#it's not but i'm tagging it that for organization

[anxiousalienwriter]

!!! I love fun uncle buck!! Funcle if you will. They all just throw their kids at him to distract him all day. Eddie has chris stay with him to help plan (chris needs input, they're becoming an official family and buck would love that chris got involved). Denny opts to stay with chris partly out of support for him with eddie, and partially because he wants to witness his breakdowns first hand. Everyone checks in on eddie throughout the day who insists that he's fine but chris and denny are like he's had no less than 5 mental breakdowns. Meanwhile, buck is having the time of his life with jee, mara, and baby robby but he's also like where is eddie :( this would be so much more fun with eddie and chris :(( so he keeps calling him to convince him to drop whatever he and chris are doing and join them (which helps to further Eddie's breakdowns because he has to tell buck no).

This was really stream of consciousness but now my brain is going wild with this idea lol. Would you mind if I wrote a fic for it? I'm using your ideas so I want to make sure it is but omg. You've got my brain going lol.

It's fine if not! I'll just leave it at this mess of a post lol

Eddie really planned a whole little surprise party for Buck, complete with a fakeout note. He staged Pepa, Chris, and himself perfectly. You know he rehearsed what he was gonna say a million times in his head. He changed his position against the wall a million times. He was trying to figure out his reveals. He planned it and then tried to play it off as casual. Obsessed with all of that, actually. Love that for him

[stitchposts]

I understood 'art' as referring to the finished product and the designing of it, and 'craft' as the technique required to bring that to being. So artists crafted art, basically. The wonders of being a non-native english speaker on tumblr, I guess. #TIL

I'm not sure if you're responding to the initial post or the expanded version I wrote so here is the expanded, which has way more info already written out. Either way, happy to talk about it. And that's why I specified this was an English language issue for me, no worries.

There is way less a distinction between the words than you think (and that native speakers think so don't worry about it). As I mentioned in my larger post, the difference in the words in common use is mostly rooted in labor done by men vs women. Or lower class labor. Or literal children. Things done with your hands by the lowbrow, vs things that are truly actually art made by artists who understand Art.

Other people reading and responding to my post had decided that I don't like the term 'craft' being applied to my work when my issue is people making vibes-based distinctions (again: rooted in unexamined bias against gender, social class, culture, etc) on what is 'art' and what is 'craft.' it's very common on my posts that break containment that other people are shocked that, on viewing my pieces, they are having their world view challenged. Because my work is to them 'art' and not 'craft' when they actually look at it closely, when they at first see it as 'craft.'

[hedwigoprah]

A Word with Friends | June 2

Hello Hello! I'm finally back at it and writing for prompts again! Yay! I thought I'd hop back in with a word that y'all might enjoy. This week's word is one I've used before. Someone even called my use of it slutty which I then proceeded to print out and put on my wall to document the occasion you know who you are.

Don't worry though, I wrote something brand new to fit it, and all of the AWWF words I missed during the month of May.  I'm dropping this a little early cause it's technically also a submission for last week's word too. But no pressure, no rush.  SO! Without further adieu, the word for this week is:

Avarice

1. Excessive or inordinate desire of gain; greed for wealth 2. Inordinate desire for some supposed good.

My submission and tags are under the cut ;)  1.7k words jsyk

This particular work is all original, but it does reference Children of the Dark, so there are a few names you may not recognize. They're from Veryl's history.

Yeah?" Veryl called out as she sorted through the papers in front of her. When the meditation room had echoed with the knock, she had startled and tossed the stack she had in her hands. She stooped now to retrieve the scattered parchment. The door creaked open and Bellara's head popped out from around the corner it created. "Rook? Can I bother you about something? Just, if you have the time? I completely understand if you're doing something else." She still stood in the doorway, hand poised to pull the door shut if Veryl requested she leave. Veryl looked from the papers she had corralled into a somewhat organized stack and then back to her visitor. Others still lay out of her reach. So, out of frustration with the task rather than the interruption, she dropped the ones she had collected and decided to just pick them all up later. "Yes, please bother me." She stepped over the newly dispersed mess to pull the door open further and invite in her guest, waving her further into the room. Bellara brought with her some parchment of her own, along with a quill and an ink pot. It wasn't hard to guess at the motives behind her sudden visit. Veryl second guessed her choice, wary of how the fanciful would-be author had been speaking of her writing endeavors. Veryl wasn't sure she was in healthy enough place to be considered good subject matter. "What can I do for you?" Veryl closed the door and leaned against it as she considered her friend. She decided that something off-the-wall might be exactly the distraction she needed. "Well, first," Bellara started, and Veryl mentally prepared for the particular ten thousand words she would be inundated with. "I hope you don't mind but I was trying to write down that story you told us the other day, the one about the body swap? It was so intriguing, I just can't imagine not having it down on paper. I'll make sure it only stays in our records, but I thought it was worth remembering, you know? I ran into a bit of a roadblock though, there are so many details that I could never repeat the way you did. So I was wondering if I could pick your brain about it? Unless you want me to stop, and then I'll stop. I'll even throw everything I have into the fire so no one will ever find it."

Veryl felt her mouth slacken only a bit before she checked herself and corrected her features before they could betray her shock. Her eyebrows still shot up her face, something she couldn't prevent as hard as she tried. She also forgot what a normal amount of blinking should look like.

"You know what!" Bellara threw her free hand up, waving a finger about as she started to backtrack. "I shouldn't have even started writing it down. I knew it was private story and I should have let it stay that way. I'm sorry, Rook. I'll be going now." Veryl had to give credit to Bellara's perspicaciousness, already changing course because of Veryl's obvious unease with the idea. There wasn't an ounce of maliciousness or victim-hood in Bellara's words either, the apology was genuine she could tell that much. Veryl was already shaking her head as Bellara made for the door, reaching for the handle. On a laugh, she stopped the other woman from trying to leave. She placed a gentle hand on her arm and gave her a meaningful look. "I don't mind, Bellara, I promise." And Veryl thought a big part of her meant it. She was safe with these people. Bellara herself was in possession of this particular kind of effusive apricity that set a person at ease without even trying. For the next several hours, Veryl let Bellara pick and pull at different threads of the story she shared. Bellara was gentle with her questions and they never veered further into the weeds. Veryl was never required to divulge more than she already had. They sprawled out across the rug in front of the sofa. This time papers were scattered, but in an organized fashion that Veryl could not make heads nor tales of, but Bellara danced between effortlessly. Veryl talked about her teammates in vague terms, describing them only as characters in a story rather than people she spent a formative amount of time with. She spoke about Jeltje's gruffness, Heinrich's strength of character, and even Detre's cunning. In this moment, they were nothing more than descriptions and words, it was easier that way. "What about your other teammate, the one you don't mention very much?" Bellara was on her stomach, concentrating on writing what Veryl provided verbally. Veryl meanwhile kept her arms wrapped around one of her pillows, her fingers toying with the tassels that hung from the corners. "Nocturna?" Veryl clarified and Bellara nodded, lifting her face to give her full attention. Veryl didn't really know how to describe the most elusive member of her team. Nocturna had been mysterious and secretive at the best of times, and down right enigmatic and recondite at the worst. "I think Nocturna…" Veryl tried to sort out the words she knew that could even begin to describe the woman. "I think she scared me more than anything else." Veryl laughed at the absurdity of it. For all the malcontent spirits, child-sized bugs, and vile villains she had come up against, nothing could unsettle her the way Noturna could with just a withering look. "I wasn't exaggerating when I said she just appeared during the blood rain. She moved like… a susuration of a living person. You can't track her with your eyes or your ears. Even if you thought you felt her presence, for a second, like a chill up your spine, she's already gone." It was unnerving the way Nocturna had just flowed through existence. "She made me look like a clumsy baby, just learning to walk." Bellara gave her a confused look, as though she couldn't comprehend the idea, but kept writing anyway. "She was slick with a blade and killed without thinking twice about it. I was a weapon, sure, but she was poison."

Veryl finally took note of her own demeanor, having zoned in on a particular pattern in the rug that had started move as her vision grew blurry with lack of focus. She snapped back into reality before Bellara could notice her abstraction. "That's really all I can say." Veryl begged off when Bellara looked to her for more. She gave her a small apologetic smile. "That's perfect, Rook. I'll be able to describe her much better now." Bellara dipped her quill another time before reaching for a piece of paper that already had some other scribbles that rambled across it. "I just have one last question." "Shoot." Veryl allowed, tossing the pillow down and crawling to her own stomach. She propped herself up and watched as Bellara scritched new words across the paper in front of her. "What was the exact speech you gave as the Spectre? Do you remember?" As if she would ever forget those words. A warning she had since repeated, though perhaps in not so many words, but the sentiment was one that she had made sure certain persons would be sure not to forget. From somewhere deep inside the darkest parts of her soul, Veryl brought forward something that felt like a mockery of her evolution as a person. The Spectre felt weird on her skin, but still fit like a shadow she would never fully be rid of. In her best imitation of the ghost she once was, she repeated the words that had cemented her place as nothing more than Necropolis folklore. "I see you. I hear your weeping and groaning. The being you mourn would impart you with a final word. Seek honor, truth, and kindness and blessings will be your boon but if avarice fills your soul, you shall only find your doom." Coming back to herself, she gave Bellara a sanguine smile, relaxing back into her own current skin. Bellara returned the smile before she finished her latest line, sighed, and shifted positions to sit back on her haunches.

"You know," she started as she began to gather all of her papers into a single stack. "I'd really think that speech was much scarier if I hadn't seen Emmrich chase you to your room in nothing but your underwear." This time Veryl let her jaw drop open. "You…?!" True shock had Veryl sitting up and trying to cover herself as though she wasn't fully clothed. "It was the middle of the night, no one was supposed to be awake." Bellara danced around her eye contact with Veryl, her eyes shifting in nervousness as she spoke. "Let's just say that I know I wasn't the only one not getting any sleep." Bellara was quickly scrambling to her feet, dodging the pillows that Veryl playfully threw her way. "But don't worry! I definitely didn't write any of that down!" Veryl paused in her cushion assault to question her friend, "Really?" Bellara had moved quickly, nearing the door with alacrity Veryl only saw her move with in the field. She was very near the door when she turned to give Veryl an answer. "No, I lied." She grinned sheepishly, a crimson blush dusting her cheeks. "I wrote all of it down. OkaythanksfortalkingtomeRook! Haveagoodeveningbye!" Bellara was out the door before the final pillow could hit it's intended target. Instead it thudded against the door that had been slammed shut and fell uselessly to the ground.

Gentle, loving tags for you my friends: @strugglinggranola @serensama @tkwritesdumbassassins  @tacoteddy22 @thecraftybaroness @himluv @notyourmamasdeerbat @bubblecat-co @mythals-whore @operative-arrow @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @seaglassmelody  @davrinsleftpectoral @biowaredisasterbisexual @woundedsoul12 @jenn2d2 @arisofsky, @kai-dimir, @purple-frost @pixiedurango @thedissonantverses

Happy writing folks!

Trivia for your time: The average golf ball has 336 dimples

[agirlandherquill]

writecamp - day 3, june 3rd

and we're on to day 3 campers, how the time flies!

the rules are as follows: choose a prompt (or as many of them as you like) from the list, write something and share your creation with the rest of writeblr, and share the game with others, because as we all know writing is a gift and it deserves to be shared! and of course, tag me in your responses because i cannot wait to see them!

as usual, the prompt list will be under the cut!

The Prompt List

Dialogue Prompts:

"I do not loathe you. I do not like you. Nothing could be so simple as that. The closest my feelings come to is obsession - is that a reasonable answer for you?"

"Do not look at me like that. Do not. For if you fear me now, you'll feel nothing when I let myself snap. Do you hear me?"

"Right here, I pledge an oath. Not of loyalty. Not of trust. An oath of death."

"Do you believe? Or do you let yourself go through life lost, with nothing?"

"Smile even as you weep. Smile even as their blood is spilt. The only time your smile should waver is when this war is won."

Setting Prompts:

A weeping shadow

A wilting willow

A rocky shoreline

A swathe of sky

A whisper of wind

Narration Prompts:

She bowed deep and low, a careful smile teasing her lips as she righted herself and stared straight into the eyes of her greatest foe.

He was incapable of letting her go, her shadow haunted him as he watched it shrink further and further down the hall until the dark was all that was left, but he remembered her shadow, and if he tried hard enough he could still see it etched into his mind.

There was no escape from a feeling such as this, an ache so sweet it poisoned deep into the flesh and dug its way deep into bone, rendering each bodily organ a puppet to its wicked whims.

There was beauty in death, immortality in finality, for the heart could weep no more, the scars in death could mend and the bodily toils and triumphs would mean no more.

A woman in this world holds no place, no title, no right - meaning she can do no wrong.

Feeling Prompts:

The calm of an ending

The rush of flight

The sting of pain

The unease of rapture

The joy of triumph

all the best for day 3, you've all made such a brilliant start to the challenge, and i can't wait to see what you write!

~ A Girl and Her Quill

~ ~ ~

now for the tags! for writecamp, because i have a feeling there's going to be so many of you, i'm going to do tags a little bit differently and instead tag all you lovely campers in the comments! (to hopefully get around any tag limits/difficulties because we all know there's going to be problems, it's inevitable and i'm going to do my best to avoid any issues in that area) (the tag list will also be completed a short while after this post comes out seeing as i unfortunately cannot queue comments, but i'll get there in the end :) )

but of course, if you would like to be tagged in future daily challenges for writecamp, all you've got to do is interact with this post - it'll be monitored throughout the entirety of the challenge to ensure nobody who wants to be tagged misses out!

[cloudmancy]

hi!!! i’ve never heard of the devoured year / a crown of candy and i would like to know what it is!! it looks really cute!!!

The Devoured Year is an OCT (original character tournament) set in the world of Calorum! It's based off the D20 campaign 'A Crown of Candy', whose general vibes are like Game of Thrones but in a fridge. All the people, places, animals, are made out of food.

The Devoured Year specifically takes place during the last year of the Ravening War, a conflict that has embroiled all six nations of Calorum for half a decade. (Our map redrawn by faust @shantywolves for the tournament, based off the canon map by Jon Pintar:)

Some stuff for you to check out if you're interested in finding out more; our intro comic for The Devoured Year!

Our carrd, which holds logistical details of the OCT, and the full info doc we put together:

Season's Herald, which contains in-canon lore dispatches for our first round of the tournament:

You can go ahead and check out our tumblr tag here too. And if you'd like to spectate (we're in the middle of the first of four rounds right now) you can go find the invite link in our carrd! Sorry I'm very excited about this it's one of the coolest events I've ever helped organize

[thebunnednun]

"Down Boy!"

Pairing: Juan Ruiz x Gf! Imperfect! Reader

It's just a regular day with your monster who loves to cater to you~

Tags: teasing, touching, maybe some light puppy play if you squint and stand on your head, established relationships, pastel goth reader, werewolf boyfriend, monster fuckers unite!

wc: 3.6k

Your room smells faintly of strawberry body spray, bubble baths, and rosewater. 

Thick, pink velvet curtains frame the tall windows, their tassels glittering faintly in the warm light that filters through them. The furniture is antique style, white with gold accents and little heart shaped carvings. A few bat motifs are tucked in here and there, cleverly hidden unless you know to look. 

This is your room, sure. But technically it's your room in Dad’s house. He picked out and decorated this whole space.

A detail that still makes your heart squeeze every time you think about it.

The vanity you’re leaning over has little pastel colored jars and sparkly bottles organized in an almost chaotic way. Lip glosses, perfume, rollers, and your holy grail sunscreen, which you’re currently mixing with a touch of pink-champagne highlighter before dabbing it delicately along your cheekbones.

Gotta protect your skin and still sparkle on these hoes.

Your hair is tied into two low pigtails, curled into perfect bouncy ends, held in place with white silk ribbons that match your skirt. The pink highlights that Tilda helped you with look killer. The look is giving, sweetheart who could rip your heart out if she wanted to, and that’s exactly the aesthetic. 

You're currently in a fitted black tee that hugs your waist and chest just right, a bright red cartoon heart with tiny vampire fangs smiling up from your chest. The pleated pink skirt flares out just enough to twirl in. And your white thigh-highs? Perfect. The only thing left is—

‘Shoes.’

You groan and kick your legs slightly as you eye the two pairs on your bed. One set of chunky platform Mary Janes, glittery and black with a little pink heart on the buckle. The other, heels shaped like coffin lids. 

Because, obviously, you can't just have normal heels.

“I swear I’m gonna lose my mind,” you mumble, biting your glossed lip and staring between them. 

“Should’ve decided this last night.”

A voice floats from just outside your wall, technically not a knock, but a soft shuffle against the glass pane. 

You already know it’s him before you hear it.

“It’s open,” you call out softly, just above a whisper, eyes still focused on applying the tiniest bit more shimmer to the center of your lips. 

Gotta make them kissable.

By the time you snap the compact shut and turn around, Juan’s halfway through your window, shoulders twisting as he ducks in, careful and gentle.

You can’t help but smile. His socks are plastered with neon green sugar skulls, his brown sneakers held dangling in one hand by the laces like they’re sacred.

The second his feet touch the plush white rug near your bed, he crouches and pulls out a crinkly plastic bag from his pocket, setting his sneakers down inside with almost comical precision.

“Didn’t want to mess up your rug,” he grins, standing upright again. Your arms open before you can stop them. 

“Come here, mi amor.”

He practically lunges the short distance to you, throwing his arms around your waist and tucking his face into the crook of your neck like he’s been starved for your scent. You hug him back just as tightly, fingers lacing behind his back.

“You smell like—” he pauses and pulls back to sniff you gently. 

“Glitter and strawberries and… fire?”

You giggle. “Probably the lip gloss. And the sunscreen. And the highlighter. Also… maybe a little of my soul, who knows.”

Juan laughs, but then pulls back, eyeing your shoes on the bed.

“So. Which ones are we risking twisted ankles with today?”

You sigh dramatically. “Ugh. I don’t know. The coffin ones say I’m unhinged but hot, but the Mary Janes are more, I'm adorable but could kill you in a dream. Thoughts?”

“I say coffin heels,” he says seriously, “Because then you can dramatically fall into my arms and say ‘bury me in Dior.’”

And because he knows you’ve been dying to wear them out. 

You let out a very Manic pixie girl style giggle snort.

“Alright, but if I die, you better give me a hot eulogy.”

You bend over to grab the shoes and glance up at him from under your lashes. “Did you pack a backup outfit? And lighter? You know it’s sunny today.”

Juan scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “I didn’t pack a lighter. Tilda might have one, though.”

You roll your eyes and spin toward your dresser. “Dogs,” you mutter with affection. You slide open a drawer that looks like it holds old love letters or maybe silk gloves, but instead you reach past the lace to grab your secret weapon; a pink Hello Kitty lighter, completely bedazzled.

Much of your style is like this right now. Rhinestones, bows, glittery fangs.

You want it?

You got it.

Juan watches in stunned silence as you drop it into your Juicy Couture purse, which is already overflowing with pink puffball keychains, tiny plushies, a vial of blood red lipstick, and a pink bat-shaped mirror. It jingles when you zip it shut.

“I love you so much it physically hurts,” Juan says, staring at you like you just invented magic.

You smirk, dusting your hands and smoothing your skirt. 

“Duh. I’m fabulous. Now help me pick a back up shoe. We’re matching aesthetics today.”

Juan adjusts the backpack he slung over one shoulder, the fabric slightly sun faded and patched in places like it’s been through a few adventures too many. The second he moves to place it with your cutesy stuff, you give him the look, eyebrows raised, lips pursed like you’re two seconds from asking, ‘And what is that doing here?’

“Bed,” you say simply, pointing at the footboard with the dramatic elegance of a queen. 

“Drop it.”

He chuckles, obediently setting the bag down next to your large black travel trunk, your on demand coffin, as you like to call it now. As he unzips it, you catch a flash of sketchbooks inside, their corners bent, a few stickers on the covers starting to peel from wear.

“Heyyyy,” you hum, scooping one up before he can stop you.

“What secrets are you hiding in here, Mr. Ruiz?”

“Noooo,” he groans playfully, reaching over, but you’ve already flipped it open, plopping down cross legged on your trunk like you own the place, (because, technically, you do).

Your nails—long, coffin shaped, painted in a glossy pale pink with tiny black cross stitched bows at the tips, flip through the pages delicately. Your heart warms as you take in the detailed pencil sketches. Some are monsters, some animals, some rough comic panels. 

But your favorites are the ones of you. 

There’s one where you’re curled up on the window seat, another of you laughing midbite with mochi in your mouth, and one especially adorable doodle where you’re lying on his bed, bat wings spread around you like a blanket, captioned my girl.

He’s gotten better, his linework is smoother, bolder.

You find a new sketch of you, all pouty lipped and half asleep in one of his remaining hoodies. You don’t say anything. You just smile and close the page gently.

Juan slips behind you, rummaging through your walk in closet with ease. 

“I’m picking your backup shoes,” he calls.

“Please don’t pick the custom rhinestone crocs again.”

“I’m insulted,” he mutters, before emerging holding a pair of battered black Converse, frayed laces, sharpie spooderman on one side, paint splatters on the soles. He shoves them into a fresh plastic bag like he’s wrapping fine china and tucks them gently into the backpack. 

“Practical and tragic. Just like your taste in men.”

You chuck a pillow at him.

After one last check in the mirror, you grab your purse and begin loading your essentials. Your lilac bear spray, your matching taser with a bunny charm clipped on the handle, and a mini makeup palette, which you stuff into the little heart-shaped zip pocket with an air of satisfaction.

“I’m ready!” you chirp, just as you launch yourself at Juan’s back, arms wrapping around his shoulders and legs around his waist. He immediately places his legs underneath your thighs and you adore the warmth of his large hands. You allow yourself to be adjusted without tissue as you admire your boyfriend's strength. 

“And I have something for you!”

He lets out a grunt of surprise as he stabilizes you with a laugh.

“I think I can feel it—OW!”

You give him a smack to the side of his head before reaching forward to tug back lovingly on his curls. 

“Shut up and be romantic.”

He carries you with ease toward the bed and then playfully tips backwards, sending you both tumbling onto the plush mattress. You land beneath him, the both of you tangled in soft giggles, his laugh rumbling low in his chest.

You reach behind you and pull out a tiny pouch from your skirt pocket, unwrapping it to reveal the bracelet you’ve been working on for him in secret. It’s made of soft, earthy fibers, almost fur-like in texture, tightly woven with love and a little wolf charm hanging from the center. Tiny etched details make it look like it’s staring right into your soul.

Juan blinks in surprise, sitting up a little, his hands braced on either side of you.

“For you,” you say softly, holding it up.

Then you lift your other hand to show the matching one, pink, knitted to look like little hearts and bat wings wrapped around your fingers. Your bat charm has a tiny engraved J on the back, and his wolf charm has the first initial of your name, hidden just under the front.

Juan doesn’t speak at first. 

First his eyes take everything in, the way you see him do whenever he’s inspired by something. Then he takes both your hands gently in his larger ones like you’re made of wet marble. He turns them, eyes admiring your fingers, the bracelets… and then your nails.

“You got the bows,” he murmurs, half to himself, smiling wide. “They look so good. I’m glad you picked that set.”

“You paid for that set,” you remind him with a proud grin, brushing your thumb across his. 

“So technically, we have great taste.”

Juan chuckles, then kisses your hands. Not once, freaking multiple times. All around. The knuckles, the palm, the edge of your wrist where the veins show. You squirm a little but let him finish, cheeks warm and happy. You never really let other people freely touch you, except your little brother, mom, and grandmother do this to you. 

Yeah, he’s a special little guy. 

Juan carefully ties the pink bracelet around your wrist, fingers gentle and precise. Then you sit up and do the same for him, adjusting the little wolf so it faces outward. You fasten his bracelet for him next, and when you’re done, he tenderly intertwines your fingers with his and you press them against your cheek. 

You look up through your lashes, your lashes fluttering like wings, and his big, brown eyes are gazing at you with that warm, smitten softness that always makes your heart skip.

“You have the prettiest hands,” he says softly, almost in awe.

“Like… they could paint stars or something.”

You smile at him, heart fluttering, stomach doing little flips in your chest.

Juan’s eyes lock on yours. They’re dark, rich, and impossibly soft, yet so focused. He gazes at you like you’re made of starlight and spun sugar. And with a smile that could melt a glacier, he says, completely serious,

“I think you’re so cool.”

Your face breaks into the widest, most affectionate smile of the day.

“I know, babe,” you whisper, tugging him into a kiss. 

“But it’s really cute when you say it.”

You're still lying tangled up in Juan’s arms when he shifts his weight, adjusting slightly so he’s propped up on one elbow beside you. The afternoon light is coming through your window while the AC blasts and you actually feel good for once.

Maybe it’s the guy next to you.

You’re basking in the softness of the moment, fingers playing lazily with the strands of his curls. Until he says it,

“I know you picked those coffin heels,” he murmurs, nodding toward the pair you were struggling to decide between earlier, both propped dramatically near your vanity like a gothic fashion duel. 

“And listen, mi amor, I don’t mind carrying you. You know I love holding you.”

You blink, lips slightly parted as you tilt your head, curious where this is going.

“But if we run into trouble…” he trails off, his voice softening as he looks down at your clasped hands. “You’re not gonna want to run in those. And I also know how you get when your heels get scuffed.”

Translation: I know you, ‘Fucking hate that,’ and will make it whoever we’re tracking downs problem.

You sit up a little straighter, brows gently knitting.

“Okay, wow, I feel very seen right now.”

Juan grins, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

“You don’t mind borrowing from Abby or Tilda when we’re in a jam, sure, but you like having your own things. Things you picked. Or stuff that’s just yours. And I…” 

He leans back slightly and nods toward the bay window and the little Juliet balcony beyond it. 

“I wanted to give you that.”

You turn to follow his gaze just as he stretches out one long arm and reaches through the window like it’s nothing, because to him, it isn’t. Being part chupacabra means scaling your three story house like a cat on steroids is his thing. Before you can ask, he’s pulling back in with a sleek pink shoebox, the corners ribboned in sheer black tulle.

Your breath catches.

“Juan,” you gasp, eyes wide, hands clutched to your chest as he sets the box in your lap. 

“You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs with a smirk, brown eyes warm and shining. 

“Yeah, but I wanted to. That’s the difference.”

Your heart flutters like it’s trying to sprout wings. Carefully, like it might bite you, you lift the lid and peel back the delicate tissue paper. Inside,

They’re perfect.

The heels are sleek and black with a soft shiny finish, but what steals your heart are the tiny bat wings that curl from the side of each shoe, like they were designed just for you. Delicate pink buckles, heart-shaped cutouts on the soles, and a hot pink underside give it the exact amount of whimsy meets shadow. 

You could scream.

Instead, you squeal so hard your bubblegum clings to your teeth, your hands flying up to your boyfriends face in disbelief. 

“MI VIDA?!”

Juan yelps and immediately presses a finger to your lips. “Shhh!” His eyes dart toward the door like it might burst open. 

“Babe, isn’t your dad home!?!”

You slap a hand over your mouth, still squealing internally. “I’m sorry, I just—Oh my glob.”

He’s trying not to laugh, his hands gripping your waist like he needs to anchor himself from your reaction. 

“You’re gonna blow our cover. Your dad and stepmother still think I’m the weird delivery guy who brings your shopping orders at night.”

“And we are so keeping it that way,” you whisper quickly, eyes wide with mock seriousness. “Because I’m not ready for my mom to start interrogating us about your ‘intentions’ while my Dad sharpens knives in the background.”

You slip the heels on immediately, unable to resist. They fit like a dream. Snug but comfortable, the straps hugging your ankles just right. You glance down and wiggle your toes, enchanted by the way the bat wings flutter just slightly when you move.

“Juann,” you murmur, your voice going soft and shaky in a completely different way now. “You’re gonna make me mess up my whole lip combo for this.”

He smirks, crawling closer, eyes locked on your lips like a challenge. 

“Then do it.”

‘Fuck, don’t gotta tell me twice.’

You lean in, ruining the perfect sheen of your gloss as you press a soft, warm kiss to his mouth, a hand curled in the collar of his hoodie, the other fisting his hair. His hands land on your hips like he’s not sure whether to hold you still or melt into you entirely.

When you part, your smile is dizzy and glowing, a mix of glitter and affection.

“I’m trouble,” you whisper against his lips.

Juan just smiles, his voice low and breathy. 

“And you’re my favorite kind.”

You're still giggling from the sappiness of him all when Juan cups your face and kisses you again, this time slower, warmer. His lips brush over yours with such care it makes your stomach flutter. One of his hands cradles the back of your neck while the other sneaks around your waist, pulling you gently into his lap as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You sigh into the kiss, your fingers winding into his curls softer, thumbs brushing the edges of his ears. He hums, pleased, then tilts his head to deepen it. Your lips part, and for a second, everything fades. 

No family drama, no anxious thoughts. 

Just the feeling of his mouth on yours and his strong heartbeat under your palm. 

You pull back with a little laugh, breathless, your lip gloss completely smudged. Juan grins, his thumb swiping across your lower lip. 

Now you've both got on a strawberry caramel lip combo.

“You always taste like that strawberry candy when you kiss me. It’s so unfair.”

You gasp dramatically.

“You mean to tell me I don’t always taste like that?”

“Mami.”

His voice drops with a whine that makes your stomach tingle. 

“You could be chewing rubber bands and I’d still think you taste like strawberry sugar.”

You let out a soft snort, pressing your forehead to his before sitting back on your ankles. 

“We gotta go.”

He sighs dramatically and falls back onto your pillows. “Fine. Let me be a gentleman about it at least.”

You grab your purse, its body bouncing with every keychain and fuzzy charm as you tug it over your shoulder. You double-check: Taser, bear spray, Hello Kitty lighter, compact mirror, bracelets for the girls, it’s all there. Then you step onto the bed, hands on your hips like a princess surveying her tower.

“So adorable,” he says, smiling as he gathers his own pack before not so subtly checking out your legs. 

Your ears burn.

You bite your lip to hide the grin that spreads across your face, but it’s too late. He already knows.

“Let’s go before I kiss you again and we never leave,” he adds, and you squeal as he scoops you up effortlessly. He crouches near the window, easing it open the rest of the way, and carefully helps you crawl out first, onto the little wrought iron balcony, where the early afternoon air smells like dew and faraway woodsmoke. You straddle his waist, purse balanced on your lap, and he holds your thighs with steady, practiced hands.

“Y’know,” you murmur as he starts to scale down the trellis like a lovesick cryptid, “This would be wayyy less romantic if you were a vampire.”

He snorts. “Que?”

“Yeah,” you tease, leaning forward against the curve of his neck. “Like, they’re all brooding and silent. You’re loud, awkward, sweet, and built like someone who eats sugar skulls for breakfast. It’s better.”

“What are you talking about?” he laughs just as you both land, barely a crunch as his sneakers meet the grassy covered ground.

“Nothingg,” you whisper, giving his cheek a kiss before he sets you down gently.

You both break into a light sneak jog, weaving through the tree line behind your house and ducking through the shadowed woods, leaves rustling underfoot. The path is half hidden, used only by you two, really, and eventually leads to a clearing where his Honda Civic waits like a loyal steed.

It’s red, with a matte black interior, and a tiny dent in the hood from a raccoon incident you don’t talk about. Juan got it from some old guy in your childhood neighborhood after winning a bet on whether or not he could beat him in a stretching contest. (He could. He did.)

As you near it, he opens the passenger door and offers his hand with a playful bow. 

“Mi Rena~”

You giggle and take it, and he helps you inside like he’s escorting royalty. “Watch your head, princessa,” he whispers, holding your purse aside so it doesn’t bump the roof.

You don’t have a licence. Your last experiences trying to drive involved a mailbox, a squirrel, and a mild existential crisis.

Like you can drive, and are good at it! It’s just that….

(Ur powers tend to fuck u up behind the wheel thanks to Dr Sarkov, *c0ugh*[Not.]) 

Juan knows better than to let you near the wheel unless it's in Mario Kart or an emergency. He shuts the door gently and runs around the hood before vaulting over it like it’s that stupid tik tok trend.

"Juan, I-"

You just stare at him, slips slightly parted as he chuckles and pops the door open before sliding into the driver’s seat, slinging his backpack into the backseat with one arm while his other hand finds yours instantly. His thumb brushes your knuckles as he turns the key in the ignition.

The car hums to life.

His civic peels out of the hidden campsite tucked into the woods with just enough kick to make your heart race. The trees blur past in the afternoon light, light stretching out over your windshield, and his hand stays wrapped in yours the entire way.

And just like that, you’re off. On another adventure with your favorite boy, in your new heels, glittering from your highlighter/sunscreen combo, heart pounding under your smile. You lean back against the headrest, and he squeezes your hand once. 

“So where to, baby bat?”

You grin and snuggle in close to his right arm. Why you feel so happy and at ease to be your sweetest self around him, you'll never know. Maybe it's the dog thing.

But he's your dork in shinning armor and you love him. 

“Anywhere we can get cherry slushies and break a few HIPPA laws.”

His laughter fills the car, warm and wild. 

“Say less.”

@ririisred Come and get it!!!

I am so sorry, literally thought I posted this. tw: long ass authors note

Request: This is my first request and I don’t know how to said it, but I really want to read something about Juan Ruiz and a reader ( a girl please) that gives draculaura’s vibes ( I really like her relationship with clawd) ( I don’t speak english so sorry if I said something wrong)

You said nothing wrong my love, do not worry. I am so sorry that I didn’t respond sooner, it was finals, my job was (is) killing me, and I had to lock in. And then Tumblr aste my freaking ask. Draculuara and Clawd are a staple. They were legit my fav couple from the monster high series. I don't think I make the reader as bubbly as drauclaura, I'd be up to write a part 2.

I also have a (kinda) ongoing fic series about Juan called 'Please don't hate me!' I'd love to pick back up soon. I've grown a lot as a writer since then and I love happy endings.

If you're here because you're a monster fucker, welcome, if you're into anime I also write for One pieces Charlotte Katakuri. If you don't know him, look him up and thank me later.

I have legit never written any monster fic's, but hey! there's a first time for everything.

I am taking requests for the series though dm's or anonymous asks. I'll even take a commsion. You can choose anyone you'd like and even characters not listed.

Remember, fandoms never truly die,

I also have a ko-fi now if you'd like to support me. :3 Not mandatory but always appreciated.

Pssst, my ao3 is alive and open for all readers.

See you soon!

-Angie (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

psst, you made it to the end, have a cookie: (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*🍪.✧

[mangowillow]

last to know | ch. 3: today's curtain opens

pairing: jungkook x (f) reader / kim woosung x (f) reader

summary: you and jeongguk got together at 16 years old, married at 20, and divorced at 21. what was once love ever after turned into nothing but pain and unfulfilled dreams. you keep going despite the pain in your heart that never really went away, until one day, jungkook comes back— to seoul and in your life.

general story tags: divorce au, childhood friends, angst, hurt & eventual comfort, kind of a slow burn, OC is an adopted child in this fic, a lot of flashbacks later on because context is important; and the others that a lot of people seem to dislike: a love triangle and a LOT of miscommunication. look away if this isn't your thing. tags and warnings will be updated as we go along with each chapter!

warnings: somewhere in this chapter, seokjin punches jeongguk

word count: 12.7k

author's note: oooh look at her coming back after more than a YEAR!

i have no words, no excuses to offer. most people would have forgotten this story already. BUT I DIDN'T and that's all that matters right now <3

gentle reminder that italics are flashbacks! please forgive any oversights or mistakes or whatnot; as of posting, i am sick and i just wanted to post this chapter that's been sitting in my drafts for the longest time now.

one more very important thing: since i haven't updated in so long, i lost track of my taglist i am very sorry! to make everything more organized, i came up with a google form that readers can fill out if they're interested in being included. i know this is such an inconvenience but because i am a very irregular poster, i will need all the help with tracking i can get!!!

so if you're interested in being tagged for this fic, please fill out this form. any requests for tags in the comments or ask box will not be considered at this time. tysm!! enjoy this very humble update!

As usual, you didn’t notice time passing until you realized it was already nighttime.

You are still cleaning up the art room at the university where you were teaching until you heard the pitter-patter of the rain. Big, fat raindrops relentlessly hit the window, creating a steady beat. The sound calms you but at the same time, it seems to mirror the turbulent thoughts that are running through your mind. Not that the thoughts were anything urgent or worrying; your mind just can’t seem to stop… thinking.

You pack the last of the paintbrushes your students forgot to return to the crate when your phone starts to ring. You wipe your hands across your paint-stained apron before picking up. You place the phone between your ear and shoulder as you start packing your bag.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Mrs. Jeon ____?”

You haven’t heard that name in years; let alone be addressed as such.

“I um— may I know who is speaking?” you ask, your grip on the handle of your bag tightens. 

“This is Kim Ae-jung calling from Gangnam Heights Medical Center. I’m calling regarding Mr. Jeon Jeongguk,” the caller states. Your heart starts to beat faster, knuckles almost turning white as you now grip your bag strap even more.

“Oh. Right. Is everything okay?”

“I'm sorry to inform you that Mr. Jeon has been admitted to our hospital. There's been a health emergency and they're currently receiving medical attention.”

The moment you hear “medical attention,” the thumping in your ears becomes louder. You clutch your heart tighter as the caller goes on, “I understand this is a lot to take in. The situation is being taken care of by our medical team. It's important that you come to the hospital as soon as possible to be with them—”

You didn’t have to be told anything further. You start gathering your things, hastily putting them inside your bag, and run out the door. 

It didn’t matter that you got soaked in the pouring rain on the way to the bus stop. Of all days, you had to have your car at the shop for an oil change. You gnaw at your nails as you anxiously wait for the next bus to come. You look at your watch: 9:30 PM. You wonder why Jeongguk was in the hospital. You wonder why he was here— in Seoul.

As a self-proclaimed overthinker, you start to spiral and descend into negativity. You try to recall if Jeongguk has ever had any illnesses while you were still together. You try to remember if you missed anything then— a symptom, a cough, a fever. 

The moment you sit down on the bus your heart starts to steady a bit and it allows you to think a bit clearer. Gangnam Heights Medical Center was a few kilometers away from the university. You can’t help but glance at the time almost every minute, your leg bouncing in agitation.

In that seemingly long bus ride, you are flooded with so many memories of Jeongguk almost instantaneously— the day you met him, the day he held your hand for the first time, the day he kissed you after a fireworks display—

The day he married you.

All of the memories you have tried so hard to keep buried in the recesses of your mind— they all came rushing back like no time has ever passed.

When you are reminded of Jeon Jeongguk, you are reminded of pain. But you are also reminded of the deepest love you’ve ever known your entire life.

As the public announcement on the bus declares that the next stop is the hospital, you hastily push the STOP button above you. 

And you have never run as fast as you did to the hospital lobby. You were met by a very kind nurse who gently asked you to fill up a form before anything else even though you were clearly in distress. 

You didn’t know what to write on the form. Legally speaking, you aren’t Jeongguk’s legal guardian. Not anymore. You grip the pen tighter, the ballpoint hovering just above the line that asks for “Spouse Name”. Your eyes start to blur and because of the adrenaline, you don’t realize right away that you are in near tears. For whatever reason, you didn’t know what to do.

So many questions run through your mind— why did the hospital call you? Why isn’t anyone coming to Jeongguk? Was he alone here in Seoul? Does he have anyone at all? 

Your hands shake as you give back the form to the nurse. She gives you a small smile as she directs you to the room where Jeongguk is. Inside was the doctor in charge, as well as a different nurse.

They tell you Jeongguk had a panic attack on the side of the road. They also tell you that the attack was quite alarming because he fainted from sheer panic. You were asked if he had been taking his medication– a question you couldn’t straightforwardly answer. The doctor continued to advise you on his condition and what you could do to support him further but their words barely registered.

All you cared about at that moment was that Jeongguk was here with you in the same room. Lying on a hospital bed. 

“Is— is he going to be okay?” you ask softly, your eyes never leaving Jeongguk’s form.

“Yes, he will fully recover. However, I do advise that he monitor his triggers and form a safety plan should another panic attack happen when he’s out in public or when he’s alone. Your husband was lucky because kind strangers helped take him here.”

You wanted nothing more but to cry, but your tears cannot seem to fall. You thank the doctor as he leaves the room, leaving you and Jeongguk completely alone.

You didn’t wake up today thinking that you’d see him again. Under the worst circumstances yet again, you look at the man who you used to call your husband. Jeongguk is no longer the lanky 21-year-old you married. He's more muscular now, with his physique sculpted in all the right places. Although his face was covered with an oxygen mask, you could still see the prominent eye lines, perhaps due to exhaustion and sleepless nights. He now sports a full tattoo sleeve on his right arm, a striking blend of intricate designs that flow seamlessly down to just above his wrist. A delicate lotus flower blooms amidst the ink, its petals unfolding with quiet elegance, while scattered stars add a celestial touch, as if mapping constellations across his skin. He finally did it, you thought. You look at Jeongguk and see that everything and nothing has changed. 

You step closer to his bedside, your movements hesitant, almost fragile. With a trembling hand, you reach for the one free of the IV, your fingers brushing against his skin as if afraid he might break or worse– wake up. A shudder runs through you and your bottom lip quivers. You swallow hard, desperate to contain the sob threatening to slip past your lips.

Since when did Jeongguk suffer from panic attacks? No matter how hard you search your memory for warning signs, for any fleeting clue, you come up empty. Jeongguk was always strong, always steady—if anything, it was you who carried the weight of a restless mind.

Jeongguk had always been the one to carry the both of you.

You remain still, fingers laced with his as silent tears slipping down your cheeks. You mourn not just for him, but for everything you’ve lost—the Jeongguk you once knew, the love that once consumed your world, now reduced to fragments of what used to be.

"Mind telling me about you and ____?" Jeongguk starts, voice steady but laced with something ugly underneath.

He had been discharged just a day after—against Yoongi’s insistence. It wasn’t just the recklessness of it all that pissed Yoongi off—it was Jeongguk’s sheer stubbornness, his refusal to rest, his insistence that keeping himself busy was better than being left alone with his thoughts. He claimed it was for his mental health and that working was preferable to rotting away in self-pity.

But the truth was simpler. Jeongguk didn’t want to be alone.

Not after seeing you again.

Not after seven years.

Yoongi exhales sharply, shoving his hands into his pockets, already anticipating where this conversation is headed. He meets Jeongguk’s gaze—there’s something raw there, something unsettled. He tries to deflect. “Are you sure you’re not hungry? Because I am and—”

“I’m not in the mood to eat,” Jeongguk cuts in, his voice quieter but firm, the weight of his words sinking deep. “I need you to tell me what the hell is going on.”

Yoongi stills. The moment Jeongguk’s tone changed to his CEO voice, he knew—there was no dodging this.

The worst part is, Yoongi doesn’t even need to deflect. He just doesn’t think this is the time. They had barely even settled back in Seoul, and already, they’re reopening old wounds that never really healed. Then again… had he really expected Jeongguk to just let it go? To come back here, breathe the same air as you, and not at least try to find you?

Yoongi sighs. Over the years, he’s learned something that even Jeongguk himself refuses to admit—your name still undoes him. Every single time. Jeongguk is haunted by you— in ways he doesn’t even realize. It’s written in the way he grows quiet, in the way his jaw tenses, in the way his eyes darken with a sadness that only those closest to him can recognize.

And now, with Jeongguk looking at him like this—like he’s grasping for something, anything—Yoongi knows there’s no way out.

“It’s not a big deal, Jeongguk.” Yoongi hates downplaying anything especially when it comes to his friends, but even he doesn’t believe his words. “We just talk sometimes. I send her wishes on her birthday, greet her during Christmas, check in every now and then. But it’s rare.”

If Yoongi had any sense, he’d realize he sounded defensive. And if Jeongguk had any sense, he wouldn’t care.

But he does. Of course he does.

Jeongguk lets out a breathless scoff, shaking his head. “And you just… what? Didn’t think to mention that to me?” His tone is sharp, but not out of anger—out of something deeper, something resembling hurt. “Because everything you just said doesn’t sound like ‘rare.’”

And the worst part? Jeongguk isn’t even mad at Yoongi for keeping this from him. He’s mad at himself—for the fact that it even matters. That even after all these years, anything to do with you still destroys him.

God, Jeongguk hates himself for it—because it reminds him of all his past mistakes.

Yoongi sighs. “Because I knew you’d be like this.”

Jeongguk stills. His grip tightens. “Like what?”

Yoongi meets his gaze, exhausted. “Like this, Jeongguk. Tearing yourself apart over something that’s already gone.” He pauses, measuring his next words. “If I told you, would it have helped? Would it have made you feel better to know that your ex-wife still keeps in touch with your best friend?”

Jeongguk blinks, stunned into silence. Yoongi referring to you as his ex-wife is a fresh kind of pain he hadn’t anticipated.

"But you’re supposed to be my friend, Yoongi—” His voice wavers, cracking. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

"I am your friend, Jeongguk. I am on your side.” Yoongi’s voice is steady. Then, softer, “But ____ is my friend too. And you know damn well that I don’t condone what happened between you two.”

That shuts Jeongguk up. His mouth opens, but no words come out. Because he knows. He knows exactly what Yoongi is talking about. He knows the extent of the damage he caused. He’s known for years, and yet, it still hits him like a freight train.

His bottom lip trembles but he forces himself to keep it together. “It just… really hurts.”

Yoongi’s expression softens. “What does?”

Jeongguk swallows, looking past the city skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Everything.”

Yoongi exhales, his gaze dropping to the floor. In the heavy silence that follows, the only thing Jeongguk can hear is the thick sound of him trying to keep it together.

Then Yoongi speaks. “She panicked that night, you know?” His voice is quieter, careful. “Last night was the first time I heard her voice in a long time. She was worried about you.”

Jeongguk turns, eyes glassy. “She was?”

What Yoongi doesn’t tell him is how worried you were. The way your voice cracked when you said Jeongguk’s name. It wasn’t just panic— it was also helplessness, the way you sounded just as lost as Jeongguk feels now.

Yoongi hesitates, but Jeongguk speaks first. “I’ve always thought about it,” His voice is quieter now. “What it would be like… if I ever saw her again.”

Yoongi tilts his head. “And? Was it what you expected?”

Jeongguk lets out a humorless chuckle, one that sounds more like a sigh. “Definitely not me lying in a hospital bed because of a panic attack.” He rubs his face, shoulders slumping. “I thought about it a million times. But never like that.”

Yoongi watches him carefully. “You know what’s interesting?” His voice is almost amused, though his eyes remain heavy. “You never changed your emergency contact.”

Jeongguk doesn’t move.

Yoongi shrugs. “Jeongguk if the same thing had happened while you were still in New York—”

“I know.” Jeongguk cuts him off, a pang of something sharp hitting his chest. His voice drops. “I just… never got around to changing it.”

There’s a beat of silence. A kind of silence that carries the weight of all the things left unsaid.

Yoongi nods, almost to himself. “I guess that’s just it, huh?”

Jeongguk exhales. “I guess that’s it.”

And for some reason, those words feel heavier than anything else.

Yoongi sighs just as his phone notifies him of a text message. "I'll see you later, kid, okay? Take it easy, will you? You're still healing."

Jeongguk scoffed, "Healing is such an understatement, hyung." Yoongi gives him a look. "Fine, fine, I won't work too much today. Happy?"

Yoongi nods and walks out of Jeongguk's office. He takes a look at the message he received once he closed the door behind him.

It was you.

"How’s Jeongguk?"

NEW YORK, 2016

The golden hour light had long since faded from the university's art room windows, replaced by the harsh fluorescent glow that buzzed overhead. You sat motionless on the paint-splattered stool, your brush suspended mid-air above a canvas that remained untouched since morning. The half-finished painting— a landscape of a giant tree where you and Jeongguk used to find shade when you were in high school— seemed to mock you now with its vibrant colors and brushstrokes.

The divorce papers lay beside your easel like a death sentence— a few stark white pages against the chaos of paint tubes and dirty water jars. You hadn't moved them. Hadn't touched them since a stranger had placed them in your trembling hands eight hours ago.

"Ms. ____? Papers from Lee & Associates Law Firm."

The memory echoed in the silence.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway broke through your trance. The footsteps paused, then quickened, and suddenly the art room door burst open with enough force to rattle the supply cabinets.

"____! Thank God, I've been looking everywhere for—" Yoongi's voice cut off abruptly as he took in the scene before him. His chest heaved from running, dark hair disheveled, but his eyes immediately found your slumped figure, seemingly spaced out looking outside the window. The color drained from his face.

You didn't turn around. You continued staring out the window at the empty courtyard below where university students had laughed and studied just hours before. Now it was nothing but shadows and abandoned benches.

"____..." Yoongi's voice was barely above a whisper. He stepped closer, his usual confident demeanor cracking. 

You finally moved but only enough to quietly acknowledge Yoongi’s presence. Your movements were eerily calm, like someone sleepwalking through their own nightmare. Without a word, you picked up the papers and slowly extended them toward him, never meeting his eyes.

Yoongi's hands shook as he took them. The sound of rustling paper seemed deafening in the still room as he scanned the first page. His face went through a series of emotions—confusion, disbelief, and then a rage so pure it made his jaw clench.

"That bastard," he breathed, his voice trembling with fury. "That absolute—" He looked up at you and the words died in his throat.

You had finally turned to face him and the sight nearly broke him. Your eyes were dry but hollow. Dark circles shadowed your face, and your lips were pressed into a thin line that spoke of hours spent holding back screams.

Or sobs.

"____, I... I didn't know. He didn't tell me he was—" Yoongi's voice cracked. He crumpled the papers in his fist, then immediately smoothed them out again, as if destroying them could somehow undo what they represented. "When did this happen?"

"This morning." Your voice was barely audible, hoarse from not speaking the whole day. "Around ten maybe."

"It's past six now." The realization hit him like a physical blow. "You've been sitting here alone for eight hours?"

You shrugged, the gesture so small and defeated it made his heart ache. "I kept thinking... if I didn't move, if I didn't acknowledge those papers, maybe they weren't real."

Yoongi sank into the chair across from you, the divorce papers still clutched in his hands. He wanted to storm out, to find Jeongguk and demand an explanation, to shake his best friend until he came to his senses. But looking at you—really looking at you—he knew he couldn't leave. Not like this.

"Why didn't you call someone? Call me?"

"What was I supposed to say?" Your laugh was bitter, maybe a little broken too. "'Hi Yoongi, your best friend just divorced me through a law firm'? 'Could you come sit with me while I figure out how to breathe again'?"

"Yes," he said fiercely, almost frustrated. "Exactly that. You should have said exactly that."

Your composure finally cracked. Your shoulders shook, and you pressed your hands to your face. "I don't understand, Yoongi. We— we fought three days ago and he never came home after. He— he did that sometimes. But I always thought he’d come back, you know?" Your voice rose with each word, years of pain spilling out. "B-but how do you go from an argument to divorce papers in three days?"

Yoongi felt his own eyes burn. He'd known Jeongguk since they were teenagers, and had watched him fall for you like a man falling off a cliff— completely and without reservation. He'd been your witness at the courthouse wedding, had celebrated with you both, and had listened to Jeongguk talk about growing old with you just last month.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice thick. "I swear to you, ____, I don't know. He hasn't said anything to me about problems, about wanting... this."

"Maybe that's the problem," you whispered. "Maybe he never talked to anyone about us. Maybe I was the only one who thought we were okay."

The words hung in the air like a funeral shroud. Yoongi wanted to argue, to tell you that wasn't true, but the evidence was literally in his hands. No one files for divorce if they're happy– were you and Jeongguk happy? But no one serves papers through a stranger if they still care.

"I want to confront him," Yoongi said quietly. "I want to find him and demand answers. Maybe punch him. Definitely yell at him." He looked down at the papers, then back at you. "But now... God, ____, I can't leave you alone like this."

"You should go to him. He's your best friend. This probably hurts you too."

"You're my friend too," Yoongi said firmly. "And right now, you need someone more than he does."

You stared at him for a long moment, and he saw the exact instant you stopped holding herself together. Your face crumpled, and the sob that escaped you was raw and devastating. Yoongi was out of his chair in seconds, pulling you into his arms as you finally, finally let yourself break.

"I loved him so much," you cried into his shoulder. "I loved him so much, and it wasn't enough. I wasn't enough."

"Don't say that," Yoongi whispered fiercely, his own tears falling now. "Don't you dare say that. This isn't about you not being enough. This is about him being a coward."

You cried until you had no tears left, until your body was exhausted from the force of your grief. Yoongi held you through all of it, one hand stroking your hair while the other kept the divorce papers from falling to the floor. Even now, even in your pain, he found himself protecting you from having to see them.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes were swollen and red, but there was something different in them. Not peace—you were too far from that—but a kind of terrible clarity.

"I need to sign them," you said.

"What are you– no. Not tonight." Yoongi's voice was gentle but firm. "Tonight, you need to go home and rest. The papers can wait."

"What if waiting makes it worse?"

"What if rushing makes it final when it doesn't have to be?"

You looked at him with something that might have been hope, if hope could be so fragile. "Do you think... do you think he might change his mind?"

Yoongi's heart broke all over again, because he could see how much you wanted him to say yes. How much you needed him to say yes. But he also knew Jeongguk, knew that his friend never did anything without thinking it through completely. The divorce papers weren't a mistake or a moment of anger— they were a decision.

"I think," he said carefully, "that you deserve someone who doesn't make you question whether you're enough. Whether he changes his mind or not."

It wasn't the answer you wanted, but it was the truth. And somehow, that seemed to be what you needed to hear.

You nodded slowly, then looked around the art room as if seeing it for the first time. "I should clean up. I've made a mess."

"Leave it," Yoongi said. "Just... leave it all. Come on, I'll drive you home."

As you gathered your things, you paused at the easel. The unfinished painting of the tree stared back at you, beautiful and incomplete.

"I don't think I'll ever finish it," she said quietly.

Yoongi looked at the painting, then at you. "Maybe that's okay. One battle at a time, hm?"

You nodded, understanding. Some stories didn't have happy endings. Sometimes love wasn't enough to make someone stay. And some paintings would forever remain half-done, frozen in a moment before everything fell apart.

The muted hum of the café outside your art studio filtered through the walls, but inside, the space remained still, save for the quiet strains of piano music playing in the background. The scent of paint and brewed coffee lingered in the air as you moved through the space, half-distracted by the canvas in front of you— until you heard your friends’ voices.

"Holy fuck, are you kidding me?"

You paused, your brush hovering mid-stroke over the canvas. That was Hoseok’s voice.

"Jesus wouldn’t be too pleased with your manner of expression, but no, I am not kidding." Taehyung’s response was calm, almost deadpan. "Can you keep your voice down? You should be feigning ignorance about all this."

"What good would that do?" Hoseok huffed. "Feigning ignorance, are you crazy? This is big, sweetie, and you know it."

Taehyung sighed like he was explaining something to a particularly slow student. "Honey, you’re acting like this is news. We already knew Jeongguk was back in Seoul."

“Yes, obviously, because you told me like five minutes ago!” Hoseok shoots back.

You froze for half a second before rolling your eyes. So that’s what they were talking about.

"It’s different knowing and talking about it," Hoseok shot back. "You’re gossiping."

"Of course I’m gossiping," Taehyung replied, unfazed. "We are gays, babe. We live for piping hot tea."

Hoseok groaned. "This is not the same as discussing someone’s bad haircut, babe—"

At that, you stepped into the room, making sure your voice was casual. "Someone had a bad haircut?"

The effect was immediate. Hoseok nearly jumped, eyes widening like he’d just been caught committing a crime, while Taehyung— though externally composed—blinked a little too fast.

"Ah," Hoseok choked out, his voice a little higher than usual. "____! Didn’t see you there. You, uh, move so quietly."

You arched a brow. "I literally opened a door."

Taehyung shot Hoseok a glare before turning to you, slipping into his usual laid-back demeanor—except for the way his fingers twitched against the edge of the table. "Nothing important," he said smoothly. "Just... discussing world events."

You bit back a smirk. "World events?"

Hoseok nodded a little too quickly. "Yes. You know, global issues. The stock market. The weather—"

"The weather," you repeated, unimpressed.

"Yes! Very unpredictable these days."

There was a beat of silence where you let them both squirm under your gaze. Internally, you were highly entertained. Two grown men who dominated the fashion industry– usually so confident and self-assured, reduced to awkward messes right in front of you.

You sighed, pretending to contemplate their words. "Hmm. The weather. That’s funny, because I could’ve sworn I heard Jeongguk’s name before I walked in."

Hoseok visibly winced. Taehyung dragged a hand down his face. "Goddammit."

"You two do realize that I already knew Jeongguk was back, right? And that I heard you both talking about it just now?" you asked, amused.

Taehyung exhaled, resigned. "Yeah, but we didn’t know if you were, like, in a place where you’d want to talk about it."

You hummed, considering. "And instead of asking, you decided to whisper behind my back like two teenagers?"

"Technically," Taehyung said, "only Hoseok was whispering. I was speaking at a reasonable volume."

Hoseok scoffed, offended. "Excuse me, I was being discreet!"

"You said ‘holy fuck’ loud enough for the café and for Jesus to hear."

Hoseok looked away. "Can you stop it with the holy jokes–"

You shook your head, lips twitching. "You two are ridiculous."

"But... are you okay?" Taehyung asked carefully.

You took a slow breath. The truth was, you didn’t know what you felt yet. Maybe it would hit you later, maybe it wouldn’t. But for now, you only had one response.

"Yes," you said simply. "I think I am."

Hoseok let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours, while Taehyung gave you a long, measured look before nodding. They do not believe you— not even one bit.

But they let it slide for now.

"Alright," Taehyung said. "But if that changes, we’ve got you."

You smiled, softer this time. "I know."

The first time Woosung came to your art studio, he didn’t say much. He just wandered the space with his hands in his pockets, eyes drifting over your half-finished paintings and the faint smudges of color on your fingers.

Now, years later, he was here again, seated at the small wooden table near the windows while you worked, a book in his hand and a cup of coffee cooling beside him. You weren’t sure when it started— when he began showing up like this, keeping you company without needing to fill the silence with words.

Today was one of those days. Rain pattered against the glass, the sky outside dark, but inside, the air was warm.

You stood by the canvas, brush in hand, completely concentrating on your work. You had long since tuned out the world, lost in the rhythmic strokes of color. You always tie your hair up in a bun whenever you work but you also barely notice the strands of hair that keep falling in your face, sticking to your skin when you become so focused on the work.

At some point, you felt your lover’s quiet presence beside you. Without a word, Woosung reached over and gently tucked the stray strands behind your ear. His fingers were warm, his touch like a feather, and when you blinked out of your trance to look at him, he just smiled—soft, unhurried.

"Better?" he asked.

You nodded and smiled. "Yes. Thank you."

He hummed, stepping back, but before he could return to his seat, you reached for his wrist.

"Wait."

Woosung stopped, his eyes curious.

"Stay here. Just for a little bit," you murmured, not even sure why you said it. Maybe you just liked having him close.

Woosung didn’t question it. He just nodded, pulling a stool and positioning himself beside you. He watches you paint in comfortable silence.

Every so often, he would tilt his head, his gaze intent as if he were memorizing the way your fingers moved, the way the colors blended together under your touch.

"You’re really focused today," he observed after a while.

You hummed, biting your lip as you tried to perfect a small detail. "I am. It’s nice, though."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I think it’s because you’re here."

You said it without thinking and you realized how easily the words had slipped out. Woosung smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He lifted his hand, brushing a smudge of blue paint off your cheek with his thumb.

"Then I guess I’ll stay a little longer," he murmured.

And he did.

A little while later, the rain had softened to a drizzle, leaving the air thick with that post-rain stillness. Your brush hovered over the canvas, but your mind had long drifted elsewhere. Across the room, Woosung sat at the table, still flipping absently through his book, but you could tell— he wasn’t really reading. He was waiting.

It had been like this since last night.

He had held you while you cried, rubbing slow circles into your back, whispering, "It's okay, I’ve got you," even though he had no idea what had shattered you. He never asked, never pushed. But now, with the night stretching thin between you, you could feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down.

"You didn’t sleep much," Woosung finally said, his voice gentle, as if he were testing the waters.

You swallowed, still dragging the brush along the canvas in slow, aimless strokes. "Neither did you."

Woosung exhaled a small chuckle, but it was knowing. "You cried yourself to sleep, ____. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I slept soundly through that?"

You winced at that—at the truth of it. At the guilt that curled in your stomach. He wasn’t accusing you of anything, but you felt like you had placed something heavy between you both.

You took a deep breath, still not looking at him. "It was just… a hard night."

Woosung nodded, his gaze steady. "Because of what happened at the hospital?"

Your fingers clenched around the brush. A long pause settled between you.

You could lie. You could brush past it, act as though it was just one of those nights where the weight of everything caught up to you. But Woosung had always been careful with you, had always made space for you to be honest in your own time. You had told him that you saw someone unexpectedly at the hospital before you went silent all over again last night.

You exhaled. And you poised yourself to tell Woosung the rest of what happened.

"I saw him," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "Jeongguk."

Woosung didn’t react—not right away. He just closed his book, setting it aside, like he had been expecting this. He didn’t ask how it happened. Didn’t ask why you hadn’t told him immediately. He just let you sit with it, let you offer whatever you were willing to.

You hesitated before continuing. "I didn’t even know he was back in Seoul, but then I got a call… he was in the hospital. I don’t know why they called me, but they did, and I—I went."

A deep breath. 

You could feel Woosung’s eyes on you, but you kept your gaze on the canvas, focusing on the way the paint streaked across the surface, trying not to feel the way your throat was tightening again.

"I didn’t stay long," you added, half-truthfully. "I just… made sure he was okay before Yoongi came."

You heard the shift of a chair, and then Woosung was beside you. He didn’t say anything at first. Just reached out, his fingers grazing your wrist before curling around it lightly.

"How do you feel?" he asked quietly.

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t know. Everyone keeps asking me that today."

“Everyone?” Woosung asked.

“Taehyung picked me up from the hospital. He uh, of course, he told Hoseok about it right away.”

Woosung nodded as if he understood that more than words could ever explain. Without hesitation, he pulled you against his chest, his chin resting atop your head. His arms around you were steady, warm. A grounding weight.

"You don’t have to figure it all out right now," he murmured. "Just… let yourself feel it. Whatever it is."

You pressed your forehead against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. He smelled like rain and coffee, like the warmth of something familiar and safe.

"I’m here," he added, voice so soft you almost didn’t catch it. "Whatever you need."

And just like that, the ache inside you loosened, just a little.

The apartment in Seoul was vast and hollow. Open-space style with high ceilings and sleek, modern finishes—everything about it screamed luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned one entire wall, revealing the bustling Seoul skyline, lights flickering like stars.

It was the kind of apartment regular people dream of having. But right now, Jeongguk thought it felt more like an empty shell.

Half-unpacked boxes scattered all over the floor, some opened, some untouched. The air smelled of unlit scented candles, the kind his assistant had left, thinking they would make the place feel more like a home. He hadn’t bothered.

Jeongguk went through his things with quiet efficiency, pulling out clothes, books, old notebooks filled with immature, maybe even brilliant thoughts. His movements were mechanical— until his eyes landed on a single, still-sealed box in the farthest corner of the living room.

Something in his chest tightened.

For a long moment, Jeongguk just stood there, jaw tense. When he finally mustered up whatever courage was left of him, he crouched down, pressing his fingers into the packing tape and tearing it open. Inside, neatly stacked and untouched for years, were remnants of a past he had buried but never truly let go of.

Art books, their covers slightly worn. A few pieces of clothing, folded carefully as if waiting to be picked up again. And at the very bottom, almost like a cruel afterthought— photographs.

Jeongguk swallowed as he reached for them.

They were yours– belongings you never brought back to Seoul with you. And the photographs were from his high school years. Senior year. Before New York, before the weight of adulthood, before everything fell apart.

In one, you were laughing, head tilted back, eyes shining under the golden autumn sun. Jeongguk was next to you, hand in his pocket, pretending to be indifferent, but the way he looked at you even then—it told a different story.

Memories rushed in, sharp and clear as if no time had passed at all. Jeongguk braced himself for a fresh wave of unshed tears.

Busan, Hanseong High School - Three Years Before New York

Jeongguk had been at Hanseong High for three weeks and already, he was used to the routine.

The stares. The whispers. The way people spoke his last name like it carried weight, like it meant something.

Jeon Jeongguk. The son of a powerful real estate family. The new kid who was rich, handsome, untouchable. He was already bored of it all.

That afternoon, he found himself lingering in the school’s indoor gym—not because he had a reason to be there, but because he had nowhere else to be. The air smelled of sweat and old wood, the faint echo of bouncing basketballs in the distance. He leaned against the railing on the second floor, watching the scene below with disinterest. Maybe even boredom.

A group of girls sat huddled together on the bleachers, giggling. Among them was you— though you didn’t seem to be part of it. Not really.

You sat slightly apart, a book open on your lap, fingers idly turning the page. Your expression was neutral, but Jeongguk had already spent the last few weeks observing you in passing. You were in the same classes as him and yet, not even once did you acknowledge Jeongguk’s presence, let alone look his way. You weren't loud like the others and weren't desperate for attention. You had this quiet presence— one that didn’t demand space but somehow held it anyway.

You intrigued the hell out of Jeongguk.

But then it happened.

One of the girls suddenly stood, walking up behind her with a smirk. It was a slow, seemingly calculated movement, the kind that sent an uneasy feeling crawling up Jeongguk’s spine.

“Oops,” the girl said mockingly, just before tilting her hand.

A full carton of milk tipped forward, spilling over your head, soaking through your uniform, dripping onto the pages of the book.

Laughter erupted around you after that.

Jeongguk didn’t move. He should have done something. But he didn’t. Other people who were in the gym stopped whatever they were doing– waiting to see what you’d do next.

You sat there for a moment, milk running down your hair, shoulders stiff, fingers clenched into fists. Then, after what seemed like an eternity– silently, you shut your now soaked book, stood up, and walked away.

To this day, Jeongguk does not know what compelled him to follow you. His feet, at the time, moved of their own accord, his heart knowing he needed to do something. Anything.

He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was guilt because he could have warned you of what was going to happen. Maybe it was something else entirely.

You had made it outside to the back of the school, where the sky stretched wide and empty, where no one could see you. You stood with your hands braced on your knees, shoulders shaking—not in sobs, but in silent frustration.

“Hey.”

You flinched at Jeongguk’s voice, turning sharply. Your wet uniform clung to you, strands of milk-dampened hair sticking to your cheek. Your eyes flickered with something unreadable before you schooled your expression.

“What do you want?” you asked flatly as you turned away from him in humiliation.

Jeongguk shoved his hands into his pockets. “That was messed up.”

He hears you scoff. “No kidding.”

For some reason, your sarcasm made the corner of Jeongguk’s mouth twitch.

“Here.” Jeongguk shrugged off his school blazer, holding it out to you. “You’re cold.”

You looked at the blazer, then at him. “I don’t need it.”

“Well clearly, you’re shivering.”

You straightened. “I don’t need your pity.”

Jeongguk tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “Who said I pitied you?”

Silence. You stared at him, as if trying to decide whether to believe him. After a few seconds, without another word, you turned away, arms crossed tightly over yourself.

Jeongguk didn’t leave.

Instead, he sat down on the steps nearby, watching as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pavement. You didn’t tell him to go away.

And Jeongguk, for the first time since moving to this school, wasn’t bored.

The memory faded, but the feeling remained, lingering in the quiet of Jeongguk’s new, empty space.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. The box remained open in front of him, pieces of the past staring back at him. He should have put them— the whole box— away. But instead, he picked up the photograph again, tracing the edges with his thumb.

It had been years since that day in the gym. Since he saw you stand at the cramped space at the back of the school looking so defeated, arms crossed, yet too stubborn to accept his help.

And yet, even now, you remained the only person who had ever made him feel like he wasn’t just Jeon Jeongguk—the boy with a name too heavy to carry.

Maybe, he thought bitterly and quite sadly, he had been trying to follow you ever since.

Yoongi stared at his phone screen, your message glowing back at him: "How's Jeongguk?"

Three simple words that felt like a loaded gun.

He set the phone down, then picked it up again. Typed a response, deleted it. Typed another.

His apartment felt suffocating suddenly. He walked to the window, looking out at the Seoul skyline—the same view Jeongguk probably had from his new place. With a scotch in hand, Yoongi clenched his jaw, thinking about how everything that was starting to unfold was quite funny.

He hadn’t counted on Jeongguk finding you so soon– even if it was by accident. Yoongi chuckles to himself like an idiot. “I guess this is what they call fate.”

Yoongi exhaled slowly and finally typed back: "He's physically fine. Discharged yesterday."

Your response came quickly: "And mentally?"

Yoongi closed his eyes. How could he explain that Jeongguk looked like a ghost of himself? That he'd been carrying this weight for seven years?

"He's struggling," he typed. "But then again, so are you."

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

"Did he ask about me?"

Yoongi's heart clenched. The honest answer was complicated— Jeongguk had asked, but not in the way you'd want to hear.

"He knows you were there that night— you already know that."

"That's not what I asked."

Yoongi found himself smiling despite everything. Even through text, you were still sharp, still direct.

"Yeah," he typed. "He asked about you."

Yoongi's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could discourage you, protect you both from reopening old wounds. Or he could do what his heart was telling him to do.

“What now?”

“I just want him to be well,” you respond.

Yoongi purses his lips– you were still the same girl he met all those years ago. Selfless, kind-hearted.

Self-sacrificing.

And he will do anything in his power to protect you.

It was nearing closing time when the bell above the café door jingled softly, signaling one last customer. The warm yellow lights reflected on the glass, casting long shadows along the wood-paneled walls. Jimin, who was wiping down the counter, looked up instinctively and froze mid-motion.

Jeon Jeongguk stood just inside the doorway.

For a moment, Jimin simply stared, cloth in his hand. There was something surreal about it— Jeongguk, in this space, under this light, in this cafe of all places, with his hair slightly damp from the rain and his hoodie slightly crumpled from travel. Seoul clung to Jeongguk in an unfamiliar way, the years since New York etched into the way he carried himself. But Jimin recovered quickly, stepping forward with a practiced smile.

"Welcome," he said, his voice pleasant and casual. “Long day?”

Jeongguk blinked, slightly thrown off. He nodded, eyes flicking around the café. “Yeah. Just needed a place to warm up. This place looked...” He trailed off. Familiar? Safe? He didn’t finish the sentence.

Jimin gave a soft chuckle and gestured to the counter. “We’re just about to close but I can still get you something. Americano? Or do you want something sweet?”

There was a flicker of recognition in Jeongguk’s eyes as he looked at Jimin more closely. “...Have we met before?”

Jimin paused before giving a small nod. “New York. At a student exhibit in university. You came with Kim Namjoon.”

Jeongguk’s brow furrowed, but nothing clear surfaced. “Right,” he said quietly, though it was clear the memory didn’t fully register. “Sorry— I’ve had a long few days.”

“No worries.” Jimin’s smile didn’t falter but there was something distant in his eyes. “What can I get started for you?”

“Oh, um… a hot latte would be nice.”

Jimin worked the register but when Jeongguk was about to give him his card, Jimin smiled politely. “It’s on the house.”

“Oh, god no, I don’t want to—”

“It’s okay, Jeongguk-ssi,” Jimin smiles. Jeongguk honestly does not have the energy to argue further. Slumping his shoulders, he nodded and quietly thanked Jimin.

“You are very welcome. Please take a seat. I’ll get your drink started for you.”

Before Jeongguk could move toward a table, another door swung open at the back of the café.

“Yah Jimin-ah, did we confuse the flour with the cornstarch this time—”

Seokjin.

Still wearing his apron, flour smudged along one sleeve, Seokjin halted mid-step the moment he laid eyes on Jeongguk. The tray in his hands clattered onto the counter as his face twisted— recognition sharp and instant.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

The words cut across the room like a knife. Jimin looked up sharply from behind the espresso machine.

Jeongguk straightened, confusion flashing across his face before he registered who it was. “Seokjin?”

Seokjin didn’t give him a chance to speak further. He strode toward him in a blur of fury, fists clenched at his sides. “You have the audacity to walk in here? Like nothing happened? Like you didn’t fucking destroy my sister—?”

“Seokjin—”

“No,” Jin snarled, closing the distance. “You don’t get to say anything.”

Before Jeongguk could defend himself, before he could even raise a hand, Seokjin’s fist landed squarely against his jaw with a sickening crack.

Jeongguk staggered back, clutching the side of his face. He didn’t fall but the impact left him breathless. “What the hell—?”

The doors to the art studio burst open from the sound and you emerged, paintbrush still tucked behind your ear, paint smudges along your forearms. “What’s going on—?”

Your voice faltered as you took in the scene: Jeongguk standing by the counter, blood forming on the corner of his mouth; Jimin frozen; and Seokjin, chest heaving with rage, his knuckles still clenched and red.

“Jeongguk?” Your voice broke around his name.

He looked up slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’d been hit a second time. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.

You turned sharply to Seokjin. “Did you hit him?”

“He deserved it,” Seokjin snapped.

“What the hell, Seokjin?”

“You’re really going to defend him?” Seokjin barked, disbelieving.

“I didn’t say that—” You took a deep breath, trying to steady your voice. “But punching him isn’t going to fix anything.”

Seokjin let out a sharp but bitter laugh. “Oh, so now you're protecting him? After everything?”

“I’m not protecting anyone, I’m trying to de-escalate this.”

Jeongguk wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve and stepped back, unsure whether he was allowed to speak, to breathe, to even stand there. It felt like trespassing. Maybe it was.

Seokjin turned on you now, jaw tight, voice low but shaking. “He broke you, ____. And now you’re defending him like he didn’t spend years forgetting you existed.”

You clenched your hands into fists, shoulders squaring. “I’m not defending what he did. But I am asking you not to turn this place into a battlefield. This is our café, Seokjin. Not a fucking war zone.”

Seokjin looked at you for a long moment, anger still coursing through his veins— but it was your eyes, calm but hurting, that finally made him yield.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But don’t ask me to be civil. Not with him.”

With that, Seokjin turned on his heel and stormed back toward the kitchen, door slamming shut behind him.

The silence that followed was tense. Jimin still stood behind the counter, lips parted as if unsure whether to speak.

You turned to Jeongguk. You didn’t step forward. You didn’t smile. Your voice came out quieter this time. “Why are you here?”

Jeongguk looked at you with wide, pained eyes, as if trying to memorize you all over again.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t know this was your place.”

You nodded once as if that explained everything and nothing.

“You should go,” you added, softly. “It’s late and it’s raining.”

Jeongguk didn’t argue. Only glanced once more around the space, at the painting above the pastry display, at the polished wood tables, at you.

Then he turned and left, the door closing quietly behind him.

You stood there for a long while after, the paintbrush behind your ear suddenly feeling like the heaviest thing in the world.

After what seemed like an eternity, the clang of the swinging door echoed louder than it should’ve. You stood in the middle of the café for a moment longer, letting the silence settle like dust, before turning and pushing your way into the kitchen.

Seokjin was by the sink, aggressively scrubbing a saucepan that didn’t need cleaning. His back was tense, shoulders rising and falling with every breath like he was trying—and failing—to calm himself down.

“You didn’t have to hit him,” you said, voice steady, but your chest still trembled.

Seokjin didn’t look at you. “Didn’t I?”

“You don’t get to make that call.”

He whipped around at that, eyes blazing. “He left you, ____. No— he ruined you. And now what? He shows up here, like nothing ever happened, and I’m supposed to just, what, smile? Be polite? Serve him coffee?”

You folded your arms– not out of defiance but to stop your hands from shaking. “I’m not asking you to be polite. I’m asking you not to lash out like this is still your fight.”

“It is still my fight!” Seokjin’s voice cracked. “____ do you really think I forgot what you looked like after he walked out? I remember how quiet you got. How you stopped painting for months. How I had to sit with you in silence night after night because you couldn’t even cry anymore. You were gone, ____. He didn’t just leave you. He took the best parts of you when he did.”

His words stung because they were true. You bit your lip and looked away. “I let him in. I let him love me. That was my choice.”

“Don’t you dare turn this into your fault,” Seokjin said, voice softer now but still full of that same frustration. “You didn’t deserve what happened.”

“I didn’t say I did.”

There was a beat of silence. The sound of the refrigerator humming in the corner filled the space between you.

“He’s not the same,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “His eyes… he looks like someone trying to hold the world together with fraying thread.”

“I don’t care,” Seokjin said but it was a lie. You both knew it.

You stepped closer to your brother. “I’m not defending him, Seokjin. But I’m also not ready to hate him as much as you do. I never did… I don’t know what that says about me… but it’s how I feel.”

Seokjin exhaled, hands braced on the countertop. “It says you’re kinder than he deserves.”

You gave a small, broken smile. “Or stupider.”

Your brother didn’t argue. Instead, after a long pause, he turned to you again. “Just… promise me one thing.”

“What?” You realize your exhaustion was already weighing you down.

“Don’t let him back in just because you think he’s broken.”

You nodded slowly. “I won’t.”

That was a lie too. But you both let it slide.

The door of the café closed behind Jeongguk with a dull thud and the cold Seoul air hit him like a wave. The rain hadn’t let up but he didn’t pull his hood over his head. He decided to walk slowly even though his car was still parked near the cafe, no destination in mind, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket as water soaked through the fabric.

His jaw ached where Seokjin had punched him but that pain was nothing compared to the one building in his chest.

Seeing you again had cracked him open.

You looked like someone he’d only ever see in dreams now—still ethereal, still grounded in color and softness. But the way you looked at him… like he was a stranger wrapped in old clothes. Like he didn’t belong in the same room as you anymore.

And maybe he didn’t.

Jeongguk wandered for blocks, barely paying attention to the street signs or blinking storefronts. He only stopped when he reached the Han River. The wide stretch of water lay quietly under the moonlight, blurred by the drizzle. Jungkook sat on the bench, shoulders hunched, and stared out at the current as it flowed without him.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared at the screen. No new messages. No missed calls. He unlocked it anyway and scrolled to his contacts, hovering over your name.

Still there. Still untouched.

His thumb brushed against it but he didn’t press.

Instead, he leaned back, eyes closing. Rain kissed his cheeks, soaked into his lashes. He welcomed it because it was easier than crying.

He let himself remember. Your laugh echoing across a sunlit room. The way you’d wrinkle your nose when you were concentrating on a painting. The way you used to trace circles on his palm when you thought he was asleep.

And he remembered the day it all fell apart.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now. He didn’t know what he wanted.

No— he did. He wanted to rewind time. To walk into that café and see you smile at him like you used to. But time didn’t offer that kind of grace. It only offered consequences.

Jeongguk let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. He didn’t know how long he sat there— just that eventually, the rain stopped and he was still alone.

The apartment was quiet when you got home.

Too quiet.

You slipped your keys onto the dish near the door and toed off your shoes slowly, trying not to make any noise. The familiarity of home—the throw blanket on the couch, the books stacked near the lamp, the faint scent of jasmine from the candle Woosung lit earlier—should’ve grounded you.

But it didn’t. Not tonight.

You stood in the dark for a moment longer than necessary– unsure whether to head straight to the shower or collapse into bed. You weren’t expecting to find Woosung still awake, let alone waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a warm mug in his hand.

“I made tea,” he said gently, as if his voice might spook you. “It’s probably cold by now.”

Your throat felt tight. “I didn’t think you’d still be up.”

He gave you a soft, crooked smile. “You said you were heading back late, not that you'd come home looking like you fought a ghost.”

You offered a weak laugh. “It kind of feels like I did.”

He didn’t press. Just walked to you, slowly, like he always did when he sensed you needed space and presence at the same time. When he reached you, he simply wrapped his arms around you, grounding you in the warmth of his chest, his chin resting lightly atop your head.

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just stood there and let yourself be held.

After a long pause, he spoke, voice low and careful. “Was it him?”

You didn’t need to ask who. “Yeah.”

You didn’t miss the way he stiffened just slightly before exhaling. “Did you talk?”

You nodded against his chest. “Not really. Seokjin hit him. I… I stopped it. Then I told him to leave.”

Another silence.

Woosung's hand moved in slow, rhythmic circles on your back. “How do you feel?”

You let the question hang there because you weren’t sure. Hollow? Rattled? Like someone had opened a box in your chest you’d long sealed shut?

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

Woosung didn’t respond with reassurance or try to fix it. He just kissed the crown of your head.

“I’m here,” he said.

You finally pulled back to look at him, eyes scanning his face. Kind. Patient. Still here.

You hated that part of you wished he weren’t.

The sun was already high in the sky when Jeongguk dragged himself into Yoongi's studio. He hadn’t slept. He looked like hell— bloodshot eyes, jaw bruised, hair a mess. But he moved like he had unfinished business burning in his veins.

Yoongi noticed immediately.

“Jesus, you look worse than yesterday.”

Jeongguk ignored the jab and dropped onto the couch with a sigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the screen in front of him, tapping a few keys absently, before finally swiveling in his chair to face Jeongguk.

“Didn’t sleep, huh?”

“I walked for hours. I don’t even know how I ended up by the river.”

“You always end up there when you’re falling apart.”

Jeongguk let out a dry laugh. “You know me too well.”

Yoongi leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So? What now?��

“I saw her. I mean—I really saw her. It wasn’t just a memory or a picture in some gallery post. She was right in front of me, looking at me like I was…”

“A stranger?” Yoongi offered.

Jeongguk nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah.”

“She didn’t look angry?”

“No,” Jeongguk muttered. “She looked… tired. Like she didn’t know whether to scream or hug me. Like she’s been trying to forget me and I just made it harder.”

Yoongi sighed. “That’s because you did make it harder. By showing up unannounced. Walking into her safe space.”

“I didn’t know it was her café. I swear.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Jeongguk stared down at his hands. “I think she has someone.”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away, which told Jeongguk enough.

“Where did that come from?” Yoongi asked.

“I’m not sure… but just thinking about it… it hurts more than I expected,” he added quietly. “I don’t know what I want from her. I just… wanted to be seen. Not hated. Not erased.”

Yoongi’s voice softened. “She did see you.”

Jeongguk shook his head. “But not the way she used to.” He slumped further into the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers.

“I used to be her whole world.”

Yoongi leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “And then you burned it down.”

Jeongguk didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“What do I do now, Yoongi?”

Yoongi looked at him for a long, quiet moment. “You ask yourself if you’re ready to rebuild anything. And if you’re willing to accept that the pieces might not fit the way they used to.”

Woosung watched you sleep from across the room, hands loosely wrapped around his coffee mug. The pale morning light filtered in through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor—and across your face, peaceful but withdrawn, even in rest.

You hadn’t said much since last night. Just that you were tired. Just that it had been “a long day.”

But he wasn’t dense. He saw it.

The tremor in your voice when you said his name. The way your arms wrapped around him like you were bracing yourself for a storm that hadn’t yet passed. The way your body felt warm against him but your mind had drifted somewhere far, far away.

He knew what a closed door looked like.

Woosung loved you. That wasn’t in question. And in most moments, being with you felt like being home— quiet, anchored, enough. But there were times—like now—when he could feel something slipping between his fingers. Something he couldn’t hold, no matter how gently he tried.

He knew you had a past. He’d accepted that. But he hadn’t prepared himself for what that past would look like when it returned, not as a memory, but as a man.

Jeongguk.

The name alone was a ghost in his mind. You rarely said it but when you did, it was with the kind of softness that didn’t belong to pain. Not completely. Woosung didn’t want to be the jealous type. Didn’t want to become the man who questioned the cracks in someone else’s heart. But when you looked at him last night, it wasn’t just sleep in your eyes— it was absence.

And he hated that he didn’t know how to bring you back.

He walked over to the window, mug still warm in his hand and stared out at the quiet street below. He’d give you time. Space. Safety. Whatever you needed.

But part of him already knew: if Jeongguk was back in your world, he would have to brace for a future that might not include him in it. 

And he wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

The rain had finally stopped by the time you stepped out of the university gates that afternoon, sunlight peeking out from behind thin clouds. You hadn’t planned on stopping by the park, but your legs carried you there anyway. The world felt too loud lately— colors too sharp, memories too close— and you needed quiet after teaching the whole day.

The small café near the entrance of the park wasn’t busy. A few students occupied scattered tables, chatting over drinks, the occasional laughter bubbling into the air. You stepped inside and ordered chamomile tea.

You didn’t see him right away.

It wasn’t until you turned toward the window seat—your favorite one—that you noticed him. Sitting at the far corner of the room, hood pulled low, black journal open in front of him, pen tapping against the edge.

Jeongguk.

Your stomach dropped.

He looked smaller here somehow. Not in stature—his presence still drew attention—but in energy. Like someone trying to disappear into the corners of a page.

He hadn’t seen you yet. You froze, cup warm in your hands, unsure whether to approach or flee. You could walk away. You should.

But then he looked up.

Your eyes met. And time, once again, forgot how to move. He didn’t smile. He didn’t stand. He just looked at you like he’d been waiting. You walked toward him slowly. Carefully. 

“Is this seat taken?” you asked, quietly.

Jeongguk stared at the empty chair across from him then shook his head. “It’s yours.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment. The air between you was heavy but not hostile—more like something ancient and sacred. Something that didn’t know how to begin again.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, finally breaking the silence.

“I didn’t expect to be seen,” Jeongguk replied, eyes flickering to yours. He looked down at his journal, then closed it slowly. “I’m sorry. About the café. About… all of it. I didn’t know it was yours and Seokjin’s.”

You didn’t respond right away. You let the words hang there.

“I know,” you said eventually. “I believe you.”

He blinked, surprised by how easily you’d said it. But you weren’t done.

“That doesn’t change what happened,” you continued, voice steady, even if your heart wasn’t. “Seokjin was right. It doesn’t erase what we lost.”

“I know,” he said again. “I’m not here to fix anything.”

You looked at him then— not as the man who hurt you but as the man who now sat quietly with his regret. Not demanding anything. Not begging. Just… present.

For the first time in years, you didn’t look away.

“You don’t have to walk on eggshells,” you murmured. “Not with me. Not anymore.”

Jeongguk swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’m trespassing.”

You gave a faint, sad smile. “Then don’t try to be anything. Just… be here. If you want to be.”

Jeongguk nodded, jaw tight with the kind of relief that was almost indistinguishable from grief. And for a while, you both just sat there. Not as lovers. Not as exes. Not even as old friends.

Just as two people who once loved each other so deeply.

Jeongguk left the university café feeling hollow. The brief encounter with you—unexpected, painfully gentle—had undone something in him. You hadn't screamed. You hadn't walked out. But your voice, your eyes, the way your fingers gripped the edge of your mug—it haunted him more than any shouting ever could.

He had rehearsed nothing and left with everything unspoken lodged in his throat. It hadn’t been enough.

Not by a long shot.

So when night fell, his legs carried him somewhere he hadn't planned—your café. The one you shared with Seokjin. He didn’t expect to see you. Not really. But part of him hoped, in the smallest, most reckless corner of his heart, that maybe you’d still be there. That maybe you’d let him speak.

That maybe he could try again.

“I’m telling you, I nearly salted the croffle again,” Seokjin said as he wiped down the counter with exaggerated flair. “That’s the third time this month.”

“Hyung, you’re not cursed,” Jimin laughed, nudging the sugar shaker toward him. “You just have poor labeling habits.”

“It’s not labeling. It’s sabotage. Someone moved the sugar again. Probably Hoseok. He always looks guilty when I serve the wrong order.”

“He looks guilty because you gave someone a tuna melt instead of a vegan sandwich last week.”

“That was one time.”

Jimin smirked. “You are the chaos. Don’t drag Hoseok into your crimes.”

Seokjin rolled his eyes, drying the last mug. “Speaking of chaos, where’s my sister?”

“Still in the studio,” Jimin said, nodding toward the door to the attached workspace. “She’s been trying to finish that commission all week.”

At that moment, you emerged from the studio door with paint on your sleeve and a weary but focused expression.

“You guys can go,” you said, waving them off. “I want to get this done tonight.”

“You sure?” Seokjin asked, frowning. “I can stay—”

“I’m fine, really. The piece is almost done, I just need a few more hours.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “You just want to be alone with your tortured genius.”

You snorted. “Exactly.”

Seokjin opened his mouth to argue again but you raised a hand. “I’ll lock up. Promise.”

“Okay, but if a raccoon breaks in again, don’t call me,” Seokjin muttered as he grabbed his coat.

“Noted.”

Jimin gave you a kiss on the cheek before heading out. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

You nodded. “Goodnight, both of you.”

The café door clicked shut behind them, leaving you with the hum of quiet jazz and the smell of old coffee grounds. You turned back into the studio, prepared to pull an all-nighter.

You were cleaning brushes when you heard the door chime. Without looking up, you called out, "We're closed today, sorry—"

"I know."

The brush slipped from your fingers, clattering into the sink. You turned slowly and there he was.

Jeongguk stood in the doorway of your studio, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, shoulders tense. 

"Hi," he said quietly.

"Hi." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between you. Jeongguk's gaze wandered around the studio—taking in your paintings, the organized chaos of your workspace, the coffee-stained easel in the corner.

"It’s a really nice cafe… it has an art studio just like how you wanted it," he said, for lack of anything else.

"Thank you." You wiped your hands on a towel, grateful for something to do with them.

"I wanted to thank you," Jeongguk continued. "For coming to the hospital. You didn't have to—"

"Yes, I did." The words came out sharper than intended. You softened your tone. "I mean... when someone calls and says you're in the hospital, of course I'd come."

His jaw tightened slightly. "Right. The emergency contact thing."

"Why didn't you change it?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Jeongguk looked down at his hands. "I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

You set the towel down slowly, trying to still your hands. The air between you had grown heavier, charged with too many years of silence and everything neither of you had the strength to say before now.

"Why are you really here, Jeongguk?" you asked, your voice low but steady. "Because if it's just to thank me—"

"It's not," he interrupted, voice frayed at the edges. He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture so familiar it knocked the breath from your lungs. "I don't know, okay? I’ve been back in Seoul for three weeks and I can’t stop thinking about you. About us."

"There is no us, Jeongguk."

"I know." His voice cracked. "Trust me, I know that better than anyone."

You leaned back against your workbench, exhaustion creeping in like a tide. “Then what do you want from me?”

“I want to explain—”

"Seven years too late for that, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Probably. But I have to try.” He stepped forward instinctively, then caught himself, freezing mid-step like he didn’t trust himself to be closer. “The way I left… the way I ended things… it was wrong.”

“Wrong?” You let out a short, breathless laugh— one with no humor in it. “Jeongguk, you served me divorce papers through a stranger. A fucking stranger from some law office. I found out my marriage was over from a man who mispronounced my name.”

Jeongguk flinched, visibly. Shame seeped into the curve of his shoulders, the downturn of his mouth. “I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice wavered now, frustration bubbling up with the grief. “Do you know what that did to me? I sat in a room for eight hours—eight, Jeongguk—just staring at those papers, waiting for someone to tell me it was a mistake. That maybe they got the wrong person. That my husband wouldn’t do something so… something so….”

“____…”

“Do you know I reread the papers so many times I memorized the clause about 'irreconcilable differences'? Do you know I hated that phrase because it sounded so... neat, like we were just a bad spreadsheet?”

His face crumpled. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so—”

“Sorry doesn’t fix it,” you snapped, voice breaking. The tears came before you could stop them, burning hot trails down your cheeks. “Sorry doesn’t give me back the part of myself I lost when you decided I wasn’t even worth a conversation.”

There was a beat of silence so loud it pressed against your ribs.

“You think this was easy for me?” His voice rose slightly, hoarse and unsteady. “You think I wanted to hurt you like that?”

“I don’t know what you wanted. That’s the problem. You never gave me the chance to understand anything. You just... vanished, Jeongguk. I know we didn’t really resolve anything after our last argument. I knew we had our problems but…” Your tears continue to betray you. You bite your lip to keep yourself from sobbing even further.

“I didn’t think you’d leave me, Jeongguk…” you whisper helplessly.

Jeongguk took a deep breath then exhaled through his nose like it physically hurt to keep standing there. He wanted to come closer, maybe wrap you in his arms but he didn’t. He stood where he was. “I was scared.”

The words landed like a stone in water.

“Of what?” you asked, quieter now.

“Of everything,” he whispered. “Of not being enough for you. Of waking up next to you and realizing you were slipping away and I couldn’t stop it. Of becoming a burden. Of watching you look at me and wonder why you ever said yes.”

You stared at him, stunned. “So you left instead.”

“So I left instead,” he echoed, bitterly.

Your tears had stopped but your chest felt hollow.

“You didn’t even let me choose,” you said. “You didn’t give us a chance to fight.”

He looked at you then, something desperate flickering in his eyes. “Would you have? Chosen me?”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold—it was aching.

You wanted to say yes. To scream it. But the truth was heavier than that. The truth lived in long nights and unanswered texts and waking up alone.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, and it hurt you to say it. “But I would’ve tried.”

Jeongguk nodded slowly like he had already guessed your answer but hoped hearing it might change something. It didn’t.

“I think about that night a lot,” he said, his voice lower now. “Our last fight. I replay it all the time, trying to figure out where the breaking point was.”

“What was it even about?” you murmured. “I’ve tried to remember but all I can see is you walking out.”

He hesitated. “Money. My parents. My crazy ambitions. But it wasn’t really about that, was it?”

“No,” you whispered. “It was about the silence. About how we were living side by side but stopped reaching for each other.”

“Yeah.”

You stood in that shared quiet for a long beat, surrounded by the smell of paint and memory.

"I loved you Jeongguk," you said, your voice barely audible. "Even at the end, even when everything was falling apart, I loved you."

“I know.” His voice broke entirely now. “And I loved you. That’s why I thought letting go was the least selfish thing I could do.”

Another silence stretched, not as sharp this time. Just tired. Real.

Jeongguk rubbed at his jaw, the movement weary. “I’m not asking for anything. I just… needed you to know. I’ve carried this for so long and it’s eaten me alive… ____ I’m really sorry. I know there’s no apology that can ever make up for everything I’ve done to you but… I’m just really sorry.”

You look up at Jeongguk with your tear-stained eyes and it breaks Jeongguk more than he can ever describe in words.

“____ I am so sorry for leaving you the way I did…”

You nodded, barely. “I— I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied gently. “You’ve said more than I deserve.”

The studio had grown darker without either of you noticing.

Only the soft light from the café filtered in through the open door, casting long shadows across your half-finished painting and the uneven flecks of dried pigment on the floor. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed. A door slammed. But here, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you—and the distance between what was and what could never be again.

Jeongguk looked down at the floor then back up at you, his mouth pressed in a tight line, like he was still deciding whether to say one last thing. Maybe something small. Maybe something huge.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped back, slowly, like approaching a cliff’s edge he’d finally accepted he couldn’t jump from. His gaze lingered on your face a moment longer—memorizing you, or maybe just letting go. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it again. Whatever words he might’ve said had dissolved before they ever formed.

“I should go,” he said finally, and his voice was hoarse in that way people get when they’ve cried recently or haven’t slept in days.

You nodded. It was all you could manage.

He turned to leave, his footsteps almost soundless on the studio floor. When he reached the door, he hesitated—just long enough to make you wonder if he’d look back.

He did.

A brief glance over his shoulder. Nothing dramatic. No tears. Just that same familiar sadness in his eyes, now quieter. A little more surrendered.

“Goodnight, ____,” he said softly.

And then he was gone. The door closed behind him with a soft click. You stood there for a long while, staring at the space he’d just vacated, your hands still smeared faintly with color and time. The silence returned—but it was different now. Not peaceful, not exactly painful either.

Just... honest.

[ishgard]

Hello and welcome, I'm Crow/Yumé (she/any), and this here's my sparkly new (under construction) pinned post!

about ✧ characters ✧ screenshots ✧ writing ✧ tags ✧ sideblogs

Ahru Hiraeth ✧ Warrior of Light ✧ Multiple Verses ✧ Multiship

✧ I have a lot of characters, who get varying amounts of attention, but Ahru is XIV Blorbo #1.

✧ I love NPCs and shipping with NPCs and you will find a lot of that here.

✧ You'll find a gratuitous amount of my gposes here. I'm just here to have fun and put my blorbos in situations.

✧ I also occasionally write fic, and expel ranting word walls about my characters if prompted. Sometimes even if I'm not. Beware.

✧ I reblog a lot. It's probably 99% strictly Final Fantasy XIV, with occasional memes that I relate to XIV or characters, and very occasional world news signal boosts. Most everything else goes to my sideblogs.

Heads up: I have a dedicated AU for Alphinaud that includes major spoilers for the latter half of 7.0. I mostly tag anything with blatant spoilers accordingly, but it's highly likely for something to slip through the cracks so please take that into account if you're not current on MSQ. If you're curious about it, you can find more information here.

General:

✧ 18+ - I'm an adult and I don't shy away from adult topics or subject matter, but more than that between all of the ship-squealing and keysmashing enthusiasm, I do appreciate a degree of maturity about fictional topics and won't engage with drama.

✧ NOT spoiler-free, but I do tag the latest expansion or patch spoilers

✧ I usually have an unmarked queue going when I'm asleep.

✧ Tags in general are pretty messy, it's a 10+ y/o old blog. I'm kind of working on it, but my sideblog @dravania is a lot more organized. However if you'd like something in particular tagged, please let me know and I would be happy to do that for you!

✧ You're responsible for your browsing experience and I am mine. I am anti-censorship, and capable of differentiating fiction from reality. If you have difficulty with any of that, please curate your space accordingly.

✧ I won't tolerate racism, misogyny, TERFs, or any other queerphobia. That said, I don't believe discussions around these topics fall under the scope of "drama", and that they need to be addressed within fandom when and where they arise.

✧ Fuck Generative AI. If you ever see me reblogging anything made by genAI please give me a gentle nudge!

✧ I don't strictly follow4follow, and I don't solely follow FFXIV-only blogs either

✧ WCIF-friendly, to the best of my abilities. If you see something I'm using, feel free to ask!

Interaction:

✧ Generally speaking, I don't RP, but I do love to interact and spitball ideas/scenarios for how our characters could be connected. That said, I don't typically lean towards romantic interests. Co-WoL's/Adventurers/etc. though is all fun!

✧ I don't use Mare, but if you want my characters .chara file to pose with (SFW) feel free to ask!!

✧ If you ever want to draw any of my characters just know I will compose ballads in your honor. It will add years to my life, and I will use them all in your service.

✧ I can be slow to respond at times, but feel free to toss me an ask or hit me up in DMs for... whatever! (Not you, solicitors!)

[gracemain919]

(The Fungus) Short story:

Summary: A wholesome wedding that is ruined. Totally not a forced marriage.

Tw: Yandere, polyamory, mentions of coercion. Yandere couple x you.

“You May Kiss the Bride and Groom”

It was a day full of clouds. Rain threatened the sky, but not a single drop fell. Maybe Mother Nature knew of Rose’s special day. It understood the importance, it was on her side. Unlike the countless other factors present. The shuffle of pages made her eyes twitch. Her body jittered with each flick. A careless man who handled her event without the respect it deserved.

“Could you be any more rough on the poor pages?” Rose hissed, yet a slight scuff was all she received. The individual lazily discarded the stack of papers, eyes glazing over the landscape.

“Its gonna rain before I even solemnize this wedding.”

“It will not!” Rose frantically looked up at the sky, as if to suspect her new ally before taking the papers from the man’s hands. She carefully organized each page, each word and syllable written on the paper being just as important as the dress she wore. If she could cradle those damn phrases she would, but the snake in her ear was just ruining the mood. “Liar, stop messing with me. This will be perfect.”

“Sure. I'm not here today to question you,” he said, eyes suddenly locking onto something behind her. “I’m here because your husband so ‘kindly’ asked of my presence.”

A one-sided argument could be heard behind them. One person happily walking past an armed missile of an irritated man. “Rose, tell your husband that tie is hideous. I barely stomached the wedding, don't force this nonsense down my throat too.” The Doppelganger pulled and dragged the poor garment, only to be forced aside by a powerful shove.

“See this nonsense?” The redhead asked, astonished by Rose’s lack of attention. “Oh,” She mused while the older man fixed up his attire. A classic badge suit adorned with a white tie.

“It looks wonderful,” she added only for her eyes to go back toward the sky. Greyish tints merely darkened by the time that passed. Was Mother Nature really on her side?

“It won’t rain dear. It's just a bit cloudy, it will clear up in no time.” Kind words by her partner, yet the sky wasn't agreeing. Neither was the individual that tagged along with them.

“Sure, I checked the weather app and I have never seen this in my lifetime, but the motherfuker said there was a 100% chance of rain.”

The sky flashed the color white. A call, a threat, a warning.

“Ok, go sit down” Rose ushered the redhead, her faze snapping back to her husband. “Henry, dear. Where are they? Please, let's be quick!”

The once calm evening was suddenly blaring with a loud timer, if her obsession got there soon enough then…. Oh, who she was kidding? Her day would be stained with the color gray, and she wished to give her love time. Time to willingly walk up the steps but… She didn't have time to wait.

So, she did what any good wife is willing to do.

No one batted an eye on you and the way you got there. Hands tied behind your back, and clothes that could resemble pajamas. Your plans were abruptly ruined, yet the chair they sat you on was the only thing about you that was stylish.

“Hm… Was just now wondering how you got them to agree,” the man behind the alter mused.

Your chair was dragged to the middle, both individuals settling by your sides. You didn't agree to the event, not fully. You just tried to blow them off. Them actually taking it seriously was the thing that blew your mind. Henry was usually a bit less demented.

The sky was already conjuring up a few sparks while the ceremony’s dialogue got tuned out by your brain. You barely paid attention, and didn't even notice the cold spills of water that fell upon your skin. Small droplets that caused the woman beside you to panic.

“To love each other in health and sickness-”

“I’m sorry! Please, hurry this up,” Rose suddenly interrupted. The clock ticked with each crackle of thunder, clouds threatening to pour a tsunami.

“Very well…” The man shifted through the damp pieces of paper, muttering a lot of ‘yada’s yada’s’ before landing on—“Henry and Rose, do you take y/n as your spouse?”

Both individuals let out a sigh of relief, Henry chuckled while lowering himself to kiss your cheek.

“We do,” they answered and suddenly the spotlight was on you. You could barely see as hair clumped up on your face. Clothes sticking to your skin as rain kept pouring. You just wanted to leave.

“Y/n,” he asked, “Do you take Henry and Rose as your wife and husband?”

Both individuals were already showing their battle with the climate. Rose fixed up your face while Henry wiped off his wet clothes. The evening was cold, as cold as your answer.

“…”

Such a happy couple would have been shattered by such silence. Anyone who acted as in love as them would have crumbled, but they merely batted their eyes until they heard:

“Very well, you may kiss the bride and groom.”

Your answer didn't matter. It hadn't since the start. Henry gave you a light kiss, his soggy clothes clinging to your own while Rose relished in your taste. You could have sworn she kissed you long enough to make the cold weather feel warm. Your cheeks were flushed and so were their own.

At least now they could warm you up… once they got to the site.

(non-canon flavored)

[4tlasb0und]

reposting this list off here cuz I'm kind of proud that I included pairs and characters that aren't thought enough of

If the text below isn't to your liking, but the list is, feel free to upload just the list, just tag me if you do

Order of their names is who makes the bracelet, who wears it anyway

Actually insanely proud of the take on Dakota Cole n Mato Cole, cuz you know that bond goes hard and it'd totally be a "this is for being like a dad to me" bracelet

The Tide one is under the context that the PD had a crafts day organized by Tide and he made a silly bracelet for Mark based on weird examples given by the PD members cuz he was there for Ashe

Emizel's less hesitant than Arthur cuz I think the Demons would totally have members that make and do kandi trades, esp that freaky rainbow road cuff

Grefgor prolly does the rope cord bracelets/ those difficult looking string ones that I keep seeing mentioned as a summer camp craft/scouts craft

Grefgor and Shilo are not listed cuz they wouldn't hesitate to trade w/ eachother

Shilo would probably try to make a bracelet for Theo to make amends depending on what the aftermath of the finale was, shared loss in Emizel/care for Emizel

Rip Gabe you and Shilo would've been a funny dynamic to witness as Shilo desexualizes most scenes he's in and you sexualize most of the ones you're in

It's been a hot minute since I've listened to Riptide, esp early Riptide, so if my takes feel SUPER OFF, lmk, I'm not trying to do that even w/ creative liberties

The Ollie one is less that Chip would hesitate cuz it's a bracelet, but he'd hesitate cuz he'd see himself in Ollie and how he likely made a poorly crafted bracelet for Arlin at one point and almost freeze up with being reminded

Jay and Ollie's bond is less talked of than Chip and Ollie so I thought having one with them would be fun

Same as earlier Gillion isn't listed for hesitant cuz he wouldn't be unless it's a type of bracelet that's like.. viewed differently in triton culture

Dakota and William, again, not hesitant cuz it's a bracelet, but cuz Dakota would've put a lot of thought into it and it's not one of the gag kandi ones that Will owns that are like "lol dead" or "gay wolves". It'd be something that either it's a lesser known thing, or something ppl assume about Will but is actually wrong, like maybe his fav color isn't actually blue, or stuff like that

Vyncent and Ashe, both switch places, but I like hesitant Ashe because Ashe and Vyncent is another lesser talked bond, but I think both of them deserve to make each other bracelets for "witnessing" Dakota and William's antics. "Sorry we don't talk more, think we both just got a comfort person, huh? Here, you were a part of the purps just like the rest of us"

Mrs Gilbert does craft days all the time, but the bracelets would have like... sensory based beads, like a tangle fidget, the guys would be hesitant cuz it "doesn't really flow with their whole aesthetic" and cuz they don't wanna admit that they totally could use a sensory toy

Peter and Rumi would probably love decorating Thanatos, I can't honestly think more of a reason for that pairing being on my list than "haha cute couple activity, covering our armor friend in decorations"

[likeyourfatherinhell]

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[everythingne]

i was tagged by the amazing @dozyisdead for the wip wednesday (tuesday?) series :D!!! i'm not gonna tag anyone specific, but if this post comes across ur dash and you have a wip, surprisee, ur tagged now >:)

i've decided to post little bits from multiple series i have, think of this like a big ol teaser!

(WIPs included: little miss wingwoman, akin to a pride, three's company (new), and the rewrite of out of the woods !)

(Little Miss Wingwoman)

Lando stands in the foyer, twiddling with his car keys. Max had genuine come by for some Quadrant issues, but they'd lost track of time yapping and organizing and now you and Lando were late to the christmas village his mother had organized for you and the Verstappen-Piquets to go to.

And you both has been told to dress nice, so he stands with Max in the foyer as you and Pietra giggle in the bathroom. She'd insisted on helping you with your makeup, and so now the two were just waiting for you both.

"You look like she's about to walk down the aisle, mate." Max pokes his arm and Lando swats him away as he flushes,

"I do not!"

"You do." Max presses, shoving Lando, who shoves him back. The two whack at each other a bit, rough housing before Lando hears your snort and perks up. Max sends him a look and he lets him have that one because he did probably look like a puppy.

You come around the corner in a long navy dress, something he'd seen you wear once before when you'd been babysitting Penelope at an event. It was a passing moment, a fleeting smile in greeting, but he remembered thinking you were so stunning then... now? Even more so. The high neckline revealing an open back, the necklace reverse, dripping beautifully down the line of your spine, the small rings on your fingers, the dangling earrings, the perfect hair and makeup.

Lando fell in love with you wearing t-shirts and jeans chasing around a toddler, but seeing you like this made ever level of adoration skyrocket.

(Akin to a Pride)

Reina's sitting in the living room alone--or not exactly alone, considering Jimmy has taken position curled up by her legs, and Sassy lays in the Sim Racing seat--the only visible part of her being her tail flicking lazily as she paws at a wire Reina should probably tell her to stop touching.

But her phone buzzes. Jimmy scatters like someone shot off a gun, curling up to hide behind Reina and stare at the evil device. With a scratch to Jimmy's chin in reassurance, Reina looks down and slides the phone closer.

It's her father.

She flips it back over, trying to ignore the guilt that eats at her stomach. She's been ignoring him a lot more recently, trying to spend more time with Max and racing. Which is easy when as the call from her father goes to voicemail, Max comes into the room, whispering out some sort of rant about something as to not wake the two sleeping down the hall. Reina allows herself to be immersed in conversation as Jimmy takes up residency in her lap now that the evil buzzing is quiet, and they go back and forth about strategies, training, car specs and history...

Then, somewhere between Max pretending to shift around the corner in Imola and a recount of Lando's Kings Day celebration Reina's phone starts to buzz. She sends the call to voicemail, jimmy now barely lifting his head to see, but the same person calls back... probably twenty or so times in a row. Max paused mid sentence, the noise loud enough to distract him.

“Miss popular, are you?” he grins in a teasing tone and Reina leans over to grab the phone, shutting it down to hide her location and activity, instead of just muting the calls. Max shifts, the tension in the room raising just the smallest amount. He trails his eyes along the lines of her shoulders, the fiddling of her hands on the plastic of her phone case before she lays the phone on the ground.

Out of sight, out of mind.

“It’s my dad.” Reina doesn't even need to look, knowing there's now a list of threats lining her phone she'll see in the morning when she opens it again. Some compliments will be mixed in with other complete lies, the same old shit she'd been dealing with for years. She can't get away from it.

"Does he know you're with me, or is he worried about where you are?" Max's voice is quiet, but theres a sort of simmering rage under his tone that makes something feel sort of gapped in his chest.

"He just wants to tell me off or something." Reina leans back onto the couch

(Three's Company)

"What'd you think of Alex?" He pressed, lips curled into a sly grin. Logan was your closest confidant, and you two were often a double threat when it came to parties, not because you liked to metaphorically eat each others left overs (metaphorically, because if Logan even thought about touching the pasta you had in the fridge you were sure you'd kill him.) but rather because it was always a challenge.

Who could get who, who could be better, etc. Oscar had been easy, way back in school before he met Lily, and you'd probably confused the poor boy to celibacy for a moment. You'd met Logan's girlfriend Rylie before him, and she was one of your many summer flings in college. But they were now long term and you were sure they'd last forever, and the days of pointless flings were coming to an end for you...

Logan wanted you to settle. Maybe with Alex. You could see the grin on his face was more than just a challenge. He was looking for something.

You'd give him something to gawk at. Pressing your hands on the desk and looking up at your brother, you lock the drawer to the register in the office, "Gimme two weeks."

"Two weeks..?" Logan blinks at you, "To do what..?"

Ah. Hook, line, sinker. Your teeth show in a sharp smile as you tilt your head innocently and say, "Get him under me, duh?"

Logan blanks in shock, and Dalton chokes on his soda in the bays, making Flipper start barking as your hysterical laughter fills the room. Oh, this was going to be so much fun.

(Out of The Woods)

Dhanishka wakes up as early as possible the morning of the race. Free practice and quali had gone well enough, a bit of exhaustion and dehydration lingering at the edges of her vision, but a quick nap had sorted it all out. Dhanishka was oddly determined to fast, even if she wasn't entirely sure why.

She's proving something, she assumes, even if she never followed her families religion or practices that closely. Her mother had never forced it upon her, 'learn what you wish, practice what works.' She would fast for some holidays, traditionally celebrate others, never really falling into the line of rigorous religion because she wasn't from a heavily religious family.

But as Dhanishka got older, she recognized the importance of little girls in India, Bahrain, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Algeria, Qatar, or anywhere across the world who wanted to race seeing her as a role model. Maybe that was why she felt like the world rested on her shoulders. The importance of being herself, but also being that perfect daughter.

As her father always said, 'life is a balance, that is why we have two hands.' He urged Dhanishka to trust her heart. Which is how she had ended up standing where she was--in Ferrari, the breeze blowing across her face as she stares out at the track like it owes her something.

She's given blood, sweat, tears, everything for these moments.

Role model or not, Dhanishka Dubey will not step down from this fight.

Even if not stepping down means shoveling an unhealthy amount of food into her mouth way too early in the morning. Eggs, chicken, yogurt, cheese and nuts and oats and avocado, ghee, sourdough, lentils, chickpeas--various dishes to keep her fed throughout the day, as well as drinking enough water to hydrate her body for three days (with probably too much sugar free Liquid IV in them to ensure the hydration was actually hydrating.)

She gets to the garage early, the sun still hidden behind the Earth, and she takes time to just sit alone. Sip her water, eat one last bite of suhur, and watch as the track begins to buzz to life.

[casstheasswrites]

NO SAINTS, NO SAVIOURS (13)

pairing: frank castle x reader (female)

summary: wrong place, wrong time. he saved her life, she patched him up. that should’ve been the end of it. some nights, you survive. others, you change.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. at times, you get soft!frank. at others, he takes no prisoners. we love the duality of man <3

chapter length: 5.3k

authors note: i'm now writing in real time and will post at the same time when chapters are ready, here and on AO3. i hope you enjoy and pls pls send me a message with your feedback or thoughts, if you have any! thanks a million.

tag list: @thelastemzy

archive of our own / feedback appreciated!

The weight of uncertainty in the air was heavy. It ebbed and flowed between you and Karen, an invisible thread stretched taut between your chairs, neither of you quite willing to tug on it. The silence had settled— slowly, steadily— until it felt too big to break. You weren’t sure who was supposed to speak first. And when you glanced at her side profile, lit in the dim overhead light, you wondered if she didn’t know either.

She was nearly still, only her eyes moving— tracking the words displayed in front of her. Trying to make sense of them.

She sat at Frank’s desk, returned to the scattered mess of papers he’d claimed were organized. And they were— just in a way only he could decipher. You were across the room, slouched into the battered folding chair with Frank’s flannel slung across the back. You leaned against the mesh and pulled in a long, slow breath.

Every so often, beneath the cold tang of wet concrete and stale air, you caught the scent of him— faint, worn into the fabric. Warmth. Leather. The afterburn of gunpowder and firewood. It would brush past you like breath on the back of your neck— there and gone, just long enough to remember he wasn’t here.

There were pieces of him everywhere. But without him… there was no center. No anchor. Just the slow, lingering fear and the gnawing ache of self-doubt that pooled low and deep, dragging at your bones.

He’d taught you things— but not enough. You had fragments. Clues. But not the full picture. And more than that, you didn’t have his mind. Didn’t see the world like he did— through narrowed eyes and sharpened instinct, every corner a threat, every detail a warning. You didn’t see like a soldier.

Your eyes drifted toward the wall— his wall. The chaotic constellation of red-marker lines and taped-up notes. Names. Timelines. Maps. Connected like arteries. Despite the mess of it, it was clearer, somehow, than anything in your own head.

A throat cleared— low and deliberate.

You turned toward the sound, caught by the sharp blue of Karen’s eyes. There was something glimmering within their depths; a path she’d chosen to follow. You braced yourself against the impact of whatever it was.

“How did he contact whoever he was meeting with today?” she asked.

You didn’t even have to think. Your gaze slid past her, just over her shoulder. “The radio.”

Karen followed your line of sight and nodded, slow and thoughtful. One hand reached out, index finger brushing lightly over one of the dials— not turning it, just feeling the cold metal beneath her skin.

“I think I know who he was meeting,” she said, voice softer now. Hesitant. Like she wasn’t sure how much she should give away. “His name’s Curtis. He was a Navy Corpsman. He and Frank ended up on a few missions together overseas. He’s in the city now, runs a few vet support groups. The real kind… no brochures or miracle-cure bullshit.”

You nodded, slowly. Letting it settle.

“So if Frank needed somewhere safe to stay for a while… he’d go to Curtis?”

“Definitely,” Karen said. Quieter now. “Curtis has done it for Frank more times than I can count… most of which ended badly for them both. But he’s loyal. Would never turn away if Frank needed him.”

She didn’t say it like it was anything special. Just a fact. The kind of truth that had survived too many years to be questioned anymore.

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t trust your voice not to betray something softer than you were ready to show. So you just breathed, slow and even, and let the silence fold back around you like a blanket you hadn’t realized you needed.

He’s not as alone as he thinks he is.

The thought hit you low— sharp and sudden, like a gasp held too long. You’d spent all this time watching him carry the weight of the world like it had been welded to his spine. Wondering if anyone had ever tried to lift even part of it. If anyone had ever stayed.

Curtis sounded like someone who stayed.

Your chest ached— tight, unfamiliar.

Because against every odd, Frank Castle had people. People who knew the cost of loving him. Of seeing him. Of staying. And they did it anyway.

Curtis. Karen.

You.

And maybe— just maybe— that meant he wasn’t destined to carry it all alone forever.

You didn’t know what to do with that kind of hope. Couldn’t name it. Couldn’t look at it too long without it slipping through your fingers. So you did what you could. The decision was made before you really knew you were making it.

Perhaps that was how Karen had felt, too.

“I need to show you something.”

She tilted her head slightly, eyebrows lifting. She didn’t speak— just nodded once, her expression unreadable but open.

You stood, every movement heavy with that same unspoken pressure that clung to the air. Her gaze followed you as you crossed the room, and you felt the weight of it, steady and assessing. You unzipped your bag, pulled out the notebook you’d brought to the library, and— after a beat of hesitation— moved to her side.

You laid it down between you, flipping it open with one hand, bracing yourself over the desk with the other.

You were close now. Close enough to catch the trace of something floral on her coat— something expensive and subtle, like jasmine and soft musk. It made you think of office buildings and polished floors, of early morning meetings and cleanly typed memos. She looked like she belonged in a boardroom— not a bunker.

In another life, you might’ve asked her where she got that blouse. The off-white silk shimmered faintly in the bunker light. You might’ve wanted it for yourself. But that version of you felt very far away. Locked up with the rest of your things, with the rest of your life, in your apartment across the city.

So instead, you pointed to the mess of notes— names, addresses, arrows like veins— and said, “This is what I was working on at the library.”

Karen leaned in slightly, her hair falling forward in a soft, blonde wave. “You did this at a library?”

“I don’t exactly have a private investigator on speed dial,” you said. “Would’ve made my life a hell of a lot easier, though.”

She let out a short laugh— surprising, light. When you looked down at her and caught the gentle hint of a smile on her face, you couldn’t help but return it. Even though the feel of it was foreign on your face.

“Walk me through it.”

So you did.

You walked her through every name, every line that led somewhere. Skipped the dead ends. Focused on the ones that kept circling back— looping into each other like knotted threads. Shell companies, burner numbers, payrolls that didn’t match faces, front offices that didn’t have a real door. You traced each connection with your fingertip, the ink smudged in places where your hand had dragged across the page.

Karen followed along in silence at first, her eyes narrowing slightly, her brow furrowed in concentration. Once in a while, she’d gesture toward something— a name, a note scrawled in the margin— and ask a question. Quiet. Sharp. The kind that made you pause and rethink a piece of your logic. She didn’t fill the space unnecessarily, didn’t crowd you. She just… listened. The way people do when they’ve learned that most answers come out sideways, not straight.

You were supposed to be giving all this to Frank. But it was Karen sitting there now. And she was listening like it mattered. Like it was more than data. More than just noise on a page.

When you finally stopped, your back ached from hunching over the desk, your hands slightly numb from how long you’d kept them tense. You straightened and turned, crossed your arms, and leaned back against the desk, watching her closely.

Karen didn’t look up right away. She just stared at the notebook like it might still rearrange itself into something simpler. Her mouth was tight. Her fingers drummed once against the edge of the desk, then stilled.

Then— quietly— she said, “This is the kind of thing people get killed for.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “I know.”

You’d seen it. Felt it. Still wore the bruises from the last time someone tried to keep a secret buried. That was as far as your mind would allow itself to wander— any further, and you’d be trapped beneath the weight of those moments again. You steeled yourself against them, muscles pulling taut in your abdomen.

Her gaze lifted to meet yours, steadier than you expected. “What do you think this is?” she asked. “Don’t give me what you can prove. Give me what you feel.”

You hesitated. Your eyes drifted toward the wall again, back over your shoulder— Frank’s chaos mapped out in violent precision. You let the silence stretch just long enough for it to taste like dread. Then—

“The stakes are too high for it to just be weapons. Or drugs.” You looked back to her, voice low. Certain. “They sent armed men into a hospital. To kill people who didn’t even know what they were carrying. People who weren’t supposed to be anything more than background noise.”

You released a breath— one you hadn’t even known you’d been holding. And you lowered your voice, because despite it all, you were worried… worried that someone might be listening.

“I think they’re trafficking people. And I think they’ll do whatever it takes to keep it quiet.”

Karen didn’t respond right away.

Her eyes dropped again, her face unreadable, but something in her posture changed— something subtle, like the air had grown colder.

Her jaw tightened. One hand flattened over the desk, palm spread. Not fidgeting now— just still.

It was a horrible thought. A terrible thing to even consider.

That people were being taken— off the street, out of their homes, stolen from their lives and dropped into some system no one could trace. Held. Used. Broken. Some never found. Some never named. The kind of stories that made national headlines when it was convenient— and disappeared quietly when it wasn’t.

You’d seen the numbers. Watched the news cycles cycle out. You knew this world. But knowing didn’t make it easier to say.

Finally, Karen exhaled.

When your eyes met hers again, it wasn’t disbelief you saw.

It was something closer to resignation. It settled deep within your gut, suddenly— this level of understanding between the two of you. This sense of knowing.

“I haven’t heard whispers,” she said softly. “Not the way Frank would. I’m not in that world anymore. Not really.”

There was a quiet withdrawal in her tone now— like she’d stepped back just enough to keep from falling in. Like she carried this weight around in her pockets, heavy and familiar, and knew what it would cost to keep holding it.

“But I still have contacts. People who call when something doesn’t sit right. Over the last few months… I’ve been getting emails. Texts. Phone calls from families looking for their daughters, sons, husbands. These are people disappearing with no pattern, and no leads. The cops open the file, log the info— then drop it. It goes nowhere.”

She looked up again, and this time, her gaze held something deeper— threaded through with frustration, with loss. With care.

“I can’t prove anything. It’s all just fragments. But if someone’s running trafficking through our backyards, they’re doing it with full protection. They’re not hiding— they just know no one’s looking. Or if they are looking, they won't last long.”

Whatever warmth remained in your chest soured instantly.

Your stomach twisted. Your gaze dropped, and your teeth ground down against each other before you could stop it. You knew. You knew she was right. You’d known it before she even said it— but hearing it aloud changed something.

It made the fear real.

You weren’t chasing ghosts.

You were walking straight into hell.

You weren’t sure when the fear had stopped feeling sharp and started feeling heavy.

It used to come in waves— spikes of panic that stole your breath, twisted your stomach into knots. But now… it was pressure. Constant. Low and thrumming. Like your body had already accepted something your mind hadn’t.

And the worst part— the part that coiled cold beneath your skin— was knowing that you might already be part of the story.

Not the hero. Not the one chasing leads.

Just another loose end waiting to be tied off.

Your name had been all over the news since the hospital. It was only a matter of time before it ended up on a list somewhere, one line amongst many, just waiting to be crossed out. If it wasn't already.

And the thought that they might see you that way— that somewhere out there, someone had already filed you under “disposable”— made your skin crawl.

Because you knew what it was to be prey.

You knew the look someone gave when they didn’t see you as a person. Just something to be used. Broken. Discarded.

You shivered— sharp and sudden.

Your fingers dug into your own forearms through the sleeves of your sweater. Anchoring yourself. Fighting the rise of bile at the back of your throat.

You weren’t that girl anymore.

But you weren’t sure how far away she really was, either.

A flicker of movement caught your attention— Karen shifting in your periphery, leaning back slightly in the chair, her gaze fixed now on the wall where Frank’s research still loomed, silent and waiting. Her arms crossed loosely, braced like she was holding something off.

“This is big,” she murmured. “Bigger than what we can carry on our own.”

You didn’t disagree.

But you didn’t know how to stop either. Not now.

“I know,” you said.

Another silence fell— thick, but not jagged. Not uncomfortable.

It felt worn in. Lived in. Like a coat you hadn’t meant to keep but couldn’t quite get rid of.

Then Karen turned, her eyes finding yours again.

She watched you for a long moment— quietly, steadily. Like she was trying to decide what kind of person you really were. Like she could see it all, all the things you worked so hard to hide. To her, to those prodding blue eyes, you were nothing more than transparent.

“You’re not shaken by any of this,” she said. Not a question. Just a truth she’d been holding on to. “The theories. The danger. The violence. That’s… rare.”

You blinked. The words hit, hard. Not quite like a blow— more like a quiet pressure in the center of your chest, steady and disarming.

You shifted and crossed your arms tighter. Your gaze wandered away, instead choosing to study the concrete beneath your feet. As if somehow that would help. As if somehow that would disengage the pressure you felt from the weight of her eyes on you.

“You think I should be more scared?”

When you glanced back up, she was still watching you. No judgment. Just interest. Curiosity. Like you were another part of the case she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

You weren’t sure if that was better or worse— if you’d rather she be looking down on you, wondering what was wrong with you. Instead, she seemed to understand… understand that on a deeper level, you’d been here before. Maybe not in the same way. Maybe not in a long time. But her gaze told you she knew— she knew you were used to having to endure.

“I think most people would be,” she said. “This is the kind of thing that eats you alive from the inside out. And I think you know that. But you’re still walking toward it.”

The words landed with weight— not cruel, not cutting. Just true.

You dropped your gaze again, not because you were ashamed, but because if you held hers too long, you knew she’d see too much. Maybe she already had.

You shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t even convincing.

“I think I’m just… past the point of falling apart,” you said, voice quieter now. You were afraid to talk too loudly— afraid of what it might give away if you did. “Everything that could go wrong already has. I don’t really have the luxury of coming undone.”

You hadn’t meant for it to sound like a confession, but it was. And once it was out, it clung to the air— delicate and brittle, like frost on glass.

Your hands uncrossed from over your chest, instead ducking into the pocket at the front of your sweater. You pressed your fingers together there, hidden beneath the material, holding so tightly your wrists began to ache.

The truth was, you had come undone.

Just not in the ways people could see.

Not in screaming fits or shattered glasses.

But in quieter ways. The kind that left you raw and sleepless and still pretending to function. The kind that opened old wounds, let them bathe in the sun for the first time in years.

You weren’t walking into fire because you were fearless.

You were walking because the fire was the only thing left.

Karen let out a breath— small, weightless. More exhale than laugh. She leaned back in the chair, arms folding over her stomach, fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve in a slow, absent motion. You got the sense she wasn’t aware of it— just something her body did to keep itself grounded.

“When I first started helping Frank,” she said, voice low, like she wasn’t sure whether she was speaking to you or herself, “I thought I could stay clean. That I could do it from the outside— write the right stories, talk to the right people. Follow the truth wherever it led.”

She shook her head once, lips curling faintly— more grimace than smile.

“But it doesn’t work like that. Not with him. The truth doesn’t lead— it buries. And once you’re in it, really in it, there’s no version of yourself that comes out the other side untouched.”

You didn’t say anything. Just listened. Let it settle over you like ash.

Karen’s gaze drifted again toward the radio. It was still silent. There were no answers to be found there.

“I struggled with it for a long time,” she said. “Still do, sometimes. I hesitate when I hear from him— when I have to make that call and check in. Like I’m afraid he’s going to ask too much. Or that I’ll say yes before I even know what he’s asking.”

She looked at you again then, and this time, there was no pretense. Just something open. Honest. Raw in a way that surprised you.

“But you…” Her eyes scanned your face, like she was still making sense of it. Of you. “You’re not hesitating. You’re not trying to save him or fix him or drag him toward some version of himself that doesn’t exist anymore. You’re just in it. All the way. And I think—” she paused, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud, “—I think that’s the kind of person he doesn’t know how to lose. But also the kind of person he doesn't know how to push away."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full— thick with the kind of things you didn’t have words for.

Your chest tightened, something sharp blooming beneath your sternum. It didn’t feel like flattery. It felt like being seen.

You didn’t know what to say. So you said the only thing you could:

“Maybe I’m just too stubborn to quit. Too stubborn to die easy.”

Karen’s lips curved at the edges, barely. “Yeah. I think he’d say the same.”

Neither of you moved. The air felt still now— not tense, not waiting. Just… quiet. Like something had passed between you and settled into place, an agreement without a name.

The exhaustion hit you slowly. Not like a crash, but a slow unraveling. Like your body was finally registering that you hadn’t stopped moving in days. That there was no adrenaline left to run on.

You blinked down at the edge of the desk, your voice soft. “I think I need to lie down. Just for a little while.”

Karen nodded, like she’d been expecting it. Like she’d already decided on how the rest of the night was going to go. “Go ahead. I’ll keep watch. We can figure out what to do in the morning.”

She said it simply. No dramatics. No hesitation.

Just: I’ll stay.

You gave a small nod in return, already stepping away. You crossed the bunker with slow, quiet steps, each one weighed down by everything you’d carried today. The cot was still tucked into the corner, half-shadowed by the shelves stacked with gear.

You unrolled the blanket, and with your back to Karen, you pulled it up towards your face, just for a beat. You took in a long, lingering breath, clinging to the wool material with your fingers. The scent of him was faint now— but it was enough. Enough to still your breath. Enough to remind you what you were waiting for.

As you went to kick off your boots, you swayed— like the immense pressure of the day had finally decided it had had enough. Your sense of gravity shifted and you had to pull from an already empty reserve of strength to keep yourself upright. The muscles in your legs, in your stomach, in your shoulders— they all ached, throbbed, begged with you to finally let them rest. After you’d finally managed to free yourself, you reached for your gun— plucked it off the shelf you’d placed it on what felt like a lifetime ago, when you’d finally decided to give Karen a chance. Then you settled down into the cot, the gun tucked beneath it, less than arms reach away.

Your limbs ached. Your jaw ached. The thoughts didn’t stop— just circled. But the silence helped. The quiet steadiness of another body nearby.

Karen didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

And for the first time in hours, maybe longer, you let yourself stop bracing for what came next.

Sleep didn’t come quickly. But it came.

* * * * *

You jolted awake before Karen could so much as mutter your name.

You came to with a suddenness that felt wrong— too sharp, too fast. The kind of waking that only ever followed one thing: sound. Something just loud enough, just off enough, to pull you from sleep like a hook in the back of your spine.

Your eyes blinked open, heavy with fatigue, but your hand was already moving before your mind could catch up. Your muscles acted on instinct, on muscle memory and training you didn’t even know had stuck. Sleep still clung to you, syrup-thick, dragging at your limbs and dulling your thoughts— but your fingers wrapped around the cold, familiar weight of the gun beneath the cot.

You stood.

Not graceful. Not fluid. But fast.

Your feet planted, your spine aligned.

And then you focused.

Head tilted— just slightly— to the side. Listening.

There were the constants— the moaning of old pipes, water rushing through them far slower than it should have. Gentle, unending buzzing from the bulbs above, though the lights were dim. Sounds of the city outside the windows, traffic still moving despite the hours, horns honking, sirens blaring.

And there it was.

Boots. Concrete. The distinct rhythm of footfalls— heavy and unrestrained. Coming fast. Not stealthy, not careful. Just coming.

Down the hall… close. Echoing louder with each passing second.

Someone was here.

Someone was almost here.

You moved before panic could fully form. Your breath hitched once in your chest, then steadied on the next inhale— fast but controlled, the way Frank had taught you.

Your eyes cut to Karen.

She was still in the chair by the desk, blinking herself awake. Her cheeks were flushed from sleep, a harsh red line pressed down one side of her face— she’d dozed off against something hard. Her mouth parted on an inhale, startled and breathless, but no words came.

Her eyes met yours.

They were wide. Alert. A little wild. And beneath the surface— something else. Guilt. An apology she didn’t say out loud.

You shook your head once, a sharp denial. Not now.

You closed the space between you in two quick strides and pressed an arm in front of her, guiding her behind you, shielding her without thought. She was taller than you. Older. But that didn’t matter.

You were the one with the weapon.

You were the one who’d kept her here.

You were the one responsible.

Your body moved without hesitation— like it knew exactly what to do, even if your brain hadn’t caught up. You stepped forward and raised the gun, arms out, posture aligned. Your weight shifted to the balls of your feet. Knees bent. Shoulders loose but steady. Just like he taught you.

There was no tremble in your grip. No shake in your stance.

Not anymore.

You were still half-asleep. Still aching and heavy and wrung out from everything you’d carried today. But all of that fell away under the weight of adrenaline— hot and fast, a wildfire beneath your skin.

Your heart pounded like a war drum, deafening in your ears, shaking behind your ribs.

But your hands didn’t falter.

You were ready.

Whoever was on the other side of that door— whatever came through it—

You were ready.

The footsteps grew louder— and then stopped. Right outside the door.

Your breath caught in your throat. Not sharp, not panicked. Just… held. Suspended in a space that suddenly felt too small. You could feel Karen behind you, still as stone— but her energy had shifted. She was awake now, fully alert, her body drawing tight like a bowstring. You heard the whisper of metal, the barely-there click of her lifting a weapon from the wall. You couldn’t turn, didn’t dare make a move to look anywhere but right in front of you, right at that worn green door that separated you from whatever was on the other side.

The handle turned.

No stealth, no caution. Whoever was on the other side didn’t care about being heard. Or didn’t have the strength to hide.

This was the last thing you wanted to do— the last place you wanted to be. Another moment of fear, another moment with a weapon clutched in your hands. It was kill or be killed and you knew that; but why did it feel like the punches just kept coming? There was no break in the onslaught. No moment to breathe, no time to just sit with the relief of escaping. Just moving from one moment of terror to the next.

The door pushed open.

And then— he was there.

Frank.

He stumbled through the threshold like he was breaking through the last wall holding him up. His body filled the entryway, shadowed in flickering bunker light, a towering silhouette carved in blood and exhaustion.

His right hand hit the wall with a dull thud, steadying himself. His other arm was cradled tight against his ribs, unmoving. Blood painted his shirt— soaked deep through one side, smeared across his chest, dried at the corner of his mouth and along one eyebrow. His breathing was rough, uneven. His eyes— those dark, razor-cut eyes— scanned the room like he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. Center, right, then left. Like he’d taught you.  

He looked half-wild. Half-dead.

Something inside you stilled— and shattered. You didn’t know which came first. For one suspended breath, your body forgot how to move. It was like every part of you seized up at once, overwhelmed by the sheer wrongness of seeing him like this— torn and stumbling and somehow still standing. You’d imagined this moment so many times, in the hours of silence, in the quiet corners of thought you didn’t let anyone touch. But none of those versions had prepared you for the reality of him— towering in the doorway, smeared with blood and dirt and something far too close to defeat. The sight of him split something open in your chest, a crack running straight down the middle, and you felt everything at once: terror, relief, grief, and that strange, aching kind of tightness around your heart that never quite lets you breathe all the way in. He was here. He was alive. And he looked like hell had tried to finish what life had started— but hadn’t. Not yet. Not as long as you were still standing.

And then he saw you.

Everything in him stilled.

It was like a gear locked into place. Like his body— wrecked and staggering— recognized yours before his mind did.

His eyes caught yours and held.

And for one long, burning second, nothing else existed.

Just you.

And him.

And the distance between.

Your weapon lowered slowly. Not dropped— just eased. Your hands didn’t shake, but your knees buckled, threatening to drop you straight to the concrete below.

Instead, you somehow managed to cross the room before you had time to think.

“Frank,” you breathed— softer than a whisper, more like a prayer.

He swayed.

You reached him just in time, caught his uninjured arm and slung it over your shoulders, your other hand gripping the back of his ribs. He was heavy— so much heavier than he looked— but you didn’t hesitate. You bore his weight like you were made for it.

He didn’t speak. His jaw clenched. You could feel the tension in every muscle, could feel the tremble beneath his skin. With every movement, he winced, seemingly tweaking another spot he hadn’t known had been bruised or bloodied.

His fingers curled into the back of your shirt.

Not tight. Not painful. Just anchored.

You pulled him closer, shifting under him, grounding him against your frame.

“Where are you hurt?” you asked— low, urgent, your mouth near his ear.

Not What happened? Not Where were you? Not Why didn’t you call?

Just that.

Just: What do I need to fix?

Your senses were overwhelmed— the weight of him, the heat of him. That familiar metallic scent clung to every inch of him, his skin, his clothes. And there was that same, lingering sharpness, too… gunpowder. The remnants of whatever fight he’d managed to stumble away from.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

His head dropped, brushing against yours. His breath was hot against your skin. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts. His body was shaking— subtle, but there. Like the effort of staying upright had cost him more than he could afford. You held him as best you could, trying to guide him towards the chair at the desk.

And then— Karen stepped into view. You saw the movement at the top of your vision and your chin lifted. You’d nearly forgotten her.

You felt it the second Frank saw her.

His entire body pulled taut, flinched back. Not fear. Not pain.

Recognition.

And then— his voice, rough as gravel, hoarse and ragged.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

The words were more breath than speech, but they hit like a gunshot in the quiet.

You felt his weight shift. Felt his stance adjust, as if every cell in his body was suddenly on edge again. Not fighting you— but braced. Guarded.

Karen didn’t move. She stood her ground, grip loose on the gun she’d pulled from Frank’s wall, shoulders square. Her face was unreadable— but her eyes held something like exasperated relief.

“Nice to see you too, Frank,” she said, voice dry, steady.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your throat felt raw. Your heart hadn’t slowed since you’d heard his boots in the hall.

You tightened your grip around his waist, adjusting your stance to hold him better. He was bleeding all over you. You didn’t care.

He was alive.

He was here.

And every part of you— every nerve, every fiber— was still catching up to that reality.

[fromchaostocosmos]

@king-shit-thembo

What you wrote in your tags is very poignant and important.

And I'm going use your points as a jumping off point to explore further.

So when you look up the definition of pogrom you will get something along the lines "a riot or an organized persecution of an ethnic or religious minority usually Jews"

And that definition is wrong.

Because some will describe as a riot only and some will describe as organized only when it was often both. Sometimes it was pre-planned and sometimes it was spontaneous and happened because there was some sort of convenient excuse to be used to drum up a mob.

Also pogrom is a word that only applies to these specific types of attacks against Jews because it is word that was created to name these types of attacks.

Also not every attack is pogrom. A pogrom is a specific type of attack.

A pogrom involves a mob, mob violence, usually sexual violence via rape and assault, and the destruction of property be it homes or synagogues or other centers of Jewish life. Another big feature of pogroms that pops up time and again is the use of fire to do harm either by burning property, people, or both.

The is a reason that Oct 7th is also known as the Simchat Torah Pogrom and that is because it has all the hallmarks of a historical pogrom.

So much of it could have been taken straight out of a history book. Change the weapons and who was doing it and this could have been England, Spain, Russia, Iran, Germany, and many more countries all through out various points in history.

And we still do have those historical style pogroms happening because again I point to Amsterdam and what happened in Russia with a mob rushing an airport to hunt and hurt Jews despite there being no Jews even there to begin with.

What we have now is one person commit the act, but the mob violence happens online. That is where Jews get attacked and harassed for speaking on the act and what happened, for speaking on how they feel as a Jews and how Jews as whole are feeling.

That is a part of what the modern pogrom looks like. The mob violence is still violent it is just often more of a stochastic style. It is psychology overwhelm and stochastic terrorism, it is gaslighting and death threats. It is an online support and cheering of the physical attack and online stochastic terrorism and terrorizing of Jews.

And between the physical attack and online attacks the goal is terrorize Jews who are not on receiving end of either into being quiet, into being silent, into less visible, and into just accepting whatever happens to us.

Just like historical pogroms were about not just physical attack itself, but also the psychological attack and threat on the survivors, if there were any, and the rest of the Jewish populace. To terrorize us, to threaten us, and scare us. To make us feel small, to make us just accept this as normal, and to make us want to hide.

It is the same goals and the same tactics, but using different tools and methods. And these are tools and methods that are updated to fit with the times.

So these attacks, these firebombs we need to recognize them for what they are and which are pogroms.

When we think of pogroms for many they might think of that scene from Fiddler on Roof.

For others they might think of the Night of the Broken Glass.

For others a multitude of different points in Jewish history might come up and come to mind.

After what happened in Amsterdam that might be what comes to thought.

When Charlottesville happened I like many Jews was very scared and worried that there would be an outbreak pogroms following.

Thank G-d there was not.

So imagine to all of our surprise that the modern day pogroms came not from right wing extremists and wannabe nazis and those chanting "Jews will not replace us" but rather from the left.

That isn't to say antisemitism on left came as surprise. No, that is something any Jew who in any left leaning, progressive, or liberal political scene is very familiar with.

I mean with familiar with all they types of antisemitism that run the whole gambit of political spectrum, from one extremism all the way to the other.

It is just that we really didn't expect it to come from the left of all places is all.

The other part is part is that I think we and I know this was the case for me expected the modern day pogrom to look like the pogroms that we saw in past.

And while that has been the case in of what happened in Amsterdam and what happened in Russia which yes I consider to be a pogrom even though there were no Jews there to be attacked. A mob gathered to attack because they thought there were Jews to attack.

But the reality is a modern pogrom is going to look different. A modern pogrom is going to act different.

Because for all that we, Jews, still tend to live grouped together it is not the same like it used to be when we lived in ghettos and shtetls. Where access to a whole lot of Jews was much easier, escape was much harder, and we had no way to warn each other or to get help. Also historically there was no real or actual punishment for pogroms historically.

In pogroms they could and did get away with taking entire Jewish villages, locking them in they synagogue, and setting it on fire.

Pulling that off in a world where there are legal repercussions, where it is much harder to break into homes, where technology exists that allows us to call to warn others and call for help, and where we can run and not be blocked by the walls of the ghetto or forest of the shtetl makes a big difference.

So then question is what does the modern pogrom look like. I think that it is yes physically attacking Jews so like I said what happened in Amsterdam and what happened in Russia.

But I would say that all these firebombings that we have been seeing over the past 19 months is the predominant way that the modern pogroms are being expressed.

We have seen a lot of them happening in Canada and Australia. There were also several in other countries too, but those two it has just been non-stop.

And now in the USA there has been a whole bunch of them with the latest being what has happened in Colorado.

This is just my personal assessment and opinion on what we have been seeing and I think that we are going to see more of them not less.

And with that will come escalation meaning that more and more people are going to hurt because with the escalation the target is going to move from building to people and the goal is going to be seeing who can injure or G-d forbid kill the most Jews.

(While I am aware that both the Russia and Amsterdam attacks were not done by leftists the point is the before either of those attacks happened there were firebombings that were done and those were done by leftists)

[transformativeworks]

To the people in the OTW Tumblr Inbox asking about how the OTW is responding to the American Election.

This is a separate post (and not a response to a specific message) because we all need to see it.

Folks have been asking Support (through the form) as well as the other social media mods, and we have now been given the following to tell you.

We are continuing to closely monitor political developments that may affect AO3 and the OTW as a whole. First, we want to assure you that there are several factors that tend to protect AO3 and its users from legal risks and challenges. These include that we are a non-profit, do not host images, do not use algorithms to promote or advertise content to users, are not aimed at children, and collect very little user data. The results of the 2024 U.S. election are deeply concerning, but the OTW remains committed to providing an inclusive space for fannish expression and will continue to fight for fans' free expression, both in court and through legislative efforts, in the U.S. and worldwide. We have seen that fans are a powerful force for promoting free expression, and we will continue to inform people about opportunities for their voices to be heard. If a bill is likely to be passed in the future that could impact our ability to provide services, our legal team will be prepared to offer updates, guidance, and legal support to our users. Fans are not alone in this fight. Both the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) (https://www.aclu.org/news/civil-liberties/the-aclu-is-fighting-back-against-trump ) and the Electronic Frontier Foundation (EFF) (https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2024/11/2024-us-election-over-eff-ready-whats-next ) made preparations for this outcome and have developed strategies to combat anticipated efforts to curtail online freedoms. We urge our users to support these organizations and others as they fight for your rights and ours.

<3 Mod Remi

[cherry-mash]

sanji in every universe shall have the pottiest of potty mouths, now with the added bonus of 4x combo-ing

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