoed in the council hall, your hands had signed scrolls, your eyes had read names and numbers and omens. But your mind—your heart—remained elsewhere. Always returning to this hour. To this path. To him.

You found him where you always did now—by the pond, beneath the old plum tree that had not yet finished blooming. A few petals clung stubbornly to its branches, defiant against the late spring wind.

He was already seated when you arrived. Not on the stone bench, but on the low step before it, his posture relaxed in a way that no courtier would dare assume in the presence of royalty. His arms rested loosely on his knees, hands clasped together. He was facing the water, but you knew he had heard your footsteps long before you reached him. He didn’t rise.

And you didn’t ask him to. You paused a moment before approaching, your shadow brushing the edge of his.

Then, carefully, you lowered yourself to sit—deliberately keeping space between you, enough to preserve the unspoken distance that always existed between a royal and… whatever he was.

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, back straight, eyes trained forward. You didn’t speak right away. Nor did he. The silence between you was not discomfort. It was something else. Like a breath held between notes in a song, waiting for the next phrase to begin.

And finally, you gave it voice. “What province do you come from?”

Your tone was smooth, formal—not out of coldness, but habit. You didn’t look at him as you asked. You looked at the water, where the moon shimmered in long ribbons across the surface.

He answered after a pause, his voice quiet. “Near the mountains.”

You tilted your head slightly. “There are many.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—not a full expression, but something ghosted and dry.

“The northern range,” he said. “Where the sky touches the stone. And the wind forgets its name.”

You turned to look at him then.

Not sharply. Not openly.

Just enough to see.

He did not meet your gaze. His eyes remained on the pond, distant, thoughtful.

“There were temples there once,” he said. “Before the fires. Before the silence.”

You studied the line of his jaw in profile, the way the light caught the edge of his cheekbone. His voice did not carry sorrow. Nor nostalgia. It simply was. Steady. Unvarnished.

“And your family?”

The question hung in the air longer this time. You weren’t sure why you asked it. You had not meant to. 

He shifted slightly, hands tightening just once before releasing.

“Gone.”

One word. Bare. Clean. Without ceremony but not without weight.

There was no tremor in his voice. No mourning curled behind it. But the stillness that followed it was not empty. It was heavy. Like an altar long abandoned, but still sacred.

You wanted to ask how. When. Why. But something in you told you not to.

So you didn’t.

You turned your gaze forward again, your face calm, still as a painting. The wind moved through the garden gently, rustling the leaves above you. 

A petal drifted down from the tree and landed near his hand. He did not brush it away.

“I never knew mine,” you said after a time, quietly. “Not truly. I was raised by wet nurses and tutors. Bowed to by strangers before I learned to speak. My brothers call me sister, but they do not know me. The court calls me a jewel. A daughter of heaven. But none of them see me.”

You weren’t sure why you said it. The words surprised you as they left your mouth, unfiltered, unpolished.

He turned to look at you, finally and for the first time, you let yourself meet his eyes fully.

There was no pity there.  No flattery. No attempt to comfort or impress. Only the kind of attention that feels like a mirror. Not reflecting your face—but your soul.

You looked away first. Not because it was too much—but because it was too known. The silence returned. But it felt warmer now. Fuller. Like a cup being filled, slowly.

You stayed longer than usual. Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Neither of you counted them. At last, when you rose, you did so slowly, every movement practiced but unhurried. He stood as well, though not because he had to. Because he chose to.

You turned slightly to face him, hands folded, chin lifted in the poise of a royal daughter. Even here, even in this strange softness, you remained composed. You always had.

But your voice was different this time.

Softer.

More you.

“Good night,” you said.

The words were simple. But they came from somewhere deeper than you expected. A place untouched by ceremony.

He looked at you.

And though his face did not change drastically, you saw it—clearly. The pause. The shift. The breath.

As though those words were something he had not heard in a very long time.

Something small.

But deeply human.

“Good night,” he replied after a moment and then, quieter… “Princess.”

But the title did not feel distant, not this time. It felt reverent. Not because of what you were but because of who you were. You held his gaze a moment longer. Not with command. Not with coldness. 

Just… recognition.

Then you turned and walked away, each step echoing faintly against the stone. You did not look back. But you felt his eyes remain on you and you carried the warmth of them with you long after the moon had disappeared behind the eaves of the sleeping palace.

On the following nights, It rained endlessly. Not a storm— no. No thunder, no sudden violence. Just a steady curtain of silver, falling from the eaves of the palace in long, unbroken strands. The sound was soft and endless, a quiet rhythm that seemed to blur the edge of waking thought. Most of the court remained indoors. Servants hurried to draw shutters closed, to cover the walkways in tarps, to ensure the braziers were not snuffed out by wind. Even the lanterns in the side halls had been dimmed, their lights softened by paper already damp at the edges.

But you?

You went anyway.

You walked the garden path in silence, the world around you softened by the rain. It clung to your hair, to your sleeves, beading against the outer silk of your robe like dew on petals. The hem of your skirt darkened where it brushed the stones, the weight of it dragging just slightly, just enough to ground you. The corridors behind you had grown hushed. Even your guards—never far, always watching—had retreated under the excuse of the weather. You had not called for them.

There was no fear in you tonight.

Only this ache again. Low in your ribs. A thread pulled taut.

You drew your robe closer around you as you crossed beneath the arching gate that led to the plum grove. The old tree rose at the center of it, as it always had, its blossoms scattering like soft prayers in the wind and beneath it—

He was already there.

You slowed to a stop, barely a breath from the pavilion's edge. Your heart, which had been steady the whole way here, stumbled.

He stood with his back to you, but not in disregard. His presence acknowledged yours the way the sky acknowledges the sea—wordless, but inextricable. He did not startle, did not turn with haste or surprise. Instead, as though he'd felt the rain shift with your arrival, his posture lifted. His head tilted slightly.

Still.

Steady.

Even in the rain, he was unmoved.

His robe—plain black, trimmed in ash grey—clung lightly to him in places, heavy at the hem, darkened by water. His hair, unadorned tonight, had come loose slightly from its tie, a few strands clinging to his temple. Raindrops traced the line of his jaw, shimmered across his collarbone where the fabric had slipped low.

But his breath…

That, you could see.

Slow. Deep. Even.

He was calm.

But not untouched.

You stepped forward at last, one careful footfall at a time, the sound of your approach swallowed by the rain. “You always come,” you said softly.

It was not a question. Not a complaint. Just truth—gently spoken.

He turned, only slightly, enough to let the moonlight catch the edge of his face. His gaze met yours without hesitation.

“I told you I would,” he answered.

His voice—low, gravel-soft, threaded with something weightier than mere words.

It wasn’t a vow. And yet it sounded like one.

You moved toward him, each step deliberate, not because you feared him—but because the moment felt fragile, as if rushing might shatter something not yet spoken into being.

You stepped beneath the tree’s sheltering boughs.

The rain softened there, caught in branches, falling more slowly like the breath of something divine.

You stood beside him—close enough to feel the warmth rising faintly from his form, from where his robe had soaked through, from where his body waited just beyond reach.

But you did not touch.

You didn’t even let your sleeves brush his.

Your hands folded neatly within the length of your robe, knuckles tight with the restraint you had practiced since childhood. That was the discipline of a princess. The art of stillness. The dignity of silence.

But your heartbeat. It betrayed you. It fluttered. Quietly. Unwillingly and yet, you spoke.

“You speak so little,” you murmured.

He did not look away.

“You carry so much,” he replied. “I didn’t wish to add to it.”

The answer struck you like the echo of something you had once known and forgotten.

So often, the court silenced you with expectations. With polished words, with praise laced in demand. You were not supposed to speak of burdens. You were not allowed to show them but he had seen them anyway and what’s more for that he had chosen silence not because he feared your power, but because he honored your weight.

You turned your gaze fully to him. Carefully. Openly. Your voice came quiet, but strong. As though you had known the words long before you ever gave them shape.

“I would rather share the weight than carry it alone.”

It was not an invitation. Not fully.

But it was the closest thing you had offered anyone in years. You felt the truth of it leave your mouth like warmth from your lungs and then, he looked at you. Truly looked. Iin his eyes, something ancient stirred.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. He simply stood, breath held as though the memory of your words touched something he didn’t know still lived inside him. The way he looked at you then…

Not like a soldier before royalty. Not like a man before a woman but like someone hearing the same line of a forgotten song after centuries in silence and recognizing the singer.

You.

He bowed his head slightly. A slow, reverent tilt—not of deference, but of acknowledgment. Not of who you were but of what you meant.

The space between you shimmered dense, warm, and alive and yet still untouched. No more words passed between you that night. You remained beneath the plum tree as the rain fell softer and softer, until the garden stilled and the moon slipped free of the clouds overhead. The petals that fell from the tree landed around your feet and his and for one long moment, you stood in silence, as if neither of you dared breathe too loudly for fear of breaking whatever strange, fragile thing had begun to bloom between your hearts.

So it began… night after night, beneath the hush of moonlight and the watchful silence of palace walls, you and Jinu met in secret. Always the same hour, when the world seemed to pause. Always the same garden, veiled in shadow and scent.

No words were spoken at first. Only glances. Only the soft echo of your steps as you found each other again and again, as though drawn by some ancient thread neither of you dared name.

It became a rhythm.

The garden, once merely a place of solitude, turned sacred. There, the ache of the day was shed, and in its place bloomed something fragile and burning. You would sit in stillness, sometimes near, sometimes apart, but never unaware of the other’s presence. His gaze would find you like a whisper in the dark. And yours would linger on him like a question you were too afraid to ask.

You returned as you always did, though you told no one where you went. Not your ladies-in-waiting. Not the guards who were always three steps behind. Not the eldest court minister who watched you like a fragile relic meant for worship, not for life but still—you came.

Drawn not by duty, not by desire, but by something older. Something wordless and constant, like the way tides know the moon and he was already there. Jinu stood beside the reflecting pool, still as stone, eyes lowered. He didn’t turn when you approached. Not immediately. But you knew he felt you. He always did.

You paused a few steps from him, allowing yourself that moment. The ritual of distance before closeness. The quiet tension of nearing without reaching.

He turned then. Slowly. And his eyes found yours. The ache in your chest returned at once—immediate, uninvited, yet so familiar. Like a bruise beneath your ribs that never quite healed. One glance and it bloomed again. You hadn’t spoken since yesterday’s rain. You hadn’t dared ask why the sorrow in his voice had settled deeper that night. But tonight, the silence between you felt different.

Not charged.

But weighted.

“Your eyes,” he said softly.

You blinked. “What of them?”

He studied you as though you were something fragile and holy. 

“They’re the same.”

You frowned. “The same as what?”

He didn’t answer. Not at first. He turned from you, looking down at the still water, the reflection of the moon warping around fallen petals.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmured.

But it did. You felt it in his voice. You stepped closer. Not much. Just enough that your sleeve nearly touched the edge of his. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, not from body, but from memory. A memory you didn’t own.

“I don’t understand you,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he replied, barely a whisper.

You waited.

And then—finally—he turned to you again, and for the first time since your first meeting, he looked tired. Not in body. Not in spirit.

In the heart. As though he had carried something heavy for far too long.

“You look at me,” you said, “like you know me.”

He didn’t deny it.

“You speak to me as though I’ve spoken to you before…..” You hesitated before you uttered more quietly “...As though I’ve broken your heart...” 

A silence stretched long between you.

Then… “You did.” He spoke.

The words weren’t bitter. They were reverent. As if even that pain had been something precious. Your breath caught. Your throat tightened.

“What are you saying?” 

He looked at you now with a gaze that belonged to another time. Another life. Another you.

“I’ve known you before,” he said. “Not in name. Not in title. But in the way your soul moves. In the way your voice softens when you speak truth.”

You felt your spine stiffen, not out of offense—but out of fear. What truth? What memory did he carry in those steady hands of his? You shook your head slightly. “I would remember something like that.” you scoffed in disbelief.

His voice was gentle. “Would you?”

Your jaw tightened. “What do you remember?” You pushed on.

He didn’t answer for a long time, from what felt like ages with you looking at him with expectant eyes, daring to know the answers. Maybe because of this ache? For this longing? For this…regret? You do know… You can’t somehow pinpoint what it is.  

“A temple. A crown. A night of fire. Your hands in mine.” He stated simply, looking through you gauging your reaction.

And with a stuttered breath, he exhaled slowly. “Your death.”

You stepped back. Just one step. Just enough to break the warmth between you. You hadn’t meant to but the word struck something deep.

“I think you’re mistaken,” you whispered. Your eyes broke contact with him.

He didn’t follow. He let the space between you grow. “I wish I were,” he muttered.

Your voice trembled. “I don’t remember… This.. What– What you’re talking abou–”

“I know,” he murmured, not daring to look you in the eye.

And that was the worst part. The kindness in it. The grief of someone who had waited lifetimes for your voice to remember his name and accepted, without anger, that it never would.

You didn’t speak again that night. You only watched him as the wind shifted through the trees, carrying petals into the dark.

He bowed, low and reverent, not as a courtier, but as a man laying something sacred at your feet. Then he turned and left you beneath the plum tree.

Alone.

With the ache of something lost you could not name and a memory not yours… but that still made your eyes burn with ache.

That night, the palace walls felt heavier.

The garden’s stillness clung to you even as the moon rose over the curved rooftops, its pale glow stretching long shadows across the floor of your chamber. You bathed. You prayed. You drank the calming tea the court maidens left by your bed. But none of it quieted your thoughts.

You lay beneath silken covers, eyes closed, hands folded over your chest as if in mourning.

But your mind would not let you rest.

And eventually, sleep came—not gently, but all at once.

You fell.

Into silence. Into snow.

The dream was not a place at first. Only sensation. Cold air against your cheek. The muted hush of falling snow. The scent of cedar and smoke. Then slowly, images formed like ink spreading through water.

You stood beneath a pale sky, the light bruised violet, clouds like smoke curling around the edges of the world. Before you, a temple stood in ruins. Its once-red gates charred black. The prayer stones along its path shattered, half-buried in frost.

Your breath curled in the air, though you felt no cold.

And then—you saw him.

He stood with his back to you at the far end of the ruined path, his long dark robe stirring faintly in the wind. His shoulders were broad, but something about the way he stood looked… tired. As if he had been waiting too long. As if he didn’t dare turn around.

You took a step forward.

The snow beneath your bare feet didn’t crunch. It didn’t resist. The world felt muffled, distant, dream-thin. Your voice caught in your throat, but something in you cried out to him all the same—Don’t disappear.

And slowly, he turned.

You couldn’t see his face clearly. It shifted—light and shadow playing across it like ripples on water. But his eyes… those you saw. Deep and dark and full of something sharp. Longing. Grief. Recognition.

He opened his mouth to speak.

You leaned forward. You needed to hear him.

But the dream fractured.

The temple split. The ground beneath you cracked with a sudden roar, like thunder underwater. You reached out. He did too. The world between you shattered like glass—light and smoke and ash spiraling up around your hands before they could meet. And in the last sliver of the dream, you heard a voice.

Not his. Yours.

A whisper, spoken across lifetimes.

“Come back to me. Even if I forget—come back.”

You woke up with a gasp.

The room was quiet, bathed in early pre-dawn blue. Your pulse throbbed in your throat. You sat up slowly, hands trembling, sheets damp with sweat. The sound of your own breath filled the silence.

You pressed a hand to your chest. The ache was still there. You couldn’t remember what you had dreamed.

At least not fully.

The details slipped through your mind like sand. But you remembered the voice. The cold. The reaching. And the eyes. Always the eyes. Yours—and his.

Different in every dream, but always the same. And somehow, as the sky outside your window began to lighten, you knew with sudden clarity that this was not the first time you had dreamed of him.

Only the first time you had wanted to remember.

You told yourself you wouldn’t go tonight. The ache had grown unbearable—slow, consuming, like the flame of an incense stick that left no visible wound, only smoke that clung to your skin long after the fire died. 

You had tried, for the sake of your composure, to stay in your quarters. You sat beneath the polished glow of your chamber’s lanterns, the same scrolls spread across your lap, the same courtly petitions laid before you and yet your eyes had passed over the characters without reading, your fingers numb against the paper, your body still—but your thoughts miles away.

Worse than longing was uncertainty… and this… this thing between you and the envoy—had begun to unravel the careful architecture of your world. He had never touched you, not once. Had never stepped too close, had never whispered anything that could be held against you in a court of law or tradition. And yet he had undone you more completely than any sword might have.

By merely standing in your presence. By looking at you like he remembered. And worse still—by saying it.

You hadn’t answered him when he spoke those words under the rain. When he said he remembered your death. That you had been his. That he had lost you once.

It had unsettled something too deep to reach. Not because it sounded false—but because it didn’t.

…and that terrified you.

Still, you went. You told yourself it was only a walk. A short one. Nothing more.

You crossed the stone walk in silence, ignoring the guards’ subtle glance, the tilt of your lady’s head, the quiet ripple of unease that followed you like a whisper. You said nothing. You didn't need to. You were a princess. You owed no one an explanation for the direction of your footsteps. But the truth was that you were not walking to clear your mind. You were being pulled.

Drawn by something invisible. Old. Sacred.

The wind stirred faintly through the plum trees, now nearly bare, their petals strewn across the garden paths like the remnants of an old prayer. The air was heavier tonight. Damp. Cool. The moon above is half-shadowed by clouds. You moved slowly, as if the night itself demanded reverence. As if your presence here, at this hour, was not a chance—but a ceremony.

And there he was.

Jinu stood beside the pond again. Jinu stood by the edge of the reflecting pool, the pale arc of the moon behind him, casting a halo across his shoulders and silvering the dark fall of his hair. His robes stirred lightly in the breeze, loose and unbelted, like he too had been drawn here by instinct rather than will. His posture was still, deceptively at ease, yet there was tension in the way his fingers flexed once—barely noticeable. His posture was as still and silent as the surface of the water, but there was something about him tonight—something quieter. Sadder. As if his silence had become a weight.

He didn’t turn when you first appeared. He did not look up when you approached, which alone struck a sharp note inside you.

You stopped, just a few paces behind him, your hands buried in the folds of your sleeves. The moon cast a faint silver sheen on his shoulder. You could see the rise and fall of his breath, steady but low. As if each inhale required effort.

Then, you moved closer. Wordlessly. Slowly.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low, almost too soft to be real. Still had his back turned.

You swallowed. Your throat was dry.

“No,” you said, after a beat. “I dreamed.” He didn’t budge to turn around but the flinch that was barely ignited some sense in you. 

The silence returned, stretching between you like a thread pulled taut. The moon reflected dimly in the water, a fractured glow that danced with every ripple, just like the unsettled feeling twisting in your chest. 

You didn’t speak again. Neither did he and yet the air between you thrummed—thick with the weight of unspoken things. Like something reaching across time, across lifetimes, straining to be remembered. Something more than mere coincidence.

Jinu’s turned his head and gazed at you. Flickering—not in surprise, but with quiet recognition. “You remember it, then?”

“I remember... the cold. And your face. Or part of it.” You wrapped your arms more tightly around yourself, though the air wasn’t cold. “There was a temple. A voice.”

Jinu looked down for a moment. Then back at you. “You’ve dreamed that before. Many times.”

The words made your skin prickle. You stared at him, uncertain. “How would— how do you know that?”

He exhaled slowly, as if he hadn’t meant to say so much. “Because I’ve been there, too.”

You took a small step backward. Your voice trembled.

“Who are you, really?”

You stared at his back for a long time before you spoke.

“Jinu.” The name came unbidden.

You hadn’t planned to say it. You hadn’t even meant to. But it was the first time it had passed your lips aloud. And the moment it did, something shifted.

He turned to you, slowly, his expression unreadable. But it was his eyes—always his eyes—that betrayed the ache behind the calm. He met your gaze, and something in you fractured.

You felt it.

A thrum. A shock of emotion, as if the sound of his name in your voice had stirred something buried deep in both of you. And gods—it hurt. Not like a wound. But like recognition. Like coming home after centuries in the dark.

He didn’t speak and neither did you, for a long while.

But you stepped forward. One step. Then another. Until the space between you had narrowed to only a breath. You could feel the warmth of him now. The nearness. The heartbeat that pulsed in time with your own.

“I…” You faltered, unsure why you had come, what you meant to say. The words stuck like thorns behind your ribs. “... Feel like… There’s something I should ask you, but I don’t even know how.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. He waited. Always, he waited.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes again. “When you said... that you remembered me. That I had died in your arms.” You swallowed hard. “That wasn’t… metaphor, was it?”

His eyes closed, only briefly. As if the memory pained him too much to hold all at once.

“No.”

Just one word. Quiet, Unyielding, and the world tilted.

A strange pressure built behind your eyes. Your hands clenched in your sleeves. You could feel something inside you shatter and reform all at once. Because you had felt it too. The pull. The ache. The way your chest had seized the first time your eyes met his in the audience chamber.

And now—

Now there were fragments rising to the surface.

Not images. Not names.

But sensations.

The weight of your head in his lap. The scent of blood and burnt wood. The feel of his hand pressed against your ribs, trying to stop something. Your own voice, trembling, saying his name—not Jinu. No, it had been something older. Something softer. Something yours.

You staggered a half-step back, breath caught in your throat.

“No,” you whispered. “No, that’s not real. It can’t be.”

But your body didn’t believe you. Neither did your soul. You could feel it—like the echo of a scream in an ancient hall. Like a scar long healed, aching with the weather.

His voice was low when he spoke again. “You don’t have to remember, Princess.” His eyes burned with grief that did not belong to this life.

“Your soul already does.” And that—that—undid you.

Your knees nearly buckled. Not from fear, not even from disbelief, but from the weight of it all. That you could walk through this life blind to what your soul had carried through death. That he had remembered you, mourned you, found you again—only to face you without the warmth of recognition returned.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I don’t remember. I want to—but I can’t. And it hurts. It hurts, and I don’t know why.”

He stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, but stopped just short of touching you. His hand lifted—hesitating in the space between you—then lowered again. He would not reach for you. Not unless you asked him to.

“I came here for you,” he said, softly. “Every night. In this life, and the last. Whether you remembered me or not.”

Tears burned behind your eyes, unfallen. You didn’t know why. “No,” you whispered.

Jinu didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only watched.

“I don’t remember,” you said again, but the words trembled now. Hollow. Because part of you did. It lived in the deepest part of you, beneath thought, beneath language. A thread of gold sewn through your soul that pulled tighter every time he stood too near.

“You died in my arms,” Jinu said softly, “and I have carried the silence of that moment for lifetimes.”

You flinched.

“I don’t—” You swallowed. “I don’t believe in such things.”

He stepped forward then, slowly, carefully, his voice a hush meant only for you.

“You don’t have to believe. Your soul already does.” 

Gods help you—you did believe him. You believed him in the way the tide believes the moon.Your heart was racing now. Your hands trembling in your sleeves. You turned away, desperate to hide the rising chaos inside you. “It’s not possible.”

He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t try to prove it. Instead, he said, quietly— “Then why do you come to me every night?”

You froze. The wind stirred your hair. The petals from the tree fell around you like snow and still, he waited. Not demanding. Not even hoping. Just knowing.

You stood still for a long, shattering moment. And then—Your voice cracked when you answered 

“I don’t know.”

But you did. You both did.

Only that his voice struck you with a sorrow so old, so familiar, it felt like a wound being reopened by the one who once tried to heal it.

“I think,” you whispered, “I once loved you.”

A pause. His breath caught.

Then, barely above the sound of the wind—

“I never stopped.”

And just for a moment, the space between you vanished.

Not with a kiss.

Not with a touch.

But with something far more sacred.

A memory.

Shared.

Felt.

And in your chest, your soul whispered a name you still could not speak—but would never again forget.

For a long while, neither of you moved. You stood in the garden as though the air itself had thickened around you—charged with memory, aching with the weight of everything unsaid. The night had deepened, but neither of you marked the hour. It didn’t matter. The palace might as well have fallen away, the moon disappeared, the world stilled. There was only the distance between you and how unbearably sacred it had become.

Jinu did not look away. His expression didn’t change. He stood like stone—and yet not cold. No, never cold. He carried the stillness of someone who had waited a very long time without demanding anything in return. He had always left it to you.

The choice. The pace. Even now, as your fingers trembled within the shelter of your sleeves, as your heart pounded like something wild against your ribs, he made no move to close the gap. No whisper of invitation. No reaching out and somehow, that broke you more than anything else.

Because he didn’t assume he was owed your touch. He didn’t believe he deserved it. He was waiting—with the quiet, soul-breaking patience of someone who had held you once, and lost you forever.

You swallowed hard, the sound deafening in your ears. Your breath shook and then—Your hand moved. Barely at first. A slow, quiet shift within the sleeve. The subtle flexing of fingers against silk. You took a step forward, the motion small but deliberate. And you looked down—past the folds of your robes, past the petals scattered at your feet—to where his hand rested at his side, still and open.

He hadn’t hidden it. He hadn’t offered it. He had simply… left it there. In case you ever chose to return to him. Your hand lifted, unsure at first, suspended in the space between doubt and desire. You hovered there—your fingers trembling inches above his. He did not move and that gave you the courage to go further.

You touched him. Just the lightest brush of your fingertips across the back of his hand. And the moment you did— Your breath caught. Not because it startled you, but because something deep within you stirred, like a bell struck in the marrow of your bones. A warmth bloomed beneath your skin, quiet but all-consuming, like sunlight reaching into the corners of a temple long abandoned.

You felt something click into place. Something that had been missing.

You curled your fingers around his slowly, as though the memory of it lived in your body already. You didn’t think. You didn’t speak. You just reached.

And he—He didn’t gasp. He didn’t flinch. But something in him changed, subtly, devastatingly. You felt it in the way his fingers slowly closed around yours. In the silent exhale he released, like a man who’d been holding his breath across lifetimes. In the way he bowed his head just slightly—not in deference, not in fear—but in quiet gratitude.

As though your hand in his was a prayer answered after a century of silence. You didn’t let go. Not right away. You couldn’t. Because the moment your hand touched his, the ache inside you shifted. Not gone—but quieter. Bearable. As though your soul, so long exiled from something it once called home, had found its way back to the threshold.

Neither of you said a word. You stood there—your hand in his, fingers barely curled, heart unraveling—and let the moment stretch, wide and eternal.

He looked up at you again and this time, when your eyes met, there was no fear.

Only knowing and beneath it—something deeper still.

Something not yet spoken, but already true. Love.

His fingers wrapped around yours with unbearable gentleness—careful, reverent, as though you were something sacred and fragile, a living relic pulled from the ruins of time. There was no hunger in the touch, no urgency. Only quiet certainty. A recognition that pulsed between your joined hands like a heartbeat shared.

The garden stilled around you. Even the wind, which moments before had stirred the petals beneath your feet, fell into silence. No birdsong. No rustle of leaves. Just the soft rush of blood in your ears, the tremble of your breath, the world folding inward.

Then something shifted. Your vision swam. Not like faintness. Not like fear. It was deeper than that. As if the very air had cracked, and something inside you—the oldest part—had split open to pour through. Your breath hitched and the breath you drew was not your own.

It came sharp and ragged, thick with heat, choked with the scent of burning pine and smoke-soaked stone. You smelled it before you saw it. Felt it before you understood. Your lungs filled with ash. Your skin prickled with phantom heat. And before you could cry out—

The garden was gone. It didn’t vanish—it simply peeled away, like paint flaking from ancient murals, revealing the true layer beneath.

The moon above you burned red. Not from beauty—but from flame. The sky was split open, thick with black smoke, curling from rooftops half-collapsed and glowing at their edges. Screams echoed from far-off courtyards. You could hear the panic in every bell that rang—loud and unrelenting, not in ceremony but in alarm. The kind that never stops. The kind rung at the end of things.

You were barefoot.

Your feet bled, though you hadn’t noticed. The ground beneath you was stone slick with water—or maybe blood—you didn’t look too closely. Your robes, once embroidered with silver moons and lined with soft mink fur, hung from you in torn ribbons. The silk was scorched along the seams. One sleeve had burned away entirely. The other clung to your arm, soaked through with something warm. You were cold, despite the fire. But not alone. He was with you.

Jinu—no. That wasn’t his name here. Not yet. He was younger, or maybe older, his face thinner, sharper, streaked with soot and blood. His hair was longer, tied hastily with a red ribbon that now hung loose, as if it too had given up its purpose. His hands were blistered. A blade was strapped across his back, dark with runes and old iron. Not a royal envoy. Not a demon hunter.

A soldier? A guardian? No.

A protector. Of you.

He stood with you beneath the temple ruins, the shattered archway above still glowing faintly where fire had not yet reached. His eyes—those same eyes that held the weight of centuries—were fixed on you, wide with grief.

Not fear. 

Grief.

As if this moment had already happened a hundred times, and he had tried to change it in every single one. His hand clutched yours. Tight. Not crushing, but grounding. Desperate.

“I promised I’d protect you,” he said.

His voice was hoarse, dry from ash and pain, and yet it cut through the roar of fire like a blade through silk.

“And I failed.”

You turned to him—weakly, barely able to hold yourself upright. Your legs trembled. Your mouth tasted of copper. The edges of your vision swam red. But your hand in his stayed firm, even as your knees buckled.

And somehow, you smiled.

Not with joy.

But peace.

“You didn’t fail,” you whispered. “You found me.” The words weren’t conscious. You didn’t decide to say them. They poured from you like breath. Like memory. Like something your body had memorized long ago.

He drew closer, his brow pressed to yours. His shoulders shook—not from pain, but from the weight of loss already known. You felt it in the way his hand trembled against your wrist. In the way he pulled you close, even knowing he could not keep you.

“I tried,” he whispered. “I tried everything. I begged the gods. The stars. Anything that would listen.” 

You rested your forehead on his. The temple burned behind you. You didn’t flinch.

“I know,” you said softly. “You always do.” Your voice was faint now. Your pulse slowing but you weren’t afraid. You weren’t alone. He kissed your knuckles. Just once. As gently as one lays a prayer on a shrine.

“I won’t forget you,” he said. His voice cracked. “Not in this life. Not in any other.” You smiled again. Slower this time. Sadder.

“I’ll find you,” you whispered. “Even if I don’t remember. Even if it takes a thousand years.”

His eyes closed and as your body gave out, your soul lifted— Not away.

But forward and just as your last breath left your lips—

A vow passed between you, silent and binding.

Return. Remember. Love. Again.

Then, The vision tore away.

You didn’t return to your quarters that night. Not right away. The garden stretched long and quiet around you, bathed in the soft hush of midnight. The plum blossoms had begun to fall in earnest, scattered like snow across the stone paths, and your hand still lay within his—warm, trembling slightly, but unwilling to let go.

Neither of you spoke at first.

You sat together in silence, his shoulder against yours, the edge of your sleeve brushing his robe. It should have felt forbidden. Improper. You were royalty, after all. He was nothing more than an envoy, a guest, a shadow at court. And yet—out here, in the dark, with only the moon as witness—none of that mattered.

You had seen a part of the truth.

You had felt it in your bones.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

Not yet.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance at him—his profile calm, his gaze distant, fixed somewhere beyond the garden. His features were drawn tight in thought, jaw clenched not in anger, but in restraint. Like he was trying not to speak. Like he had held something back for too long.

“Jinu,” you said quietly.

He blinked once, slowly, as though waking from a long sleep.

You hesitated. “Tell me. All of it. Please.”

For a moment, you thought he might refuse. He turned his face away, his lips parting slightly—then pressing into a thin, quiet line. But after a long pause, he nodded Not out of obligation but out of exhaustion because some truths can’t be buried forever and this one had waited long enough.

He began slowly, his voice low, barely above the wind.

“It started long before you were born. Before any of us were. In a life I no longer remember clearly—only in fragments. I wasn’t born into royalty. I wasn’t chosen by the heavens. I was… a guardian. A keeper of old paths. I walked between this world and the next.”

You listened, heart quiet, breath steady.

“I made a vow,” he continued. “To protect a temple of the forgotten gods. Not out of piety. Out of love. It was sacred to you. And I… I would have followed you anywhere.”

You turned toward him slightly, your gaze catching the faintest shimmer at the edge of his lashes. Not tears. Not yet. But the promise of them, held back by pride or grief.

“I broke that vow,” he said. His voice cracked, just barely.

“I failed. You died. And I lived.” He swallowed hard. “I begged the gods to take me instead. To undo time. To change the ending.”

You could feel your heart aching now—not in confusion, not in pity, but in terrible, helpless understanding.

“And they answered,” he said.

He finally looked at you then. Not as the envoy. Not as the stranger. But as the man who had been yours once, long ago.

“I was cursed,” he whispered. “Not to die. Not to forget. But to remember. Every time you returned to the world—I would remember. Who you were. Who we had been. How I failed.”

You stared at him, breath caught.

“And I would remember,” he added, “even when you didn’t.”

The words struck like a blow, not in their cruelty, but in their truth. You had seen only fragments—one vision, one night. But he had carried the whole of it. For lifetimes.

“Why?” you whispered. “Why would they do that to you?”

He looked up at the sky. Not bitter. Not angry. Simply… resigned.

“Because I asked them to,” he said. “Because I begged to remember you, no matter what. Even if it meant suffering. Even if it meant being born into every lifetime as a stranger to you. I chose it.”

Your chest tightened.

A rush of heat stung behind your eyes. You reached for his hand again—not out of obligation, but out of instinct. As though your body remembered what your mind still struggled to name.

He didn’t resist.

“I didn’t want to forget your face,” he said softly. “Not again.”

A silence fell between you, deep and fragile.

You sat beneath the flowering branches of the tree, hands entwined, lives entwined, the past curling around the present like mist. The wind stirred faintly, lifting the scent of old petals, and with it came the truth you had no language for.

This man had loved you through death.

Through time.

Through every cruel rebirth.

And he had carried the weight of that memory alone—all for the chance to see you again.

And you had.

At last.

You exhaled slowly, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

“I’m here now,” you said.

He looked at you.

And for the first time, a flicker of something softer passed through his eyes.

Hope.

.

.

.

The moment lingered.

You sat together beneath the plum trees—his hand in yours, the scent of blossoms like incense in the night, soft petals collecting in the folds of your robes. For a heartbeat, there was only silence. A silence that felt full, not empty. You felt it in the warmth of his fingers, the aching steadiness of his gaze.

Your soul had begun to understand him.

Even if your mind still chased questions.

But then—

A sound. Sharp. Hollow. Distant. Bootsteps on stone.

You both froze.

The rhythm of it was unmistakable. The hurried march of armored feet, five or six men at least, coming from the eastern corridor. It echoed through the garden like thunder, chasing away the stillness like wind scattering prayer scrolls.

You looked at him, your fingers tightening around his instinctively.

Jinu’s jaw tensed.

He stood without a word, hands already releasing yours, his posture shifting with uncanny calm—like a shadow returning to its shape. He no longer looked like the man you’d just bared your heart to. In an instant, he was once again the envoy. The outsider. The one who did not belong.

You rose more slowly, brushing your hands down your robe to steady yourself. But your pulse was racing. You knew the guards would be looking for you by now—curfew long passed, your presence long missed.

And yet—

You had never heard them move this quickly.

A crack of voices cut through the air. 

“Secure the perimeter!”

“Over there!”

The guards' silhouettes appeared between the flowering arches—dark shapes in lacquered armor, blades drawn. Their torches flared orange and angry against the soft hush of the moonlit garden.

Then one of them saw you. “Princess!” The guard claimed.

You flinched. His voice wasn’t one of relief.

It was panic. Urgency.

He rushed toward you, the others not far behind. “Your Highness, we must return you to the palace immediately. There’s been a breach near the outer gate.”

You turned sharply, eyes darting to Jinu. He remained still beside you, but his eyes… they had gone sharp, distant, alert. A familiar tension rolled through him—like a hound scenting smoke before fire.

“What kind of breach?” he asked quietly.

The captain didn’t look at him. Didn’t even acknowledge him.

“The monks at the outer shrine sent a hawk—they say something clawed tried to cross the river ward. It didn’t make it across… but it was fast. Strong. Not human.”

Your heart dropped. 

The guards didn’t see it, but you did. The way Jinu’s shoulders stiffened. The flicker of heat beneath the calm in his gaze. It wasn’t surprise that crossed his face.

It was recognition. He knew what it was. He had seen it before— you. Had seen those things before, it was the ones who tried to pry on you… to eat you, and now, it was close.

“Escort the princess,” the captain barked. “We’re locking down the entire palace. No one leaves the inner grounds until sunrise.”

Another guard stepped forward, reaching gently for your arm not to touch but merely hovering over it. “Forgive us, Your Highness, but you’re not safe here.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but before you could speak, Jinu took a step back, away from you, hands at his sides.

He was vanishing again. Not literally—but behind the mask. Behind the role. The man you had just touched—the one who held centuries in his eyes—had retreated.

As if he could not be seen beside you now. As if this moment, this truth, would be burned away by the torches of men who did not understand.

“Go,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “Your highness, it is not safe here.”

You look at his eyes with reckless abandon. It hurt more than it should have.

You stepped forward, unwilling to let it end like this. “Wait—Jinu—”

He looked at you finally and the pain in his gaze—masked though it was—struck you like a blow.

Just like the blow of a wind it was redirected immediately. He looked at the captain of the guards. “I’ll find it,” he said. “Whatever crossed the wards tonight… I’ll deal with it.”

You knew what he meant. 

Not ‘I’ll help.’ 

Not ‘I’ll try.’

He was already hunting it. 

Even now. 

Your chest ached.

Still, the guards surrounded you. You couldn’t stay. Not without drawing suspicion. Not without risking him.

So you let them guide you away.

But as you turned back once—just once—you saw him standing beneath the tree, petals falling around his shoulders like snow.

Alone.

Watching you leave again. The way he always had. The way he always would.

It was not the first life. Not even the second. But it was the first time he failed you in a way the gods would not forgive.

It began with fire. Not the kind that rages and burns—but the kind that waits, patient, breathing smoke beneath the floorboards of the world. It crept in slowly, like rot. Like a whisper. The skies had turned red days before, the moon swollen and rusted like a dying eye. The monks had muttered about omens, drawn talismans in vain. The people had begun to pray louder, to offer more.

But it wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was. That night, he had been late.

He remembered the details with agonizing clarity—the scent of lantern oil, the cold sweat along his back, the way the forest had gone too quiet. The stars had vanished behind a veil of cloud, and still he had pressed forward, not yet knowing what he would find.

You were already gone from the palace by the time he arrived.

He’d warned the king. Pleaded. Begged. Told them something was coming. They hadn’t listened.

You had insisted on leading the ritual yourself—brave, stubborn, always trying to carry the weight of your people with dignity. You never should’ve been there. You never should’ve been alone. He found the field outside the temple gates in ruins.

Blood soaked the grass, mingling with crushed blossoms. The shrine’s wooden arch had splintered, talismans torn from their posts. The sacred circle meant to repel demons had been defaced—scratched through by claws that gouged through stone like silk.

And in the center of it— You.

Collapsed at the base of the offering altar, your ceremonial robe torn, your arm streaked red. A wound to the stomach, deep and glistening, like something had tried to claim you.

He dropped to his knees beside you, breath leaving his lungs in a single broken sound. “What… did you do!”

You were still breathing.

But not for long.

“Stay with me,” he had said, over and over, his voice raw with disbelief. “Stay. With. Me.”

Your eyelids fluttered.

And in that brief moment of clarity, you looked at him—not with fear. Not with confusion.

With recognition.

As if, even dying, you knew him.

As if your soul remembered what the body had barely begun to understand.

He tried to lift you.

Tried to carry you to the healers, to the monks, to anyone who could undo what had been done.

But you reached for him weakly, fingers brushing his cheek.

“No,” you whispered. “I’m sorry—”

He shook his head.

“I can fix this. I can—I’ll offer anything—”

You smiled.

It broke him more than the blood.

“You always do, my lov…” you muttered.

And then—Your eyes looked at him. A shortness of breath. And you were gone. The Gods did not come with thunder or wrath. They did not scold. They watched and when he screamed at the heavens, when he bled into the shrine’s soil, when he swore he would give anything—his soul, his name, his next thousand lives—to undo this, they answered in silence.

And then they bound him. To time. To memory. To you. You would return. In another form. Another face but he would remember.

And he would be made to walk beside you again and again—always too late, always too far, always unrecognized—until he had paid the price.

And so he did.

He woke from the memory with a start, not in sleep but in the garden.

Now.

Your scent still lingered on the breeze. The warmth of your hand still ghosted against his palm and yet the ache in his chest burned like it had that night because something had crossed the wards and this time—he would not be late.

Not again. He stood, turned toward the shadows, and vanished beneath the plum trees.

Silent.

Deadly.

Ready.

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[savanir]

DP x DC Prompt [29]

Danny flees to Metropolis after a bad reveal and finds that its actually really easy to disappear in the gigantic city.

The only pushback (if you can call it that) is that he gets a personal visit from Marilyn Moonlight on her spectral horse and she tells him he's allowed to stay as long as he doesn't cause any trouble.

The last thing he wants is a fight with a city spirit...

He does odd jobs here and there, wanders around, watches the supers handle the threats.

It's not how he figured his life would go but it's alright, he's managing.

During one of his wanderings he overhears an argument at the back of a cafe.

It turns out that a sound and lights guy is a no-show and the metal band that's supposed to perform that night is scrambling to find a replacement.

Danny volunteers if they are willing to show him the setup, he figures he's technical enough, he can figure it out. (And he might use some of his ghost abilities to make things work, but that's besides the point).

This is how he meets their lead singer, one Siobhan McDougal. Its only later that he learns she's also known as the Silver Banshee.

It explains why he feels comfortable around her, she's nice and he absolutely doesn’t have an issue with her ghostly sensibilities.

She's the one to hire Danny to be their sound and lights guy permanently.

Danny also helps with marketing and merch down the line.

Everything is fine until one night there is a commotion at the venue and Danny goes ghost to help handle the situation.

Afterwards Siobhan as Banshee stares at Danny, who stares back, and they kinda just float and look and Danny starts to go gradually invisible when he's suddenly grabbed and held up and Siobhan is positively beaming at him.

"You're like me!"

"Uhm..."

"Boy Banshee"

"Technically, men can't be-"

"So adorable~"

Next thing he knows she holds him close. And well, that's really nice, just happy happy spectral vibes all around and Danny can't help but bask in it and would it really be so bad?

She's definitely squeezing the air out of him though, it's a good thing he doesn't need to breathe in that form.

After that he works hard at altering his ghost appearance a little to make it look like he has matching skull face paint going on when he transforms.

It helps with maintaining his identity too somehow...

Despite the fact that he's still using the exact same skillset, somehow, for some reason, nobody catches on that Phantom and Boy Banshee are incredibly similar.