#like none of them are determinant or anything

[natalianovnas]

❛❛ 𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘 ❛❛

꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: confession gone wrong, you're determinated to move on from the heartbreak the ex-assassin caused you. as you start distancing yourself from her, natasha realizes that she wanted you all along to begin with.

꩜ ۫ . PAIRING :: shield agent!nat x shield agent!reader

꩜ ۫ . WARNINGS :: part two of almost !! — none just a kinda sad in the beginning, nat making up for what she did.

꩜ ۫ . WORDS COUNT :: 3.3k || masterlist

author's note ; anddddd ... goobye pride month, you will be missed :p (little gift for the last june hours)

✍︎ 𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃 - @ahintofchaos *. @mrsrushman *. @hillslvr *. @henkermen *. @cjnewuntitled *. @shootingstars-stuff !

— S.H.I.E.L.D. ARMORY

Natasha adjusted the straps of her tactical vest with practiced efficiency. The mission briefing was over, gear check was routine, but her mind wasn't where it usually was. It hadn’t been all week.

Across the room, Barton leaned against the wall, tossing a throwing knife in one hand like it was a toy.

“Okay,” he said after a beat, watching her too closely. “Spill it.”

She didn’t look up. “Spill what?”

“That thing you’re doing. The brooding. You’ve got the whole ‘cold statue with feelings’ vibe going on.”

“I always brood.”

“Yeah, but normally it’s… less twitchy.”

Natasha shot him a glance, expression sharp. “I’m not twitchy.”

“You’re twitchy,” Clint said flatly. “You just almost loaded live rounds into a tranquilizer gun.”

She blinked. Looked down.

“…Shit.”

He tilted his head. “See?”

Natasha sighed, set the mag down with a clink. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh, great.” Clint crossed his arms. “Natasha Romanoff just said ‘it’s nothing.’ That always means it’s definitely something.”

She turned her back to him, but her voice was low. “It’s… about Y/L/N.”

There was a pause.

“…Y/N?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Clint took a step forward, tone quieting. “Did something happen?”

“I turned her down,” Natasha said simply, like it was a classified file being handed over. “She told me how she felt. I said I didn’t feel the same. At the time, I thought I didn’t.”

“And now?”

Natasha’s jaw clenched. She was quiet for a long moment before answering.

“Now she’s just… not there. Not in the way she used to be. Not… around. And it’s stupid, but I can’t stop noticing.”

Clint gave a low whistle. “Oof.”

She shot him a glare. “Real helpful.”

“I mean, I’m just saying—you rejected her, Nat. She’s doing the healthy thing. You can’t blame her for backing off.”

“I don’t,” she said quickly. “I don’t. I’d never want to make her feel unwanted or foolish. I just… I didn’t realize how used to her I was until she was gone.”

Clint studied her. “You miss her.”

Natasha looked down at her gloves, adjusting them even though they were already perfect. “I miss the way she looked at me.”

He nodded, softening just a little. “Yeah. That kind of attention doesn’t come around often.”

“I don’t know if I deserve it.”

“Well,” Clint shrugged, “that’s not really how love works.”

That hit her harder than she expected.

He patted her shoulder, stepping away with a smirk to break the tension. “Anyway. Let me know when you want to stop being a disaster. I’ve got popcorn ready for the romantic fallout.”

She rolled her eyes. “Jackass.”

“Love you too.”

. . .

S.H.I.E.L.D. TRAINING GYM – THE NEXT NIGHT

The gym was quiet this late. Dim overhead lights buzzed faintly as the rhythmic thwack of gloves hitting a punching bag echoed across the room.

You were mid-combo—jab, cross, hook, duck, repeat—sweat lining your brow, tank top clinging to your frame. Your focus was laser-sharp, not on anyone, not on anything except movement.

From the entrance, Natasha watched silently.

Leaning against the frame of the doorway, she crossed her arms.

“Your footwork’s better.”

You didn’t stop. “Thanks,” you replied, not looking over. “Torres helped me clean it up.”

Natasha stepped inside, slow and careful like approaching a sleeping animal. “You’ve been training with him a lot lately.”

You finally paused, letting the bag swing lazily as you turned. “Yeah. He's a good sparring partner.”

Something in Natasha’s chest tugged. “I thought I was your favorite sparring partner.”

Your smiled faintly—small, tired. “We haven’t sparred in a while.”

Natasha nodded, her voice softening. “I know.”

Silence. The air between you two felt heavier than the weights in the corner.

You peeled off one glove, setting it on the bench. “What’s up, Natasha?”

Natasha.

Not Nat, but Natasha..

She found herself feeling uneasy on how easily this little detail unsettled her but she was able to mask it up pretty quickly.

“I could use a hand checking my new gear,” Natasha said, trying for nonchalance. “Straps feel wrong. Figured you'd know. You always do.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “What about Engineering?”

“I’d rather you.”

That hung in the air longer than it should’ve. Natasha realized too late how much weight those four words carried.

You grabbed your water bottle and took a long sip before replying. “I’m not trying to avoid you, you know.”

Natasha blinked. “Aren’t you?”

You met her eyes now—really looked. “I’m giving you space. You made it clear you didn’t want anything more from me. I get it, Nat. I’m not angry. I’m just… trying to respect that.”

There was a pause before Natasha answered, almost a whisper:

“I didn’t know I’d miss you this much.”

Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard.

“…What do you want from me, Natasha?”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a question from someone still nursing a wound—someone bracing for another blow.

Natasha took a breath. “I don’t know.”

You nodded slowly, quietly. “Then maybe figure that out first.”

You turned back to the punching bag, pulling on your other glove.

Natasha stood there a moment longer, the distance between you twk never feeling more real.

“…Good night,” she murmured.

Thwack.

Thwack.

You didn’t look back. Once again.

“Good night, Nat.”

. . .

YOUR APARTMENT – NIGHT

It was nearing midnight when the knock came.

You were curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie and worn-in sweats, a cup of tea lukewarm in your hands. Your cat, curled against your thigh, stirred lazily as you sat up.

Three knocks.

Not urgent. Not loud. But enough to twist something in your gut.

You stood, padding barefoot to the door and peeking through the peephole.

Your heart somehow stuttered.

Natasha Romanoff.

You hesitated only a second before unlocking the door.

“…Natasha?”

The redhead stood there in a leather jacket over a black hoodie, hair a little tousled like she’d either run her hands through it too many times or hadn’t cared enough to fix it.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Natasha said quietly, eyes not quite meeting hers. “I just—was walking. Ended up here.”

You searched her face. She didn’t look drunk. Didn’t look like she’d been crying. But there was something in her—like the silence after an explosion. The quiet when the dust hasn’t settled yet.

“You okay?” You questioned softly.

Natasha hesitated. Then:

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Stepping back. “Do you want to come in?”

A pause. Then a small nod. “Yeah.”

She entered slowly, as if unsure she should, and you gently closed the door behind her. The cat meowed, hopping off the couch and brushing against Natasha’s leg before trotting off to the kitchen.

Nat watched it go. “He still doesn’t like me much.”

“He purrs when you’re here,” You replied, walking back toward the couch. “He just likes to act tough.”

You two sat in silence for a moment— you on one end of the couch, Natasha on the other.

You took a sip of your tea, watching her over the rim. “You want something? I’ve got tea. Or whiskey. Depending on the kind of insomnia.”

Natasha gave a tired smile. “Tea’s fine.”

You nodded, standing again and heading to the kitchen.

Natasha looked around, taking in the little signs of comfort—throw blankets, the half-read book on the armrest, a framed photo of you with a few agents, laughing. She remembered that day. She remembered watching you laugh like that and wondering, even then, why it made her chest ache.

You returned, offering her a warm mug. Your fingers brushed. Neither of you said anything about it and only sipped in silence.

“…You don’t have to talk,” You finally spoke up. “Not if you’re not ready.”

Natasha turned to you, expression unreadable.

“I just wanted to be somewhere… where I used to feel wanted.”

Your throat tightened. Your voice was quiet when you answered:

“You're always wanted here.”

“…Can I stay a little longer?”

Nodding, you stated, “Yeah. Stay as long as you want.”

Natasha exhaled. Leaned back against the couch. And without a word, you shifted closer, just enough for your arms to graze.

It was quiet again.

But not empty.

. . .

S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ – ROOFTOP

It was early. The kind of early where the sky was still bruised with night, and the city hadn’t quite woken up.

Natasha stood on the rooftop, coffee in one hand, the other jammed in the pocket of her jacket. Her eyes scanned the horizon, not really seeing anything.

Footsteps behind her.

“Figured I’d find you here,” came Maria Hill’s voice, calm and unreadable as always. She approached with her own cup of coffee, standing beside her.

“Didn’t want to go home.”

Maria gave a short nod, blowing into her cup. “You saw her, didn’t you?”

Natasha turned her eyes on her, but said nothing.

Maria chuckled softly. “Nat, I’ve known you for years. I can tell when something’s eating you alive.”

Like tearing off gauze from a healing wound, Natasha spoke.

“She stopped looking at me the same.”

Maria glanced sideways.

“She used to look at me like I was… everything,” Natasha murmured. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. Especially then.”

Maria let her speak. She knew better than to interrupt now.

“And I didn’t know how much I needed that—until it was gone.”

“She respected your answer,” Maria said gently. “She backed off. She gave you space.”

“I didn’t ask her to disappear,” Natasha said quietly, almost defensively.

“You didn’t have to. She heard the ‘no.’ She honored it. That’s who she is.”

Natasha’s jaw clenched. “I thought I was protecting her. I thought I’d ruin her.”

Maria turned now, facing her fully.

“Maybe you were protecting yourself, too.”

That hit a little too close.

Natasha looked down at her coffee. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t fix it,” Maria said. “You show up. You stop making her do all the work. You stop running from what you feel and tell her the truth—even if it’s messy.”

Natasha breathed in slow.

“She deserves better.”

Maria’s voice softened. “She deserved honesty.”

A long silence stretched between them. Then, quietly, Maria placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re not broken, Romanoff. But if you keep pretending you don’t feel anything, you’re gonna lose the one person who made you want to feel again.”

Natasha blinked hard. Just once.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t brush the emotion away.

. . .

S.H.I.E.L.D. TRAINING ROOM – LATER THAT WEEK

You stepped into the training room like you did every morning—earbuds in, ponytail high, gym bag slung over your shoulder. You liked the early hours, the silence & the predictability of it.

You tossed your bag to the side, heading toward the mats—only to pause.

There was a familiar shape waiting there.

Two coffees. One yours—exactly how yoi takes it. No label, but you knew it by the smell.

The other was Natasha’s. Of course it was.

You froze, lips parting slightly.

Then you noticed something else: your sparring gloves. Laid out neatly, clean, perfectly wrapped. You hadn’t left them like that.

None of those at all.

And resting on top of them… was a tiny folded note.

You highly hesitated before reaching for it.

Just five words, handwritten in that sharp, precise script you knew too well:

"You were never in the way."

You breath caught.

For a second, you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

You looked around, half-expecting to see Natasha lurking in the shadows, but the room was empty. Just the coffee, the gloves, you & the note.

And your heart beating far too fast for this early in the morning.

You sat slowly, picked up the coffee, and took a sip. Still warm. Fresh.

You exhaled a shaky breath.

“…Goddamn it, Romanoff.”

The cat-and-mouse had shifted. This wasn’t rejection anymore. This was Natasha starting to chase.

And it terrified your more than anything.

. . .

S.H.I.E.L.D. TRAINING ROOM – NEXT MORNING

You was already on the mat, gloves on, sweat dotting your brow as you worked the bag. Clean jabs. Sharp footwork. Precise. Like you were fighting something invisible just under your skin.

The door creaked open behind you but you didn’t turn.

That presence—quiet but weighted, like the calm before a storm—was unmistakable.

Natasha.

You kept punching.

“I figured I’d find you here,” came the low voice behind you.

No response. Just the dull thud of glove on bag.

“You didn’t drink the coffee.”

“Didn’t say thank you either,” you replied coolly, still focused on your routine.

Natasha stepped closer, slow.

“You read the note.”

“I did.”

Another beat of silence. Then:

“I meant it.”

You finally stopped, breath a little heavy. You turned, pulling your gloves off slowly, your expression unreadable.

“Why now?” You asked. “Why leave a note instead of just saying it?”

Natasha’s eyes flickered. She shifted her weight.

“Because I didn’t know how to say it before.”

You gave a dry laugh. “That’s rich, coming from the most terrifyingly articulate person in the entire agency.”

Nat smirked softly. “I’m not good at... this.”

“And what is this exactly?” Your tone softened, but the wall was still up.

“I don’t know,” Natasha admitted. “But it’s not nothing.��

You looked away, jaw tightening.

“I spent a long time making you coffee. Carrying your gear. Making excuses just to sit next to you. And you barely looked back.”

“I looked,” Natasha said quietly. “More than you know.”

You swallowed. “And still said no.”

“I thought it was the right call.”

“And now?”

Natasha stepped closer.

“Now I’m not so sure.”

Your breath hitched as Natasha stopped just inches from you.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

It wasn’t a plea. It was a truth.

And you felt it — deep in your bones.

Still, she held your ground. “You don’t get to say that just because you’re lonely.”

“I’m not lonely,” Natasha said. “I’m just... tired of lying to myself.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Finally, you looked up at her. “I’m not a second choice, Romanoff. If you’re going to do this, you do it right.”

Natasha nodded once. “Then let me start over.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever—

You didn’t walk away.

. . .

YOUR APARTMENT – FRIDAY EVENING

It had been a long week. You were curled up on the couch in sweats, blanket pulled to your chest, a bowl of reheated pasta in your lap and your cat purring contentedly at your feet.

The last thing you expected was the knock on your door.

You stared at it for a second, reluctant to move. Then sighed, set the bowl down, and went to open it.

Natasha stood on the other side, holding... two plastic takeout containers and a bottle of red wine.

She wasn’t in black tactical gear for once — just a hoodie and jeans, hair in a low braid. Soft. Human.

You blinked. “What—uh—what are you doing here?”

Natasha lifted the containers. “You mentioned once you liked Thai from that place near 8th Street. I thought... maybe we could eat. Talk. Or not talk. Up to you.”

You looked at her for a long moment.

“I already ate.”

“I figured,” Natasha said, lifting a shoulder. “But I brought extra pad see ew just in case. You used to steal mine anyway.”

Still, your mouth twitched.

Against your better judgment, you stepped aside. “Come in.”

. . .

LATER — ON THE COUCH

The TV played quietly in the background — some bad true crime doc neither of them were really watching.

Natasha sat on the floor beside the couch, leaning against it, legs stretched out, her wine glass untouched on the coffee table.

Your cat had, predictably, made its decision — curled up smugly in Natasha’s lap like it had waited months for this reunion.

You looked down from the couch. “You bribed it with treats, didn’t you?”

Natasha didn’t even pretend to deny it. “You said he’s hard to win over. Thought I’d try.”

You shook your head but smiled. Just a little.

Then Natasha turned serious.

“I meant what I said the other day,” she said softly. “About wanting to try. I know it’s going to take more than words, so… this is me showing up. Outside of a mission. Outside of the job. Just... me.”

You swallowed. “Why now?”

Natasha stared at her wine glass.

“Because when you stopped chasing me, I realized how much I missed being seen. Really seen. And I hated how easy I made it for you to walk away.”

Your voice was quiet. “It wasn’t easy.”

Natasha looked up at her, green eyes steady.

“I’m sorry.”

It was soft. Earnest.

Your heart ached, still guarded but not cold.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” she murmured. “I just need to know you want to be here. With me. Not out of guilt or comfort—because you want to be.”

“I do.” Natasha said it without hesitation.

Then she reached up, fingers brushing your hand where it dangled over the edge of the couch.

You didn’t pull away.

The silence between them was warm now. Unfinished. Hopeful.

The cat purred louder.

You smirked faintly. “Traitor.”

Natasha grinned. “He's got good instincts.”

. . .

THE BOOKSTORE DATE – SATURDAY AFTERNOON

You didn’t expect much when Natasha texted:

“Meet me at the corner of 14th and Bloom at 3. Dress casual. No weapons.”

That last part made you laugh. Ironic, because she's one to always carry one with her.

You showed up in jeans and a sweatshirt, hair tied back half up, a healthy dose of curiosity trailing behind you.

What you didn’t expect was... a bookstore.

A small, cozy, independent bookstore with creaky floors, warm lighting, and a coffee bar tucked into the back.

Natasha was already there, leaning against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of her leather jacket.

You raised a brow. “This your idea of a date?”

Natasha gave a small smirk. “You told me once you’d rather spend a weekend in a bookstore than at any five-star restaurant.”

Your face softened. “That was like... a year ago.”

“I remembered,” Natasha said simply.

You both stepped inside, wandered through aisles, brushing fingertips along book spines. Occasionally, you would pick one up, skim the back, and Natasha would peek over your shoulder.

You noticed she didn’t hover. Didn’t try to impress.

She just existed there with you — quietly present.

In the poetry section, you pulled out a slim collection and opened it.

“Favorite?” Natasha asked, peeking.

You nodded. “I used to read this in the safehouse in Prague. It kept me sane.”

Natasha took the book from you, read a few lines silently. Her expression didn’t change much — but she held onto the book as you two kept walking.

“Are you... buying that?”

“I’m buying you that,” Natasha corrected.

“You know you don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Then, you reached the coffee bar. Natasha bought something — hot chocolate for you (“I know you never finish coffee”) and tea for herself.

You both sat near the window.

For a long moment, you just watched people walk by outside, steam curling from their cups.

Your voice was gentle. “Do you want this?”

“I think I want it because it’s you,” Natasha said.

And she meant it.

Not a line. Not a manipulation. Just the truth.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. You reached across the table, fingers brushing Natasha’s hand.

Natasha flipped your hand over, let your palms rest against each other.

With no presure, just a quiet promise.

. . .

YOUR APARTMENT – NIGHT AFTER THE DATE

The sky was velvet-dark when y'all reached your building.

You’d walked the whole way from the bookstore — no rush, no awkward silences, just quiet conversation and easy laughter under streetlights.

At the door, Natasha hesitated.

She wasn’t sure if she should say goodbye or ask to come in.

But you unlocked the door and turned to her.

“You coming?”

Natasha blinked. “You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure.”

It was calm & dim inside. The kind of warm quiet that only lives in places you’ve cried in.

You kicked off your shoes. Natasha followed you inside, slow, uncertain.

You disappeared into the kitchen. “Want a drink?”

Natasha shook her head, then — “Actually... yeah.”

You both stood in the kitchen for a moment, the kettle humming low on the stove.

Natasha leaned against the counter, fingers picking at the hem of her sleeve. “You know,” she said quietly, “I thought you’d hate me.”

You glanced up. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean, for pushing you away. For being so... closed off.”

You set two mugs down on the counter. “I never hated you, Natasha.”

“I hated myself a little,” Natasha admitted, voice cracking slightly.

Walking over, you stopped right in front of her an she continued nonetheless.

“I was scared. Because you made me feel seen, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t think I deserved it.”

You reached up, cupping her cheek gently. “I was never trying to fix you.”

Natasha’s breath caught.

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I came back.”

A beat passed. The kind of silence that hums with something unspoken.

Then you leaned in — slow, hesitant — giving Natasha every chance to pull away.

But she didn’t.

Your lips met softly, barely brushing at first. A question. An answer.

Natasha deepened it with a sigh, hands coming to rest on your waist. It wasn’t desperate or fiery. It was intentional, honest. Finally real.

When you two parted, Natasha pressed her forehead to yours.

“I want this,” she said. “You. Not just today. Not just for now. I want whatever this is — if you still do.”

Your swallowed the lump in your throat, smiling softly. “I’ve been yours since the first time you stole my fries.”

Natasha laughed — a real one, low and surprised.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m finally ready to keep you.”

. . .

S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ — MONDAY MORNING

The hum of fluorescent lights. The clatter of boots on polished floors. Agents moving with purpose.

Same old routine.

But something's different.

You walk in a few minutes later than usual, coffee in hand, hair a little softer around the edges, a little less rigid. You're not rushed or distracted. But instead, you look... at peace.

You round a corner and there’s Natasha, already geared up for the day, leaning against the wall near briefing room B.

“Morning you,” You state, brushing a hand lightly across Natasha’s arm as she passes.

“Hey,” Natasha answers, voice low, but there’s the ghost of a smile.

It lasts only a second.

But in a place like this — full of people trained to notice — it’s more than enough.

. . .

BRIEFING ROOM B

Hill sits at the head of the table, tablet in hand. The agents shuffle in one by one.

Natasha takes her usual seat on the left. You grabs yours beside her.

Maria glances up from her screen.

The way Natasha slightly angles her chair toward you.

The way your shoulders barely touch, yet neither of you shifts.

The way you slide Natasha’s favorite pen across the table without being asked.

Hill raises a brow but says nothing.

Instead, she waits for everyone to settle before speaking. “Mission debrief. Surveillance in Berlin. Romanoff, Y/N — you’re leading.”

A few agents exchange looks. It’s not that they’ve never been paired. It’s just… lately, they hadn’t been. Not since before.

Maria notices the way you and Nat exchange a glance — a subtle, silent nod of understanding that speaks volumes.

. . .

LATER – GYM

You're on the mat, working a bag. Natasha enters, towel slung over her shoulder. She doesn't announce herself — just walks over and taps your side.

“Switch?” she asks.

You steps aside. Watches as Natasha begins her warm-up routine.

There’s an ease between them now. A rhythm. You both move around each other like you’ve been doing this forever.

A few younger agents watch from the far end of the gym. One whispers, “Are they—?”

“No way,” another says. “That’s Romanoff.”

Then you tosses a water bottle to Natasha without looking.

Natasha catches it without blinking, opens it, and hands it back to Y/N — again, without a word.

“…Okay, maybe.”

. . .

HALLWAY, LATER

Maria catches you just before you can disappear into the locker room.

“Y/L/N,” she says, eyebrow arched. “You and Romanoff. I take it things are… better?”

You gives a soft, private smile. “Yeah. We’re… good.”

Hill folds her arms, appraising. “Just make sure that whatever this is, it doesn't interfere with the job.”

You meets her gaze evenly. “It doesn’t. If anything — we work better now.”

Maria gives a small nod, satisfied — though there’s a faint knowing smirk on her lips as she turns and walks away.

. . .

ENDING MOMENT — LOCKER ROOM

Natasha’s waiting for you by the lockers. Leans a shoulder against the metal door, hands in her pockets.

Your walks over, towel around your neck. “You waiting for me?”

Natasha shrugs. “Maybe I missed you.”

You smirk. “You saw me twenty minutes ago.”

Natasha leans in, voice quiet. “I’ll take every twenty minutes I can get.”

You laughs softly “You’re getting soft, Romanoff.”

Natasha grins. “Only for you, love.”

[geneeste]

I really need y’all to understand that while non-white immigrants are absolutely in great danger right now, one’s skin color means absolutely nothing to an administration determined to weaponize the revocation of civil and human rights against those they perceive as enemies.

That’s the danger of things like this - anything that can be weaponized against one group of American citizens can be weaponized against another. The criteria for “citizen” can change, and quickly, when the U.S. Constitution is no longer the source of that criteria.

Telling anyone that they shouldn’t pretend that they could be next isn’t just counterproductive, it’s downright irresponsible and shows a serious lack of understanding of how democracies break down right under the noses of the people living in them: slowly, insidiously, step by step, as each person finds a reason to prove *they* are safe for the moment.

The reality is that, yes, some of us are more safe than others right now, but none of us are completely safe while any of us are under threat of losing our citizenship, and the danger increases exponentially for all of us individually for each person to whom the administration successfully denies civil and humans rights.

Trump is gonna revoke citizenships Jesus fucking christ

[moonstruckme]

sobbed at my work today because a higher up basically shot down all my ideas to shadow another department because my reasons weren’t good enough. wanting to learn is good enough thank u. (i have like 5 pages worth of reasons btw. in mla format…). feeling better now cuz his reputation is shit apparently but if you have time, could you write something like this with maybe sirius or remus? ur choice. pls don’t be pressured to write.

on the other note ur fics always cheer me up so thank you for your service! 🫡

I'm sorry you felt so put out lovely! Hope you're feeling a bit better now, thanks for requesting <3

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 748 words

You can tell Remus knows from the moment you get home. He sits up in his chair and watches you with sad eyes as you take off your shoes. You must be radiating defeat. 

“Hi,” he says gently. “How’d it go?” 

“We’re not doing it.” 

“Any of it?” 

You shake your head, sullen. 

Your boyfriend gives you a pitying look. “Oh, lovely. Come here.” 

You’re determined not to cry while you go. Not at Remus’ sympathetic tone, or the concerned little dent between his eyebrows, or the stapled pages of bullet points you leave sitting uselessly on the floor by your bag. You breathe slow and controlled as Remus folds you into his side and ignore the heat in your sinuses. 

He kisses your cheek, rubbing it gently with his thumb. 

“What?”

“Did you have a cry earlier?” Remus murmurs. At your questioning look, he explains, “There’s a bit of makeup on your cheek.” 

Your eyes fill up quick and hot. So much for not crying. “I thought I got it all off.” Your voice comes out a jagged squeak. You bury your face in Remus’ jumper. 

“Dovey, it’s okay. It’s hardly anything.” His hand covers your nape, thumb stroking the baby hairs at the base of your head. “What happened, hm?” 

“It was so—so embarrassing,” you sniffle. The words jolt out of you in short hiccups. “He made me feel stupid for even asking. He said none of my reasons were good enough.” 

“None of them? Did he read them all?” 

“He barely looked.” 

There’s a pause, then a small bounce underneath you. You wait for your boyfriend to respond, presumably with sympathy or some thought about how you might be more persuasive on your next attempt. It takes you a handful of seconds to register that Remus is laughing. Breathy, poorly suppressed little chuckles that shake his frame beneath you. 

You sit up to look at him, bemused and maybe a little wounded. He pulls you back in with a hand on your head. 

“Sorry. God, I’m sorry.” Remus kisses your head, still snickering. “I’m just trying to picture this man—you said he was in his forties, yeah? So a man nearly twice your age, needing to put down the low-ranking employees at his work just to make himself feel big.” 

You frown at him. “What do you mean?” 

“I just…” Remus’ tongue pokes into his cheek, a sure sign that he’s trying to keep a much larger grin at bay. “He’s so clearly jealous of you.” 

You feel your eyebrows shoot up. You sit up again, and this time Remus lets you, his hand dropping to your hip. “Of me,” you repeat. You tend to consider your boyfriend rather insightful for a man, but you think he may have finally lost it. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” Remus squeezes your side. His look softens. “I just don’t think your boss’ actions really speak to someone who’s secure and happy with himself, or with his life. He’s a rank above you at a job he’s worked far longer than you have. Meanwhile, you’re younger, and tenacious, and you clearly have all these great ideas. It seems to me like he’s threatened by you.” 

“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s quite sad, actually.” 

“Didn’t you say he was a bellend?” 

Your lips twitch. “I said my coworker said he was a bellend.” 

“Mm, even so. I can’t muster up very much sympathy for him.” Remus kisses the corner of your lips that had moved. “He made my girl cry, so.” 

Your amusement shrivels at the memory. “It really was embarrassing,” you say quietly. Remus looks into your eyes, his own warm and sweet as honey. “I mostly cried in the bathroom, but some people saw.” 

Remus wipes the dampness from your lashes with the tip of his finger. His hand coasts down the slope of your neck to your shoulder and back up again, soothing. “Everyone there knows your boss is an arse,” he tells you. “More importantly, they know you’re smart and that you work hard. I’m sure they riddled out what happened, sweetheart.” 

You press your lips together to keep from crying again. Remus tsks. 

“Even if this bloke is threatened by how good you are, you’re still all those things. It’ll pay off.” 

“You don’t have to say that,” you whisper. 

“I don’t,” Remus agrees. “It will, though. Not every boss you have will be as dense as this one, lovely. It’ll pay off eventually.”

[poppyseed-cookie]

People are always on about “which Beast is most likely to be redeemed” and while I DO enjoy this subject of debate I do NOT enjoy that people seem to mean it as “who is the least evil”. That is NOT what determines their chances at redemption. It’s a lot more nuanced than that.

Like you’ll see a lot of people saying Shadow Milk or Eternal Sugar are most likely to be redeemed. And I would agree! BECAUSE THERE ARE COOKIES ACTIVELY REACHING OUT TO HELP THEM. It has nothing to do with their motivations or personalities being More Pure than Mystic Flour or Burning Spice. It’s just that those two don’t have anyone trying to help them. NONE of the Beasts would change without outside influence, SM and ES are just lucky to have someone who wants to help.

Yapping about my thoughts on it now!

I would put Eternal Sugar as most redeemable, since she as I mentioned Has someone who wants to help her, and what puts her above Shadow Milk is that she ACTUALLY seems interested in perhaps accepting this offer! There’s a lot of evidence to suggest that Eternal Sugar would be willing to change for Hollyberry, it will be difficult and there’s still the “I don’t want to accept that I’ve been wrong” thing, but she shows more signs of being willing to TRY accepting a redemption arc than Shadow Milk.

Shadow Milk is STILL next most redeemable simply because he’s lucky to have been paired with Pure Vanilla. He rejected him of course, but I think Pure Vanilla will still have the offer open. I don’t really see any reason for Shadow Milk to want to change, but hey, maybe he will realize that he’s still really freaking lonely or whatever LOL. Point is, he’s up here cuz he got the Compassionate one.

Burning Spice I’ll hesitantly rank next. It would be tough because as he says, the only form of Change he welcomes is Destruction. ALL of the Beasts are very firm in their beliefs which makes redemption tough for ALL of them, and Burning Spice is no different. HOWEVER, I think if you could GENUINELY convince him that there’s a better way to live, he would take it in a heartbeat. The problem really lies in the fact that he’s given up and doesn’t see the point in anything but Destruction. I bet he would love to be able to truly enjoy anything else.

Mystic Flour least redeemable just PROVES that it’s not based on morals for me lol. She wants to save cookiekind so you’d THINK she’d be an easy one, and maybe she would be! This is all my speculation! But like Dark Cacao is probably the LEAST likely to extend a hand and try redeeming a Beast. He literally said “I don’t care about your tragic backstory you’re killing people” which like based tbh but still very much Not Interested In Redeeming Her. I also feel like she is, LIKE ALL BEASTS, very firm in her beliefs. If you could genuinely convince her that there’s a better way to help cookies, then maybe! Even in that regard I put her below Burning Spice because we know that despite her thing being Apathy she is sort of fueled by spite (FAIR TBH). Idk if I truly believed that chances of a successful redemption were based on things like intentions like everyone else seems to, I’d maybe put Mystic Flour at the top, but in my opinion everything else is working against her.

No Silent Salt yet

In truth, I feel it is very much a “all of them get redeemed or none of them get redeemed” thing. I am a firm believer that people who think redemption arcs are stupid ARE BORING. I think the Beasts SHOULD get redeemed but that’s just my opinion haha. The only other option is a tragic death imo. A tragic death would be really cool and thematic but also seems cheap to me. Idk I never understood why ppl don’t like redemption arcs, as long as they aren’t poorly done they’re literally the best way to explore a character’s full potential. But whatevs to each their own. Anyways I could also see just one being redeemed/not redeemed (mostly just one being not redeemed). Tbh feel like it would be Shadow Milk contrary to my list LOL. Just like thematically. Would be really tragic for Pure Vanilla.

[moonlayl]

Huge fan of the way everyone and their mom decided to comment on Netanyahu's threats towards Syria and what Israel's been trying to do in Syria, yet all these same people have nothing to say about Iran and hezbollah backing a sectarianism coup while helping pro assadist thugs target and attack 5 different Syrian hospitals and killing 10 people in a masjid after Maghreb during the month of Ramadan JUST last night. (Total number of martyrs is estimated to be over 60).

Interesting how Israel, which has always been a threat to the entire Middle East, is immediately discussed by everyone as it tries to stir up tensions in Syria to further its goals, but when Iran is on the same page with Israel regarding Syria, and does the exact same thing, only with more success, after it helped commit massacre 1 million Syrians and displace 14 million others, it's crickets.

ما لنا غيرك يا الله

[dameronswife-2]

sometimes i just think about poe and it's like. i can't believe you mean this much to me? literally ahead of tfa i just kept scoffing at the descriptions of him, completely expected to be benevolently annoyed with him or meh at best and didn't understand why everyone went off abt how oscar was attractive (like i could tell objectively, but it's rare that i find someone subjectively attractive on a deep level), and then i just. saw poe for the first time on screen in theaters and that was it. instant attraction, and then a few minutes later realizing that oh, no i'm genuinely in love with this man. instant ride or die, we just clicked. i got him on a deeply intimate level just from those few minutes of screentime he has in the movie, that nothing about him following that ever surprised me? just. yeah that's him this makes sense.

and i remember writing what was absolutely self-insert masquerading as canon where r.ey was his best friend and i genuinely meant for it to be platonic but i kept accidentally writing a little bit something more and i genuinely think looking back on it that i probably had a crush and a squish on poe? and he may have started queerplatonic, leaning on alterous (if i'm understanding the term right). like it wasn't straight platonic because i genuinely had/have such a crush on him but it definitely wasn't straight romantic at the time either (and i still have moments where i'm like. yeah i'm definitely feeling qp feelings for him and not romantic ones). and then sometime in 2017, something I guess shifted and I wrote in an oc into that same fic who had a history with him and they both still had feelings for each other and they kissed at the end of the story but didn't wind up with each other, and then i started reading reader fic for him that same year and was like. oh I actually don't mind the idea of kissing him....i kinda wanna. and i also don't mind the idea of a relationship if it's with him, i even want it?

and like ofc things went sideways from there. i stopped reading fic bc my friend made fun of me for reading it and i felt like i was doing smth "wrong" and then the gaslighting of everyone hating him in t.lj when i didn't also severely impacted my ability to be able to enjoy him properly without trying to fold up my actual opinions to 'fit in' more and feeling anxious and not getting to enjoy it, but he was still such a cornerstone of comfort for me at the time. i even wrote my first reader fic in late 2018 to get some comfort from how awful things were in my personal life and it was of him. and then t.ros happened and the fandom got so toxic along w some friend stuff that my spin in poe almost broke (or so i thought), but like?? i spent the whole next year constantly drawn to things that reminded me of poe....read a book that was compared to the st and him a lot....bought a lot of orange things without thinking about it, developed a crush on a character that's like. basically poe with the serial numbers scratched off. all until i found my way back to him at the end of 2020 🥰 and after that i started embracing reader fic again and my romantic feelings for him and then lmao the physical/sexual attraction came in like a wrecking ball shortly thereafter which was New To Say The Least, but.

eeee i don't know i ended up gushing a lot about him but i just. sometimes i really think about the journey i've had with him, and how much good he's genuinely brought into my life. i get to feel all these emotions i never thought i would!! because of him!!! i get to explore new avenues that i wouldn't be interested in or comfortable in pursuing even mentally bc of him!!! he's helped me work through various triggers for my trauma bc they feel safe with him involved? and most importantly - i wouldn't know any of my lovely friends or partners if it wasn't for him? i stuck around in the fandom bc of poe, and that lead me right to my queerplatonic partners and family. i genuinely would not!! be the same person today if i had not fallen in love with that silly flyboy december 20th 2015!!! and isn't that just love in a nutshell?

[chastiefoul]

he finds you crying ft. love and deepspace men

ft. zayne, xavier, rafayel, and sylus a/n: I always feel like mc wasn’t given enough time to grief when chapter 4 happened (or maybe they just didn’t show it or i remember it wrong) but to lose the people you’ve considered family like that in front of your eyes would severely mess on anyone’s mental well-being. mc stronger than me fr i would've had a breakdown every night. so i tried to write the comfort that was long overdue. <3

Zayne

He found you hunched over at the couch, knees tucked to your chest. your shoulder shook as he heard the sniffles and although he’s physically perfectly fine, he swore it felt like his heart was breaking in two.

He would gently put his key on the table, making his presence known in the subtlest way possible so you didn’t get startled.

You quickly tried to wipe your eyes and sat normally but suddenly in no time you were carried as he made you sit on his lap, bringing your head close to his neck as he held you tight.

Zayne wasn’t one who’s great at offering consoling words, as he also a firm believer of actions speak louder than words. As he rubbed your back gently he only said, “Let it all out, I’m here.”

So you did just that. You’ve said this once to him as a joke, but truly, anywhere by his side was the time you felt the most safe.

The doctor continued to comfort you in silence, hoping with every beat of his heart that his arms and hands that’s so used in saving people’s lives, could offer at least some kind of solace for your heart that was in disarray.

Xavier

He’d never hated the sight of a bed so much, until he found you crying atop of it.

Xavier would rushes over to you (arguably faster when he encountered strayed wanderers), determined to do anything he could to help you feel better.

As he put a hand over your cheek, wiping the tears that just kept on coming he whispered, “I’m here, what do you need?”

When you couldn’t even manage a reply Xavier would just stay by your side, his and was diligent in rubbing the side of your face; he never felt so useless, knowing the little gesture gave almost to none help.

For someone who finds sleep easy inbetween every hours, that was the most restless he’s ever been. He stayed with you until you calmed down, offering gentle whispers as you felt your awake state slipping away.

The moment you’re asleep Xavier was keen on wiping your face softly off of the remaining tears, and he tucked you in properly. He brought you to his embrace.

Yet unlike any other nights, he couldn’t find any part of him that was able to join you into the dream state.

Rafayel

Rafayel knew he came at a bad time. Seeing the way you spoke so stiffly and the way you zoned out of the conversation every few minutes.

However, he also knew he couldn’t leave you alone right then.

The silence once again was loud, but he didn’t think you realize that, as he followed your stare to the table, to what’s on the top of the table to be exact. A necklace with an apple charm on it.

He approached your side, cupping your face with both of his hands. “Miss bodyguard, you don’t have to be strong all the time, you know? Especially now, since you’re off duty.”

You chuckled quietly, but what followed after was not your usual easy smile but instead it was tears streaming down your face. And it felt like Rafayel could offer anything he had just to make them stop. And if that’s not enough, he swore to give you twice or thrice of what he had, it didn’t matter if he was to be in debt.

He held you tight, the sight of you crying was enough to make tears made their way to his eyes as well. And it pained him, knowing the best he could do in that moment was only to hold you tighter, as he wished that he could mend whatever broken part you had with one of his.

Sylus

He didn’t even flinch when you climbed on his lap, your usual talkativeness was nowhere to be found.

You rested your head on his shoulder and within seconds he knew that your emotions were in chaos, and if you thought you could find comfort in him, then he was more than happy to be there for you.

“Let me stay like here for a while,” you said weakly, voice all tense and anxious.

He brought a palm to your back, “By all means, darling. You didn’t think I was going to turn you away, did you?”

You stayed quiet, trying your best to get your emotions in order but it just seemed impossible. Sylus then sigh at your another attempt to pretend once again that you’re okay. “Cry if you need. Tears were never a sign of weakness, it just proves that you’re human.”

His rigid sentence somehow brought a strange sense of comfort for you, making your tears escape freely.

Sylus’ fingers felt fleeting on your back, like a touch that could slip away anytime. But he made sure none of that will happen as he stroke your hair gently over and over.

Was he worried of you? Absolutely. Yet he believed with all of his entire being that you that has fallen apart that day, would have no time standing back up again on the next day.

If there’s anything he learnt about you during your time with him, is that you’re a stranger to giving up.

[jewishvitya]

what made u anti zionist / helped u unlearn zionism

Unlearning is a work in progress, but basically finding out the information I was given wasn't true. I was taught the "a land without a people for a people without a land" - found out Palestinians, you know, lived here, actually. Was taught all the violence we committed was in self defense - found out we destroyed whole villages to take over the land. Was taught our military is very ethical and never violent without necessity - saw what we do to Palestinians even today (and by "today" I mean before the current escalation in Gaza, I have no idea how anyone can ignore this one now). Was taught we "made the desert bloom" - learned some about native and non-native plants, and about the colonialist nature of trying to transform a whole ecosystem to suit us instead of living with the land as it is. From "Israel vs the Palestinian territories" to learning that even the lands taken over in 48... were taken from them. From "this is our land because this is where we come from" to learning that we aren't the only people that originated in this land and we can't just override the claim of the people who lived here for generations.

None of this, like, inherently means you'll let go of zionism. I know zionists who would agree with me about many of these points. But, I suppose, for me it's a broader anti-colonialism and anti-isolationism thing, and... anti-exceptinalism?

Like, I had to unlearn the idea that antisemitism is a unique and singular kind of oppression that no oppressed group can ever relate to or have solidarity with. The idea that we're alone, we'll always be alone, we're destined to be hated and murdered in ongoing and repeated extermination attempts unless we segregate ourselves in our own state with our own military where we can double down on "kill or be killed" over and over. And because we're the only ones who are this completely rejected by the rest of humanity, anything we do to achieve that goal of safety is justified regardless of who we hurt. Or even that our unique state as victims means we can't actually cause harm in the ways that we were hurt.

Antisemitism is unique in the same way that anti-Blackness is unique and ableism is unique, they all have their own elements. That doesn't mean we can't fight together and form coalitions with other marginalized groups. Romani people are another example of how our experiences are both unique and not. They don't face antisemitism, but they were still part of The Final Solution. We're not The Ultimate Victims, we're one group among many.

All of this together, for me, meant going from "we're the only nation not allowed to have our own country, self determination," to understanding that the issue isn't the question of the right to self determination, it's the fact that we decided to exercise it at the expense of other people. Pretty sure Romani people would face the same reactions if they decided to displace another nation for the sake of their own self determination. This isn't a game of musical chairs, we can't just go "your turn in exile, get out" and expect that to be okay.

Some stateless nations live in a specific location under another country, and they can declare independence in that place without causing harm. It's unfortunate that we didn't have that. But Palestinians shouldn't pay the price.

And Jewish people should be safe everywhere, not just in the small patch of land where we're the oppressor.

Final thing is, had to read a bit about what Palestinians think of all of this. Which is complicated, no group is a monolith, and I don't think I'm qualified to break that down. But after unpacking all the "about us" things, I had to look at their goals from liberation, and now I try to do my best to stay informed and support those goals.

[choerypetal]

Love at first sight. / Squid Games!Men

summary; a little prompt for each men in squid game x reader.

also my english isn't my first language so i do apologize for a few errors! enjoys x

including; in-ho, thanos, myung-gi, dae-ho & gi-hun

In-ho: 

Praise yourself for catching In-ho’s attention amidst the chaos of the games. Not only did he manage to maintain his composure, but he also came to terms with the truth—it wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him, but his heart betraying him. He had been ensnared in a dangerous blend of love and death. And no matter the cost, he was determined to ensure your survival, even if it meant faking your death and arranging for the guards to escort you to his shelter.

At first, his actions were subtle—a few fleeting glances, quiet assurances that you weren’t alone. He took it upon himself to ensure someone capable stood between you and danger. This resolve led him to seek out Gi-hun, cornering him with a whispered plea. “I’m not asking for much,” In-ho murmured, his voice low and firm. Gi-hun’s brows knit together as he glanced at you, understanding little of the request but sensing its weight. Though the urge to question why In-ho couldn’t protect you himself lingered, Gi-hun ultimately accepted—he, too, had his own plans to carry out.

Yet, watching Gi-hun hover near you ignited something unexpected in In-ho—a simmering, unanticipated jealousy. His blood boiled harder than he cared to admit.

It was Gi-hun’s proximity to you that set him on edge.

While 001 had extended a friendly hand, In-ho never anticipated him stealing you away entirely. The realization unsettled him, and during the chaos of the Carousel games, panic began to creep in. When he noticed you were nowhere to be found in the room, it nearly consumed him. The thought of losing you made his fists clench, and for a brief, irrational moment, he contemplated throwing a punch at Gi-hun. But it wasn’t until the final elimination, when the doors unlocked, that relief washed over him. There you were—your silhouette unmistakable behind Dae-ho.

In that instant, he didn’t hesitate. Rushing toward you, his breath hitched, words failing him. A shaky exhale escaped his lips, a mix of disbelief and overwhelming relief. He almost laughed—a scoff of incredulity—before pulling you close, his hand instinctively cradling the back of your head. Without a second thought, he leaned in, his lips pressing a firm but tender kiss to your forehead.

“Silly,” he muttered, his voice tight with emotion. “I never should’ve trusted Gi-hun to keep you safe. Damn it, I thought I’d lost you.” The panic in his voice caught you off guard, the weight of his words sinking in. You hadn’t expected such raw vulnerability from him—not now, not like this. A soft chuckle escaped you, an attempt to lighten the moment. “It’s okay,” you reassured him gently. “Dae-ho found me right away and made sure I was safe.”

That revelation gave In-ho pause, but he filed it away for later. For now, none of it mattered. You were alive and unharmed, and that was everything.

The kiss on your forehead wasn’t just a gesture of relief—it was a silent declaration. You were his, and no one—not Gi-hun, not Dae-ho, not anyone—would ever take you from him again.

Thanos: 

Once a retired rapper, Thanos now found himself thrust into a life-and-death struggle. Among his generation, it was no surprise that some idolized him—his presence commanding a respect so intense, it bordered on worship. To them, he was pristine, untouchable. But this adoration didn’t sit well with everyone, especially loners like you, who preferred to navigate the chaos without attachments.

Ironically, that aloofness was one of the many reasons Thanos found himself drawn to you.

In the early days on the island, Thanos made no effort to reveal his interest. If anything, he mirrored your indifference, matching your cold detachment with his own. But when you began spending time with Myung-gi, the dynamic shifted. Thanos hadn’t expected it, nor did he like it. Watching you bond with someone else left a bitter taste in his mouth, awakening a tension he couldn’t ignore. The loner mindset had been his strategy for survival—a simple equation: fewer people, fewer complications. But your presence complicated everything, especially when it came to your effortlessly beautiful face, which he found himself stealing glances at far too often.

It didn’t take long for his resolve to crack.

Thanos had made himself a promise: to keep his distance, to ignore you as you ignored him. But that promise shattered the moment Nam-Gyu let slip a confession Thanos had sworn him to secrecy about. That little fucker, Thanos thought bitterly, though his anger was tempered by necessity—he needed Nam-Gyu to survive. Yet, when the truth reached you, it unraveled him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

Instead of drawing you closer, the revelation pushed you further away. Your avoidance became more deliberate, more pronounced than ever before. It stung more than Thanos cared to admit. For the first time in a long time, he was unprepared—for your reaction, for the way it tightened a knot of frustration and longing deep inside him.

Which only added more tension between the two of you.

The final games loomed, a trial where survival would demand more than just cunning—it called for a kind of ruthless cleansing. Thanos knew, without hesitation, that when the moment came, he’d be the first to grab your hand and shield you. Even if it meant overreacting, even if it jeopardized his own chances, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Certainly not to Myung-gi, if it came down to that.

“You know...” he murmured late that night, his voice low and almost hesitant. Your back was turned to him, your body stiff on the thin mattress. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, couldn’t even steal a glance. Not after everything. The weight of his breath lingered against the back of your neck, and you flinched slightly, betraying your nerves. His presence, so close and unyielding, was suffocating yet magnetic.

“Tomorrow is... big,” he continued, his words faltering as his gaze shifted across the dimly lit dormitory. For a moment, his eyes locked on Player 333, who sat sharpening a weapon in the corner—a stark reminder of the danger waiting ahead. Thanos clenched his jaw, then turned his focus back to you.

“If we’re not careful...” he trailed off, his voice softening, almost breaking. “Who knows if I’ll ever get to see your beautiful face again?”He exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself, as if admitting even that much was a risk. “I know it’s—” 

Your head snapped toward him, your brows furrowing into a glare sharp enough to cut through the tension between you. For a moment, silence hung in the air, charged and heavy. Then, your voice broke it, calm yet biting. “If you keep this up, you might be the one ending up with a bullet in the face,” you said, your tone so nonchalant it bordered on cute—a contrast that left Thanos momentarily stunned. He blinked, almost scoffing in disbelief, one hand pressing dramatically against his chest.

“Ouch,” he drawled, his lips curling into a grin. “I’m hurt, sweetheart.”

Your eyes narrowed into daggers. “Do. Not. Call me sweetheart.”

Before you could say more, Nam-Gyu chimed in from his corner, a mischievous smirk playing on his face. “I bet she’s in love,” he teased, his words practically dripping with mockery.

Thanos’s cocky grin widened at that, his eyes gleaming with a maddening mix of pride and amusement. The sheer arrogance in his expression made your fingers twitch, itching to slap that smug look right off his face. But instead, you gave him one final glare—a death wish in your eyes, though to Thanos, it looked like the beginning of a love story.

“I bet she is,” he echoed, his voice soft but certain, the words carrying a weight of truth that made your chest tighten. He didn’t try to stop you as you turned and walked away, but his gaze lingered, following every step you took. Oh, how you had him wrapped around your finger without even realizing it. A wimp for you, and you alone.

Myung-gi: 

Everyone knew who Player 333 was—you included. Unlike many in this room who were desperate to claw their way out of debt, you knew Myung-gi only by name. You’d heard the rumors: how he’d gotten his girlfriend pregnant, how his past was littered with mistakes and secrets. But something in you—a stubborn spark of hope, perhaps—whispered that he wasn’t as bad as everyone wanted him to be. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than the stories let on.

Myung-gi had noticed you, though. He’d seen the way you were with Jun-hee—the way your smile seemed to ease her fears, how your arms would wrap gently around her petite frame after every game, grounding her, giving her the space to breathe. The quiet strength and warmth you brought to her felt almost unreal, a motherly presence in a place devoid of comfort.

It was that tenderness, that undeniable light, that struck him like a blow to the chest.

Myung-gi was in love.

And he hated every single moment of it.

Why? Because he knew himself. He knew what he’d done to Jun-hee—how he’d left her while she was pregnant with his child, drowning in debt and fear. He’d been a coward, an asshole, and he knew it. That self-loathing festered, a constant reminder of his failures. And yet, it was exactly why he didn’t expect you to see him as anything other than the man he despised.

But fate had other plans.

Your first real interaction with him came after he saved you—something neither of you had anticipated.

It happened during the Bathroom games, where survival left no room for personal grudges. Confronting Thanos wasn’t at the forefront of Myung-gi’s mind, but then he heard it—your name, slipping from Thanos’s lips with such filth that it ignited a rage Myung-gi didn’t know he was capable of.

Everyone knew your past as an escort within the crypto community. Your name wasn’t hard to find, whispered in private conversations and occasionally tied to scandalous wallets. But Myung-gi knew better than to judge. Still, hearing Thanos—the retired rapper—speak of you like that, as though you were nothing more than a commodity, was the last straw.

“She was good for a foreigner. Not many—”

That was as far as Thanos got before Myung-gi’s fist collided with his jaw, cutting him off mid-sentence. The sickening crack of impact echoed through the grimy bathroom, followed by a faint splatter of blood. Myung-gi emerged from the stall alive but seething, his knuckles raw and his breath ragged. As he stepped out, his gaze immediately locked with yours. Jun-hee stood beside you, clinging to your arm for reassurance, but the look on your face was unreadable—a mix of surprise, understanding, and something softer.

A small, almost imperceptible smile crept across Myung-gi’s lips.

In that moment, he made a silent promise: no matter what it took, he’d make sure both of you got out of this alive.

Dae-ho: 

Dae-ho never believed in love at first sight. With everything he’d endured in his life—the trials, the sacrifices, the relentless pursuit of strength—he saw himself as a knight in shining armor, bound by duty but never destined for romance. That belief held firm until he met you.

It happened during the Carousel game. Like In-ho, he’d noticed you before—your stoic demeanor during Green Light, Red Light had left him quietly impressed. The way you moved, swift yet calculated, managing to evade the statue’s unrelenting gaze with precision, was nothing short of remarkable. It was then that something shifted in him. Against all reason, Dae-ho found himself believing in love at first sight.

At first, he thought he was imagining it. He even considered pinching himself, blinking twice to dispel the notion. But the feeling persisted, undeniable and maddening. It wasn’t until later, when you tended to his wounds after one of the brutal games, that he finally saw you up close—and the full weight of your beauty struck him like a blow. Your lashes fluttered delicately as you focused on your task, your fingers gentle but firm as you dabbed rubbing alcohol onto his injuries. He hissed at the sting, his lips parting in a soft groan of pain.

“Be still, please,” you murmured, your tone calm but commanding. Something about the way you said it—the quiet strength in your voice—silenced his protests. He nodded, his muscles relaxing under your care, though the tension in his chest was harder to soothe.

For the first time, Dae-ho felt vulnerable—not because of his wounds, but because of you.

“You know…” His voice was low, almost hesitant, but there was a softness to it that made you pause. You could’ve sworn his lips curved into the faintest smile. “I never would’ve thought I’d see you like this—healing me. Back at the Carousel, I swore to myself I’d keep you close, that we’d find the door as quickly as anyone else. But then… the next thing I knew, Thanos had taken you before I could…”

He trailed off, his words tinged with shame. The vulnerability in his voice made you glance up at him, your fingers stilling as you finished securing the bandage. His eyes widened at your sudden attention, and he immediately began to stammer.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

You interrupted him with a soft sigh, sliding the remaining bandage back into your pocket. “Don’t apologize. We just weren’t lucky, that’s all. I wanted to prove to myself that I could handle it—that I wasn’t just someone who had to count on others.” Your gaze softened as you added, almost reluctantly, “But… I have to admit, not having you there in that room—it was horrible.”

Your quiet confession was enough to undo him. Without a word, Dae-ho wrapped his arms around you, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his wounds. Still, he didn’t let go. His embrace was warm, protective, and when he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead, it felt like a promise.

“Nevertheless,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet reassurance, “I’m just glad we made it through. That you’re here with me.” His lips quirked into a small grin as he added, with a teasing lilt, “And that I get to cuddle with you for another night.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his words, the tension between you easing for a moment. For now, at least, you both had each other.

Gi-hun: 

Unlike the others, you weren’t a player. But you knew Gi-hun from the previous game he was in. He was so certain you had died right in front of his eyes back then that when he saw the mask ripped off your face—revealing you as one of the Guards—his shock was palpable. Another Guard had been taken hostage by the remaining candidates, and though you could have cursed every word that came to mind, you found yourself frozen, your voice stolen by the chaos.

In-ho was the first to recognize you. He knew you were on shift at this hour, but what he hadn’t expected was the look of sheer horror that crossed Gi-hun’s face when your name escaped his lips.

“Y/N...?” Gi-hun’s voice trembled, disbelief heavy in the air as though he was trying to confirm he wasn’t dreaming.

“You know them?” one of the players sneered, their stolen gun now aimed squarely at Gi-hun. Bodies of your co-workers—faces you barely had time to register—lay scattered across the floor, lifeless, just feet away. The metallic tang of blood filled the air.

But this time, Gi-hun wasn’t about to let anyone lay a finger on you. He remembered the vow you both had made:

"We belong to each other. And I will get you home."

With those words etched into his resolve, Gi-hun made his move. Chaos erupted as the gun exchanged hands, bullets flying. The air was filled with deafening roars of defiance and the sickening splatter of blood.

In the end, In-ho stood back, his heart cold and unyielding, as he watched Gi-hun fall. The final shot rang out, and his lifeless body crumpled to the ground. Blood speckled your cheek, and you stared in stunned silence at the empty shell of a man you had once loved.

From the shadows, a familiar voice cut through the carnage, low and mocking.

“Welcome back home, love.”

You turned toward the source, and there he was Gi-hun—his gruesome smile sending chills down your spine.

[gojover]

THE ONE WHO KNOWS.

phainon was no fool. he’d seen the way mydei looks at you, and—being the good, charitable, loyal friend he is—he was determined to help mydei win you over. alternatively, five times phainon tried to ease mydei’s heart, and one time he didn’t have to.

pairing: mydei x fem!reader contains: fluff, 5+1 things, friends to lovers!au, phainon in his matchmaking era—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! word count: 4.6k | art credit: ma_mori74 on x

V. MARMOREAL MARKET.

It had taken Phainon ten minutes to convince Mydei to join him for a walk. Ten minutes that, if Mydei had had his way, he could’ve spent sparring with some of the Okheman soldiers instead. But Aglaea had thought it was a wonderful idea and that the Chrysos Heirs could all do with a bit of a break, and so, Phainon had hauled Mydei by the arm and dragged him out of his chambers.

“No one—not even the prince of Castrum Kremnos—can refuse an order given by Lady Aglaea,” Phainon reasoned. “Don’t look so glum, my friend! We’ll head to the bakery first, and buy a basket full of those golden honeycakes you like so much.”

“I don’t like them that much,” Mydei muttered, his brows furrowed low as they walked through the sun-warmed square, passing beneath a colonnade dusted in peach blossoms. His cape, lined with embroidered laurels, swayed with the rigid force of his stride. He marched even when he was on a break.

Phainon only smiled. “Forgive me, Your Stoicism. I must’ve mistaken the way you inhale three of them in one go for something resembling pleasure.”

He caught the faint twitch of Mydei’s mouth, but didn’t comment. The sun crept higher as they wound through the marble streets of Okhema. Vendors called out in sing-song voices, peddling pomegranates, olive oil, and silk dyed the colour of dusk. The marketplace smelled of fig jam and roasted almonds, with the faint scent of incense wafting from a nearby shrine. Children laughed somewhere behind them, chasing each other in between the columns. 

It was a wonderful day to spend outside—but none of that mattered to the warrior from Aedes Elysiae.

No, Phainon had only one goal today. A mission, as sacred as any undertaken by the Chrysos Heirs: to help Mydei get over himself and talk to the person he so obviously liked.

Despite his scowl, Mydei’s pace slowed when they neared the familiar bend in the road where pale stone gave way to ochre tiles and the air always smelled faintly like cardamom and burnt sugar. Phainon didn’t miss it. He turned his head, grinning in the way of a conspirator up to no good.

“There,” he said, pointing ahead. “The sanctuary of your soul. The oven-borne paradise of your most secret cravings.”

Mydei rolled his eyes but didn’t correct him. His scrutiny had already slipped towards the storefront. Phainon followed his gaze and spotted you through the open arch of the bakery’s awning, standing behind the counter with your sleeves rolled up and and your cheeks dusted in flour.

You were frowning over a tray of pastries, fussing over their arrangement. When a breeze swept through the open market street, a lock of hair fell loose from the knot at your neck, and you pushed it back absently with the back of your wrist.

Phainon had eyes, too. But more importantly, he had sense—and he’d seen the way Mydei looked at you when he thought no one was looking. He looked at you with a stubborn sort of reverence, like someone studying a scripture and attempting to understand the words.

Well. That wouldn’t do.

“Look at that.” Phainon slowed and clapped a hand to Mydei’s back. “The bakery’s survived another day without you looming over it like a stormcloud.”

“We’re here for pastries,” said Mydei.

“You’re here for pastries,” Phainon corrected. “I think I’ll go admire the fruit stand across the square. Alone. Without my imposing, sword-wielding companion towering beside me.”

“Phainon—”

But Phainon was already backing away, hands clasped behind his back, whistling some song that Mydei was sure was some great, romantic ballad. Mydei let out a slow breath. He adjusted the drape of his cape, then approached the stall.

You looked up when his shadow crossed the counter.

“Oh,” you said, straightening. “You’re here.”

His gaze dropped quickly. “Phainon wanted pastries.”

Your smile came a second later, soft and uncertain. “Well, lucky him,” you said. “They’re fresh. I just pulled them out of the oven.”

He nodded. Then, realising you were waiting for him to say something else, cleared his throat and tried again. “They smell good.”

“Thank you.”

There was silence, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Mydei shifted from one foot to the other. He thought about what Phainon would say in this situation. Probably something clever. Something witty. Something that would fluster both you and him if it were to slip past his lips. You reached for a basket and began lining it with a square of waxed linen.

“How many would you like today?” you asked. “Six? Or—”

Mydei hesitated. “Seven.”

“Seven?” you repeated, looking up at him.

“Just…” He nodded again, firm now. “In case Phainon drops one.”

You laughed—a quiet, breathy sound, like you hadn’t meant for it to escape. You looked away quickly, but he caught the way your smile lingered at the corner of your mouth.

“I’ll pack eight,” you said under your breath.

Mydei blinked. “That’s—”

“In case you drop one,” you added, looking up again, a little more confident. “Or in case you decide you like them more than you’re letting on.”

He stared at you for a moment. Then—quietly—he said, “I already do.”

You froze for half a heartbeat, hands stilling over the basket. A faint flush crept into your cheeks. Instead of answering, you focused on arranging the honeycakes, carefully and methodically placing them in neat rows.

Mydei shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn’t know why he said that. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now that he had.

Phainon’s voice saved him.

“Have the Titans blessed this day with the sweet scent of ambrosia and gaucheness?” he declared. He draped himself over the edge of the counter, eyes dancing. “Tell me, Y/N—have you discovered a way to bake silence into your pastries? Because my dear friend here seems to have swallowed his vocabulary.”

You covered your laugh with your hand. “Don’t tease him.”

“Would I ever?” Phainon said, looking as innocent as a fox in a henhouse. “I’m simply here to collect our spoils and drag this poor, tongue-tied soldier off to see the rest of Okhema before sunset.”

You handed him the basket with a faint smile, then turned back to Mydei.

“Come by again,” you said quietly. “If you want.”

“I will,” Mydei said stiffly.

You smiled in farewell as they turned to go. Mydei didn’t look back—but his fingers brushed the edge of the basket where you’d tied the ribbon, and he didn’t let go until Phainon took it from him.

“Well?” Phainon said as they walked. “Anything you’d like to say?”

“...She added extra.”

Phainon’s eyes gleamed. “And you managed to remain calm! Incredible. At this rate, you might even ask her to dinner by the next century.”

“Don’t push it,” the Kremnoan grumbled.

“Oh, I plan to.”

IV. GARDEN OF LIFE.

Phainon hadn’t meant to stumble into the Garden of Life with Mydei again—but when they cut through the southern colonnade, they saw a few members from the Council of Elders crowding the forum steps, arguing over something trivial with Aglaea and Tribbie. It was a situation neither he nor Mydei wanted to deal with, and so, they took the longer route and let the scent of citrus and blooming oleander guide their way.

He didn’t mind. It was a pretty place. Calm, and peaceful, with a few straggler Chimeras who were slacking off work hiding behind the laurels.

What he did mind, however, was the way Mydei froze beside him, his entire frame tensing like a drawn bow.

Phainon followed his gaze, and—ah. Of course.

You were there, kneeling by the pond at the garden’s centre, sleeves rolled up and hands dusted with soil. You were tucking sprigs of rosemary into the earth next to the lilies, lips parted in concentration, a woven basket of herbs placed beside you. The sun caught the edge of your profile, golden and soft, and a smear of green streaked across your forearm.

Phainon blinked.

“Well,” he said, half-grinning, “fate certainly enjoys its comedy.”

Mydei didn’t reply. His jaw clenched once, twice, like he was recalibrating the entire concept of movement.

“I didn’t know she gardened,” said Phainon, crossing his arms over his chest. “How wonderfully poetic of her. Maybe she recites odes to every sprout. Maybe—”

“Deliverer,” Mydei said in warning. “Don’t start.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Phainon said, already walking ahead. “But since we’re both here, and you look like you might sprint in the opposite direction if left unsupervised, I’ll do the civil thing and say hello.”

Mydei grumbled something that sounded like traitor under his breath, but followed.

You looked up when their footsteps approached, blinking once before your expression lifted in slow, pleasant surprise.

“Hello,” you said. “You two again.”

Phainon pressed a hand to his heart. “You sound so thrilled.”

“We saw each other just three days ago,” you said, lips curving upwards. “I didn’t expect company.”

“Neither did we,” Phainon said, nudging Mydei forward a step. “We were merely passing through, but it felt as though Mnestia herself was summoning us.”

You looked at Mydei then—properly—and his shoulders visibly pulled tighter. “You’re not usually in this part of the city,” you said.

“I’m not,” he agreed.

Phainon supplied, “He didn’t know you’d be here.”

“But if he had?” you asked, raising a brow.

Mydei’s mouth opened. Closed.

“He might’ve worn nicer boots,” Phainon answered for him.

You laughed. Just once, but it was enough to make Mydei glance down, as though he was actually checking his boots, then quickly back up like he’d been caught.

“Do you help tend to the garden often?” he asked, surprisingly steadily.

“When I can,” you said. “My uncle oversees some of the Chimeras here. I bring him pastries sometimes.”

Mydei cleared his throat. “You have… dirt on your cheek.”

Your hand flew up and you swiped blindly.

“Other side,” he amended gently.

You blinked, then tried again, slower this time. He nodded. You smiled. “Thanks.”

The pause after was short but warm, filled with birdsong and the murmur of water in the stone channels. Phainon knew there was something—something blooming, something tentative. He rocked back on his heels and made a show of stretching.

“Okay, then,” he said, already backing away, “I think I’ll go find something blasphemous to do near the reflecting pools. You two—talk about dirt. Or gardening. Or destiny. I don’t care.”

“Phainon,” warned Mydei.

“Gone already,” he called, disappearing behind a laurel hedge. He found himself looking down at a pastel pink-coloured Chimera. It blinked up at him with wide eyes. He bent low and patted its head.

He could now hear the murmur of your voices, indistinct but undeniably warm. Your laughter came again, softer now, almost shy, and Mydei—Kephale help him—responded in kind.

It was rare, hearing that from him. So rare that Phainon stood there a moment longer than necessary, not to spy, but to witness. Something tender was taking root. A thread had been pulled taut between you, and it was holding.

He smiled to himself. Victory, he thought, is sweet and golden.

If he listened a little longer—just long enough to hear you say Mydei’s name again, and for Mydei to say yours in return—well. That was no crime.

III. OVERFLOWING BATH, MARMOREAL PALACE.

“Did you know, Mydei,” Phainon began, “that there is an ancient saying in Okhema that says: ‘You can lead a Dromas to water, but you can’t make him drink’? I think it applies to you.”

The bath chamber shimmered with steam, its marble walls veined with gold and silver, reflecting the soft glow of lanterns suspended from the domed ceiling. Water lapped gently against the edges of the vast pool, its surface disturbed only by the occasional ripple from the ornate fountains shaped like sea nymphs.

Phainon lounged in the water, submerged up to his chest, the heat loosening the knots in his shoulders. He tilted his head back, letting the steam envelop him, and then turned to regard Mydei, who sat rigidly on the opposite side, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on some indeterminate point on the far wall.

Mydei frowned. “I’m not a Dromas.”

“True,” Phainon conceded, “but the metaphor still stands. Here you are, in a bath designed for relaxation, yet you sit there as tense as a bowstring.”

“I find these indulgences… unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary? My dear prince, even the most stoic warrior needs respite. Or are you planning to wage war against relaxation itself?”

“I prefer to keep my guard up,” the Kremnoan grumbled.

“In a bathhouse?” Phainon raised an eyebrow. “Unless you suspect the loofahs of treachery, I think you’re safe.”

Mydei did not reply, so Phainon leaned back, letting the water buoy him, and said, “You know, she was asking about you.”

“Who?” Mydei’s gaze snapped to him.

“The pretty baker,” he answered. “You remember. The one with honey on her hands and sunlight in her hair. I visited Marmoreal Market again this morning. She makes exquisite milk pies, did you know?”

“Yes,” Mydei breathed out, and looked away, the tips of his ears reddening. “What did she say?”

“She wondered if the famously stoic prince ever smiles when he’s with others,” Phainon said, watching him closely. “I told her I’d seen it once, but it might’ve been a trick of the light.”

Mydei didn’t speak for a long time. The steam gathered on his eyelashes. His hands, resting on his knees, clenched, then relaxed.

“She shouldn’t ask things like that,” he said at last.

“Why not?”

“It implies something.”

“Yes,” Phainon said, amused. “It implies that she’s curious. About you.”

“That’s the problem,” Mydei replied. “She shouldn’t. I’ve done nothing to invite it.”

“You think attraction waits for an invitation? Mydei, please. You’re not a fortress. You can’t control who looks at you, or why.”

“I am heir to a kingdom where sentiment is seen as weakness,” the prince said. “I was raised to command, not to… to stay in gardens and smile at girls who bake bread.”

Phainon leaned forward, the water sloshing gently as he moved. “Yet, you stayed, and yet, you smiled.”

“It’s dangerous,” Mydei said, looking away. He looked troubled. “I wish I could tell her that. I may be immortal, but I won’t be here all the time, not if—not if fate has its way with me.”

“She isn’t asking for divinity, my friend,” said Phainon gently. “She’s only asking if you smile.”

Mydei’s gaze dropped to the water again. He didn’t answer, but his expression softened—imperceptibly, except to someone who’d known him long enough to notice. 

After a while, Phainon leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Just something to think about, Mydei. No pressure. But if you do decide to bring her a flower sometime, may I suggest anything other than hemlock?”

Mydei scowled again and glared at the white-haired warrior. Phainon reached for a fig from the platter placed behind him and shrugged, eyes dancing with mirth. “Hks,” Mydei muttered, but his posture had eased—shoulders no longer braced like shields, hands no longer tense on his thighs. The prince looked away, but his expression had gone distant in a different sort of manner.

As if, perhaps, he was thinking about someone.

II. KEPHALE PLAZA.

Kephale Plaza was a marvel of architecture, its wide expanse paved with sun-kissed limestone that glowed warmly under the afternoon sun. The plaza was framed by colonnades of ivory marble, each column entwined with flowering vines that added bursts of colour to the pristine white. 

Phainon wished he could say that he’d come here to marvel at the scenery. Unfortunately, Aglaea had received a report about a thief who was on the loose, filching bracelets and coin purses alike. Castorice was busy, and Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon were otherwise occupied. That left Phainon, who, in truth, didn’t mind the assignment.

What he did mind, though, was the way he’d caught sight of you and Mydeimos walking together beneath the arch of blooming bougainvillaea and promptly forgotten what, exactly, he was meant to be watching for.

He loitered near one of the shaded stalls, pretending to inspect a display of carved wooden figurines, though he only caught every third word of the merchant’s well-practiced sales pitch. His attention was fixed on the way Mydei leaned towards you slightly, his usually unreadable expression tinged with something that might’ve been—Kephale help him—softness.

You were speaking quietly, gesturing with one hand as you walked, and Mydei nodded along, occasionally offering clipped replies. Even from a distance, Phainon could see that Mydei wasn’t just listening; he was listening—brows faintly drawn, head tilted in that particular way he reserved for things he wanted to understand but couldn’t quite name.

Phainon narrowed his eyes. This wouldn’t do.

With a slow inhale, he pushed off the marble column and approached. His footsteps were light, but he made no move to hide his arrival.

“Fancy seeing the two of you here,” he announced cheerfully, slipping into step beside you easily.

Mydei faltered, immediately shifting half a step away from you. “Phainon.”

You blinked up at him, surprised but not displeased. “I didn’t know you were on patrol today.”

Phainon shrugged. “Technically, yes. I’m in pursuit of a nefarious criminal. But more importantly, I’m here to rescue you from the silence this one—” he nodded at Mydei— “can’t seem to escape. He’s the definition of a man of few words.”

“We weren’t silent,” Mydei groused.

“No, no—I’m sure it was romantic!” Phainon acquiesced. “If Y/N here is into hulking, brooding men.”

You laughed which was, frankly, unacceptable, because you were supposed to laugh at Mydei’s jokes, not his. Mydei look exasperated, but his cheeks were dusted red, which Phainon considered a personal victory.

“Actually,” you said, smiling at Mydei, “he was telling me about the coastal patrols in Okhema. They’ve been—”

“—more diligent than usual,” Mydei interrupted quickly. “Nothing worth reporting.”

Phainon raised a brow. “Not even to your dear friend who has spent the past hour avoiding elderly vendors who insist I’d make a fine husband for their granddaughters?”

You looked like you were about to say something sympathetic, but he pressed on. “What I am interested in,” he said lightly, “is how long you’ve both been here, because if you saw anything suspicious—like, say, a person darting between stalls with more rings on their fingers than they started with—I could finally do something productive.”

“We just got her not long ago,” you said, shaking your head. “I haven’t seen anything strange.”

Mydei only said, “No.”

“Of course not,” Phainon sighed. “Well, since you’re here anyway, I suppose I’ll deputise the both of you. Consider this your invitation to join me in chasing shadows across the sunniest place in Okhema.”

“Are we being drafted into service?” you asked, smiling.

“Yes,” he said promptly. “It’s terribly official.”

Mydei looked like he might object, but you nudged him gently with your elbow. “Come on,” you murmured, and just like that, the faint stubborn line in his brow faded.

Phainon didn’t miss it.

As you began walking again—now with Phainon very deliberately between the two of you—he leaned closer to Mydei and said under his breath, “You know, if you plan to pine in silence for much longer, I’ll be forced to intervene.”

“I’m not pining,” Mydei muttered.

“Oh?” he said. “So you weren’t giving her a lecture about border patrols as a thinly veiled excuse to spend time with her?”

Mydeimos said nothing, which said everything.

“You’re terrible at this.” Phainon grinned. “Just so you know.”

“Good,” the prince said shortly. “Then you won’t give me advice.”

“On the contrary. I’ll give you too much of it.” He glanced over at you. You had paused ahead to admire a display of ornamental silks. “You don’t want to wait too long, Mydei,” he said quietly. “The world doesn’t always give you second chances.”

With that, he strode ahead, catching up with you and saying loudly, “Now, if I were a thief hiding in plain sight, I’d disguise myself as a merchant selling outrageously overpriced scarves. Shall we investigate?”

You rolled your eyes but let him lead you away with a grin. Behind you, Mydei stood still for a moment, his expression hard beneath the bright sun—then slowly, he moved to follow.

I. HALL OF RESPITE, MARMOREAL PALACE.

The Hall of Respite was aptly named—a haven tucked away in the southern wing of Marmoreal Palace, where golden afternoon light filtered through tall arched windows and dust motes danced lazily in the air like sleepy fireflies. Columns of white stone held up the ceiling, each one wrapped in trailing ivy and blooms enchanted to stay in perpetual spring. A small fountain burbled in the centre. Plush divans and velvet-cushioned lounges lined the walls, draped in silks the colour of champagne and cloud.

Phainon was draped across one such divan, a chilled goblet of pomegranate nectar balanced in one hand, the other idly stroking the embroidery of a nearby cushion. He looked every inch the picture of languid nobility—except that he was not—save for the fact that his gaze was locked on the entrance, waiting. 

When Mydei finally entered, Phainon perked up immediately.

“I was beginning to think you’d taken up permanent residence in the training grounds,” he said by way of greeting.

“I was training,” Mydei replied, as if the comment had any need of clarification. He was still in his tunic, sweat-darkened at the collar, his hair slightly damp. Even his gait carried the stiffness of someone who had just disarmed three men in a row. 

“Of course you were.” Phainon gestured to the chaise opposite him. “Sit down. Hydrate. Pretend, for a moment, that you’re not forged from granite.”

Mydei did not smile, but he complied, lowering himself onto the edge of the chaise.

Phainon said, “I ran into Y/N earlier.”

“Oh?”

“She was near the reflecting pools,” he went on. “Feeding crumbs to that flock of silver-throated sparrows. You know the ones. She was humming, too, a sweet little tune—something old, sounded Kremnoan.”

Mydei’s eyes flickered. “Her mother used to sing to her in Kremnoan. She told me that, once.”

“Did she now?” Phainon blinked, momentarily wrong-footed.

“She said she doesn’t remember the words, only the melody. And how warm her mother’s voice was. Like a hearth fire.”

“She told you that?”

“Yes.”

“She also said that she was thinking of asking me to accompany her to the festival next week,” Phainon said, attempting to recover. “Something about needing a partner for the moonlight procession.”

He glanced sideways, hoping to catch a glimpse of jealousy.

But Mydei only tilted his head, thoughtful. “She would enjoy that.”

“...Would she?”

“Yes,” said Mydei, softly. “She likes the sound of drums, and the lanterns—she called them tiny captive stars. She’d probably spend half the night asking about the legends behind the constellations.”

“You know her very well.”

“She listens when you speak,” the prince said, as though that answered everything. “Not because she’s curious—though she is—but because she values what you have to say. That’s rare, and so I try to do the same for her.”

A breath of silence passed between them. Phainon blinked.

“She also makes that face when she’s trying not to laugh,” Mydei added suddenly, and there was a hint of fondness in his voice. “One side of her mouth curls first.”

“Wow,” said Phainon, trying to disguise the dryness in his throat with a sip of his drink, “aren’t you just the veritable poet.”

Mydei said nothing, but the corners of his mouth lifted in that almost-smile he so rarely offered.

Phainon sat back with a sigh, glaring up at the ceiling. “Remind me never to try and make you jealous again. It’s bad for my pride.”

“You tried to make me jealous?” asked Mydei, sounding genuinely surprised.

The warrior groaned. “Forget it.”

“I do think she’d prefer your company to mine at the festival,” Mydei said, standing to leave. “You could always offer her a poem, too. She might keep it.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I’ve been told,” he said, and with a nod, Mydei strode out of the Hall, leaving Phainon staring at his back, utterly defeated.

The fountain continued to burble. Somewhere in the gardens beyond, a sparrow sang.

O.  PATH OF PARTING.

The Path of Parting curved like a river of stone through the eastern gardens, its flagstones pale and smooth from centuries of reverent steps. It was said that this was where lovers, friends, and comrades once walked when farewells had to be made—with flowers blooming along either side, as if to soften the grief. Today, the air was still and fragrant, golden with sunlight, and the blossoms were at their brightest: starblush vines spilling from trellises, yellow cypress roses nodding in the breeze.

Phainon hadn’t meant to take this route. He’d been wandering—well, brooding, if he were honest with himself—thinking vaguely about nothing and everything.

He rounded a bend and stopped dead.

There, further up the path, you and Mydei walked side-by-side. 

You moved in that unconsciously mirrored way people did when they’d grown too close not to. Your shoulders tilted towards his just slightly. His hand hovered near yours by instinct. Your voice—he could hear it, low and laughing—drew out the kind of smile from Mydei that Phainon had never seen once with the Chrysos Heirs or the sparring ring.

He watched as you leaned in to whisper something. Mydei’s reply was inaudible, but whatever he said made you laugh softly, eyes shining.

Mydei reached up, unthinking, to pull a stray petal from your hair, his fingertips brushing over your temple with the kind of tenderness that could only come from a hundred small moments before this one.

Phainon stood rooted. “Oh,” he said aloud.

He hadn’t meant to say it, but the realisation bloomed sharp and fast, like a candlewick catching light.

Oh.

This wasn’t something that had just begun. It was something that had always been—quiet and steady, like the tide, like the stars shifting across the sky one inch at a time.

Phainon felt something between awe and exasperation fizz inside his chest.

“Gods,” he muttered. “I’m an idiot.”

He’d spent all this time trying to provoke a reaction from Mydei—jealousy, flustered affection, anything—when Mydei had already won the war without even playing the game.

And you? You hadn’t been some wistful maybe, some distant crush. You’d chosen him. You loved him.

Phainon drew a breath, long and slow, and stepped backwards, letting the ivy shadows swallow him. He didn’t interrupt. Not this time. Instead, he turned on his heel, hands shoved into the pockets of his cloak, and started back towards the palace with a huff and a half-laugh.

“Five times I tried,” he murmured to himself. “Five. And not once did it occur to me that they were already—” He waved a hand in the air, at no one. “Of course they were.”

He glanced up at the sky, as though expecting the Titans to be laughing, too.

“I hope he writes you sonnets,” he said aloud, mostly to the wind. “I hope you make him eat too many honeycakes and teach him how to dance.”

Phainon was smiling now, rueful but fond.

“Stars above,” he sighed. “You were never going to pick me, were you?”

He walked on, leaving behind the sweet scent of the flowers and the sun warming his back.

a/n: the names of the various places are actual locations taken from the okhema map, though their descriptions have been changed to fit the story. thank you to @lotusteabag for beta reading and making the gorgeous header for this fic! thank you for reading!

[somnoir]

Our darling mother

Wraith and Specter were mortal enemies with the same powers. Perhaps the same species. But with very different aspects.

The Justice League knew very well that their newest member of the YJ was part of a species that was known to earth as "Ghosts". Denizens of another dimension that essentially posed as the interdimensional afterlife. Where should manifested into something else, born of ectoplasm and such.

Specter had a hybridisation of ghost constitution. Being half human and all. However, unlike most ghosts, her special powers typically made her as fast as speedsters. Her speed, accompanied by her ghostly abilities, made her scarier than most speedsters.

Then there was what was considered to be her arch nemesis.

Wraith was what one called an independent criminal. He wasn't affiliated with anyone. Occasionally worked with some rogues but that was only to his own benefit. Batman and Cyborg had identified his goals (or what they could consider to be his goals). The destruction of an entire government organisation along with something else. Perhaps slaughter.

Specter had been familiar with such a villain.

"He's... Not so bad. Not really. His heart is in the right place but his execution of it is cruel." Specter said, "Some ghosts have been experimented on before and Wraith almost became one of them... None of us ghosts like the G.I.W. but Wraith is determined to slaughter not only them but their associates too."

"Meaning?"

"If you have a connection to the G.I.W. then you won't be spared from his wrath... The last time he tracked down one of their scientists, he killed the man's wife and mother."

Batman grimaced, looking at the glitches out picture of Wraith. He could compare the man to be around Jason's height—or taller. Specter had reported that Wraith was a fair bit older than her.

While Specter was a ghost that was best with speed, Wraith was destructive power. Strength in it's most dangerous form. He was capable of leveling mountains and summoning fireballs bigger than the daily planet sculpture.

The last time they fought Wraith without Specter, Superman and Wonderwoman were immediately shot down. Hell, even Batman was struggling after the bastard decided to play dirty. Batman quickly decided Wraith was an enemy after the ghost targeted Red Robin—as if knowing Bruce would immediately falter when one of his children were in immediate danger.

But there were times when some of them couldn't help but not blame Wraith. Not when they had failed to save ghosts who were being tortured and vivisected. Not when it was Wraith who frees them all.

(Bruce knows damn well that Jason seemed to be more inclined to Wraith than any of them.

"He's protecting his people, old man." Jason had once said.)

It's another crisis. Another fight. Lex Luther has apparently joined hands with the GIW. And broadcasting live was a ghost missing their limbs and trapped inside a tube of glowing green.

Before anyone could even say a word, the watchtower shook. Specter didn't seem surprised but her eyes were colder than the ice she conjured.

"Why the fuck is Wraith outside?" Barry warily muttered, already preparing for a fight once they saw the ghost hovering outside. He wasn't attacking, cursing, or doing anything else. He was just floating, staring at Specter.

"Ellie." Wraith growled, eyes glowing red while Specter's eyes shone venomous green. "You gonna keep playing hero, Polaris?"

Specter growled back, "Let him in."

They all shot her a confused look. Batman should be asking questions. Superman should be refusing. Wonder Woman should be demanding for a reason. But the two ghostly beings were staring at each other like they finally agreed on something.

Constantine slowly lowered the forcefield that kept ghosts out and some ghosts in. Wraith floated through the glass of the watchtower and stood before Specter—towering over her.

"You gonna admit it?"

"I already agreed with you that the GIW were trash—but that doesn't give you the right to arbitrarily take the lives of those that weren't involved in their operations!" Specter yelled.

"So what? We keep them alive then someone's gonna come back to avenge their damned souls. Might as well wipe 'em out before they can come back to bite our asses!" Wraith yelled back.

"Dante! Mom didn't fucking raise you to be like this—"

"OUR MOTHER IS BEING BROADCASTED BY THOSE BASTARDS! OUR MOTHER IS IN THEIR FUCKING CAPTIVITY!" Wraith—Dante snapped, pointing to the screen where Lex Luthor went on about the ghosts. "Our mother has been missing for two months and the GIW had him. It's because of that krypton obsessed fucker that I failed to track him down!"

"IF YOU HAD JUST LISTENED TO ME AND LET ME TALK TO THE LEAGUE—"

"—YOUR LEAGUE IS FUCKING USELESS—"

"—MOM WOULDN'T—

Batman gritted his teeth, "ENOUGH!"

Everyone fell silent, unable to speak any further. It was hard processing all this.

Wraith and Specter were siblings... Their mother was the ghost in captivity. The two of them have been searching for their mother for months.

Constantine choked on whatever drink he had, letting his own flask fall and staring at the screen in suddenly horror. "Shit... SHIT! THAT'S THE FUCKING GHOST KING!" He screeched, pointing at the screen as realization struck him like lightning. Then he pointed at the two Ghosts, "And you're... Holy—"

"Ellie, you and I both know how this will end if mother isn't save within the fucking hour." Wraith snarled, "The realms will go to war."

"Spec?" Conner murmured softly, trying to see if their friend would actually—

But then Specter looked resigned, a little regretful, but also cold. Like she was prepared to fight them all. Slowly, but damn surely, she was walking towards Wraith and standing beside him.

"Specter." Diana narrowed her eyes.

"I'm sorry." Specter bowed her head just a bit, "But my brother is right... If the King of the Infinite Realms is not saved within the hour... There will be war. As your friend, I am inclined to warn you that you will not win. Not when the Realms' warriors were once yours. We have our Kryptonians. We have fallen demigods. We have many more than that."

Everyone's breath hitched.

"So please... Please help us." Specter pursed her lips. "Because I don't want a war... But I want my mother safe."

"My sister speaks for herself," Wraith scoffed, "I don't give a flying fuck about you people. But Luthor did something to block me and now I can't track them. Since you're all heroes, I suggest you get to work... Or else I'll lead the ghosts myself to burn your world down."

Teeth—sharp and eldritch. Glowing red eyes turned to Bart Allen—the boy from the future flinched away, as if horrified.

"You speedsters seem familiar with me." Wraith chuckled, "Know that I will not hesitate to eviscerate this world like the other timelines."

High King Phantom was retrieved from the secret facility Lex Luthor and the GIW created with an anti-ecto forcefield that had them go undetected by other ghosts. Constantine and the Supers were quick to find it and tear it to bits.

Wraith did not go to war. Specter thanked them and promised that there will be no war.

Danny was very concerned as to what the hell his children got up to during the months he was gone. Clockwork happily told him how his children developed fratricidal tendencies.

[lauraannegilman]

Read this. Yes, it’s long. READ IT. More to the point, share this. Particularly with any undecided voters you may know. Talk with them about it.

———-

From Dr. Richardson.

“I stand corrected. I thought this year’s October surprise was the reality that Trump’s mental state had slipped so badly he could not campaign in any coherent way.

It turns out that the 2024 October surprise was the Trump campaign’s fascist rally at Madison Square Garden, a rally so extreme that Republicans running for office have been denouncing it all over social media tonight.

There was never any question that this rally was going to be anything but an attempt to inflame Trump’s base. The plan for a rally at Madison Square Garden itself deliberately evoked its predecessor: a Nazi rally at the old Madison Square Garden on February 20, 1939. About 18,000 people showed up for that “true Americanism” event, held on a stage that featured a huge portrait of George Washington in his Continental Army uniform flanked by swastikas.

Like that earlier event, Trump’s rally was supposed to demonstrate power and inspire his base to violence.

Apparently in anticipation of the rally, Trump on Friday night replaced his signature blue suit and red tie with the black and gold of the neofascist Proud Boys. That extremist group was central to the January 6, 2021, attack on the U.S. Capitol and has been rebuilding to support Trump again in 2024.

On Saturday the Trump campaign released a list of 29 people set to be on the stage at the rally. Notably, the list was all MAGA Republicans, including vice presidential nominee Ohio senator J.D. Vance, House speaker Mike Johnson (LA), Representative Elise Stefanik (NY), Representative Byron Donalds (FL), Trump backer Elon Musk, Trump ally Rudy Giuliani, Robert F. Kennedy Jr., right-wing host Tucker Carlson, Trump sons Don Jr. and Eric, and Eric’s wife, Republican National Committee co-chair Lara Trump.

Libbey Dean of NewsNation noted that none of the seven Republicans running in New York’s competitive House races were on the list. When asked why not, according to Dean, Trump senior advisor Jason Miller said: “The demand, the request for people to speak, is quite extensive.” Asked if the campaign had turned down anyone who asked to speak, Miller said no.

Meanwhile, the decision of the owners of the Los Angeles Times and the Washington Post not to endorse Democratic presidential candidate Vice President Kamala Harris seems to have sparked a backlash. As Will Bunch of the Philadelphia Inquirer noted, “in a strange way the papers did perform a public service: showing American voters what life under a dictator would feel like.”

Early on October 26, the Washington Post itself went after Trump backer billionaire Elon Musk with a major story highlighting the information that Musk, an immigrant from South Africa, had worked illegally when he started his career in the U.S. Musk “did not have the legal right to work” in the U.S. when he started his first successful company. As part of the Trump campaign, Musk has emphasized his opposition to undocumented immigrants.

The New York Times has tended to downplay Trump’s outrageous statements, but on Saturday it ran a round-up of Trump’s threats in the center of the front page, above the fold. It noted that Trump has vowed to expand presidential power, prosecute his political opponents, and crack down on immigration with mass deportations and detention camps. It went on to list his determination to undermine the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), use the U.S. military against Mexican drug cartels “in potential violation of international law,” and use federal troops against U.S. citizens. It added that he plans to “upend trade” with sweeping new tariffs that will raise consumer prices, and to rein in regulatory agencies.

“To help achieve these and other goals,” the paper concluded, “his advisers are vetting lawyers seen as more likely to embrace aggressive legal theories about the scope of his power.”

On Sunday the front page of the New York Times opinion section read, in giant capital letters: “DONALD TRUMP/ SAYS HE WILL PROSECUTE HIS ENEMIES/ ORDER MASS DEPORTATIONS/ USE SOLDIERS AGAINST CITIZENS/ ABANDON ALLIES/ PLAY POLITICS WITH DISASTERS/ BELIEVE HIM.” And then, inside the section, the paper provided the receipts: Trump’s own words outlining his fascist plans. “BELIEVE HIM,” the paper said.

On CNN’s State of the Union this morning, host Jake Tapper refused to permit Trump’s running mate, Ohio senator J.D. Vance, to gaslight viewers. Vance angrily denied that Trump has repeatedly called for using the U.S. military against Americans, but Tapper came with receipts that proved the very things Vance denied.

Trump’s rally at Madison Square Garden began in the early afternoon. The hateful performances of the early participants set the tone for the rally. Early on, comedian Tony Hinchcliffe, who goes by Kill Tony, delivered a steamingly racist set. He said, for example: “There’s literally a floating island of garbage in the middle of the ocean right now. I think it’s called Puerto Rico.” He went on: “And these Latinos, they love making babies too. Just know that. They do. They do. There’s no pulling out. They don’t do that. They come inside. Just like they did to our country.” Hinchcliffe also talked about Black people carving watermelons instead of pumpkins.

The speakers who followed Hinchcliffe called Vice President Kamala Harris “the Antichrist” and “the devil.” They called former secretary of state Hillary Clinton “a sick son of a b*tch,” and they railed against “f*cking illegals.” They insulted Latinos generally, Black Americans, Palestinians and Jews. Trump advisor Stephen Miller’s claim that “America is for Americans and Americans only” directly echoed the statement of Adolf Hitler that "Germany is for Germans and Germans only.”

Trump took the stage about two hours late, prompting people to stream toward the exits before he finished speaking. He hit his usual highlights, notably undermining Vance’s argument from earlier in the day by saying that, indeed, he believes fellow Americans are “the enemy within.”

But Trump perhaps gave away the game with his inflammatory language and with an aside, seemingly aimed at House speaker Johnson. “I think with our little secret we are gonna do really well with the House, right? Our little secret is having a big impact, he and I have a secret, we will tell you what it is when the race is over,” Trump said.

It seems possible—probable, even—that Trump was alluding to putting in play the plan his people tried in 2020. That plan was to create enough chaos over the certification of electoral votes in the states to throw the election into the House of Representatives. There, each state delegation gets a single vote, so if the Republicans have control of more states than the Democrats, Trump could pull out a victory even if he had dramatically lost the popular vote.

Since he has made virtually no effort to win votes in 2024, this seems his likely plan.

But to do that, he needs at least a plausibly close election, or at least to convince his supporters that the election has been stolen from him. Tonight’s rally badly hurt that plan.

As Hinchcliffe was talking about Puerto Rico as a floating island of garbage, Democratic presidential nominee Vice President Kamala Harris was at a Puerto Rican restaurant in Philadelphia talking about her plan to spread her opportunity economy to Puerto Rico. She has called for strengthening Puerto Rico’s energy grid and making it easier to get permits to build there.

After the “floating island of garbage” comment, Puerto Rican superstar musician Bad Bunny, who has more than 45 million followers on Instagram, posted Harris’s plan for Puerto Rico, and his spokesperson said he is endorsing Harris.

Puerto Rican singer and actor Ricky Martin shared a clip from Hinchcliffe’s set with his 16 million followers. His caption read: “This is what they think of us.” Singer and actress Jennifer Lopez, who has 250 million Instagram followers, posted Harris’s plan. Later, singer-songwriter and actress Ariana Grande posted that she had voted for Harris. Grande has 376 million followers on Instagram. Singer Luis Fonsi, who has 16 million followers, also called out the “constant hate.”

The headlines were brutal. “MAGA speakers unleash ugly rhetoric at Trump's MSG rally,” read Axios. Politico wrote: “Trump’s New York homecoming sparks backlash over racist and vulgar remarks.” “Racist Remarks and Insults Mark Trump’s Madison Square Garden Rally,” the New York Times announced. “Speakers at Trump rally make racist comments, hurl insults,” read CNN.

But the biggest sign of the damage the rally did was the frantic backpedaling from Republicans in tight elections, who distanced themselves as fast as they could from the insults against Puerto Ricans, especially. The Trump campaign itself tried to distance itself from the “floating island of garbage” quotation, only to be met with comments pointing out that Hinchcliffe’s set had been vetted and uploaded to the teleprompters.

As the clips spread like wildfire, political writer Charlotte Clymer pointed out that almost 6 million Puerto Ricans live in the states—about a million in Florida, half a million in Pennsylvania, 100,000 in Georgia, 100,000 in Michigan, 100,000 in North Carolina, 45,000 in Arizona, and 40,000 in Nevada—and that over half of them voted in 2020.

In 1939, as about 18,000 American Nazis rallied inside Madison Square Garden, newspapers reported that a crowd of about 100,000 anti-Nazis gathered outside to protest. It took 1,700 police officers, the largest number of officers ever before detailed for a single event, to hold them back from storming the venue.”

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[vanishintoyou]

me as im actively ignoring my exam on sunday, a deadline on monday, a deadline-less project i took like 2 weeks ago, a few applications i should be working on (but dw i got plenty of time 🤓) all while i have to also go to another city on monday (+ some other personal projects that i promised to myself but :'>)

[norristrii]

ALL THE BOYS I LOVED BEFORE.

Your brother Carlos, tired of watching you endure heartbreak after heartbreak, couldn’t bear to see his little sister unhappy anymore. In his determination to cheer you up, he began to wonder if his best friend might just be the perfect match for you.

pairing. Lando Norris x Sainz! fem! reader.

warnings. none.

YOUR LOVE LIFE FELT LIKE A CRUEL JOKE, an endless parade of failed attempts that left you questioning your own worth. It wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the creeping fear that maybe you were the problem, that perhaps you were unlovable. The thought took root deep in your mind, leaving you wondering what you were doing wrong. Was it something about you that scared people away? Or was love simply not meant for you?

But through it all, Carlos never let you wallow in self-doubt for long. As your older brother, he refused to let you believe there was anything wrong with you. “It’s not you,” he’d say, his words firm, almost stubborn. “It’s them. Just a bunch of idiots who don’t deserve you.” His unwavering support was both comforting and amusing, and even though his bluntness often made you laugh, deep down, his words gave you strength.

Still, you couldn’t help but wonder, even as you smiled at Carlos’s efforts to cheer you up. Somewhere out there, was someone made for you? Someone who could love you the way Carlos believed you deserved to be loved? That little spark of hope kept you moving forward, searching for a connection that didn’t feel like a mistake waiting to happen. One day, you told yourself. One day, maybe you’d find them. Until then, at least you had your brother to remind you that the idiots weren’t worth your tears.

And to your surprise, the answer to Carlos’ scheming might have been closer than you ever imagined. Or, at least, that’s what Carlos believed.

Lando. Carlos’s long-time best friend, the guy who was practically a permanent fixture in your life. Sure, he was hot—those sharp features and that effortless charm weren’t exactly easy to ignore. And yeah, he was funny, with that playful banter and endless sarcasm that could make anyone laugh. But to you, he was nothing more than your brother’s best friend. That was the unspoken rule, the line that you’d never even thought about crossing.

But Carlos? Oh, Carlos had a different perspective. In his mind, it all made perfect sense. Lando wasn’t just his best friend; he was loyal, protective, and maybe even a little too cocky for his own good. And you? You needed someone who could keep up with you, someone who could challenge you but also be there for you without fail. To him, it was like a match written in the stars.

Maybe Carlos was onto something, or maybe he was just meddling. Either way, his genius idea had been planted, and once Carlos made up his mind about something, there was no stopping him. Perhaps the line you thought existed between you and Lando wasn’t as solid as you’d imagined. And maybe, just maybe, Carlos’s crazy little plan wasn’t so crazy after all.

It was typical of Carlos—always managing to drag you into something you swore you’d hate. And here you were, standing in the middle of a pristine golf course, the sun beaming down as a gentle breeze ruffled your hair. The idea of spending an afternoon playing golf with Carlos and Lando had seemed laughable at first. Golf? Really? You’d never understood the appeal of chasing after tiny white balls with oversized sticks. But, somehow, Carlos had convinced you it would be fun. Spoiler: it wasn’t.

Carlos, of course, was thriving, clearly enjoying the sight of you struggling with every swing. His laughter carried across the course, his playful taunts adding to your growing frustration. Lando, on the other hand, wasn’t quite as gleeful. Instead, he seemed content to watch from the sidelines, his smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he offered the occasional unhelpful tip.

“Try holding it like this,” he suggested at one point, demonstrating with exaggerated precision. You followed his advice, only for the ball to roll a pathetic two feet ahead. Carlos burst into laughter, practically doubling over, while Lando tried—and failed—to keep a straight face.

You groaned, gripping the golf club tighter as you prepared for another attempt. “This is torture,” you muttered under your breath, glaring at your brother, who was still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

Carlos shrugged, his grin unapologetic. “It’s called bonding,” he replied casually, as if that made the humiliation worthwhile.

Lando stepped closer, his smirk softening into something resembling sympathy. “For what it’s worth, you’re better than I thought you’d be,” he said, clearly lying but trying to sound convincing. The teasing glance he shot Carlos didn’t escape you, though —it was clear he was enjoying this just as much as your brother.

You rolled your eyes, your frustration mingling with reluctant amusement. This wasn’t how you’d imagined your vacation, but somehow, it didn’t feel entirely terrible. As much as you hated golf, the laughter and teasing brought a strange sense of comfort—a reminder that, despite everything, you were surrounded by people who cared about you, even if their definition of bonding involved public embarrassment on a golf course.

Carlos let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Oh my god, Y/n, are you even my sister?” he said, clearly enjoying every second of your frustration. His teasing grin widened as he stepped closer, pretending to assess your stance again. “You suck,” he added, the bluntness of his words making you groan loudly.

You narrowed your eyes at him, fed up with his constant jabs. “Well, if you’re so good, show me!” you shot back, your voice sharp as you grabbed the golf club with both hands and thrust it toward him. The force of your gesture caught him off guard, and he raised his hands in defense, laughing as he took the club from you.

“Alright, alright,” he said, still chuckling as he stepped up to take his position. “Let me show you how it’s done,” his smug tone only fueled your irritation, but part of you was curious to see if he’d actually live up to all the talk.

Lando leaned casually against his own club nearby, watching the exchange with a smirk. “Go on, Carlos, impress us,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. Between Carlos’s endless teasing and Lando’s sly comments, the whole situation was ridiculous.

Carlos stood there, his posture full of exaggerated confidence as he stretched out dramatically. “You need to be focused,” he announced, his tone dripping with self-importance as if he were some kind of golf guru. You rolled your eyes, already anticipating some kind of mishap, but you let him have his moment.

With a practiced stance, he lined up his shot, taking his sweet time as if the world was waiting for his golfing masterpiece. The swing was smooth, the ball connecting with the club perfectly—and for a brief second, you thought maybe, he’d nailed it. The ball soared gracefully through the air, catching the light like a beacon of hope.

And then… straight into the woods.

Your laughter exploded before you could stop it, a sharp and genuine reaction to the sheer absurdity of what had just happened. “Wow, Carlos,” you said, your tone dripping with amusement as you struggled to catch your breath. “That was… that was impressive. Are you trying to start a career in forestry?”

Carlos groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he squinted toward the trees. “It’s the wind,” he muttered in defense, but the slight blush creeping up his cheeks betrayed his embarrassment. Meanwhile, Lando nearly doubled over laughing, leaning on his golf club for support.

“You know what?” you said, flashing a sly smile as an idea struck you. This was the perfect opportunity to escape the humiliation of the golf course—at least for a little while. “I think I’m gonna get it,” you added with feigned determination, already planning your retreat. Sure, you probably had at least ten more golf balls, but that wasn’t the point. You needed an out, and this was your ticket.

Carlos didn’t even look up from the app he was fiddling with, muttering something distractedly about “good luck” as he waved you off. But Lando, standing just a few feet away, wasn’t about to let you slip away unnoticed. His smirk widened as he leaned slightly toward you, his golf club resting lightly against his shoulder. “Maybe I should go with you,” he said smoothly, his tone playful yet deliberate. “What if you get lost?”

"Yeah, right," you replied with a playful smirk, sarcasm dripping from your tone. "I need my prince to save me." The joke was meant to be lighthearted, just another quip to match the teasing vibe of the day. But even as the words left your lips, you found yourself quietly savoring this moment. Somehow, it made the whole golf catastrophe feel a little more bearable. At least Carlos was getting a kick out of it, his exasperated laughter echoing faintly in the background.

Lando, however, wasn’t about to let your words go unanswered. His grin widened, confidence oozing from his every movement as he shifted closer, his presence magnetic and hard to ignore. “Exactly,” he shot back, his voice smooth and deliberate, carrying just the right amount of playful arrogance. “Every beautiful princess deserves her handsome prince.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long, sinking into your mind before you could brush them off. Beautiful princess? Handsome prince? Did he really just say that? And the way his smirk tugged at the corner of his lips—so self-assured, so annoyingly charming—made your heart skip, even if you refused to admit it.

Your brain worked quickly to dismiss the thought. No. No, no, no. This was Lando, your brother’s best friend—the guy who had practically been a second annoying sibling at times. And yet... damn it. The worst part wasn’t the comment. It wasn’t even his confident delivery. No, the worst part was that he wasn’t wrong. He really was handsome, in that infuriating, effortless way that made it hard to look away.

Fighting the warmth creeping into your cheeks, you forced yourself to roll your eyes, putting on your best mask of indifference. “Keep dreaming, Prince Charming,” you retorted, your voice firm but laced with humor, determined not to let him see the way his words affected you.

Lando’s smirk only widened, his amusement evident as he leaned casually on his golf club. He didn’t need to say anything else—he’d already gotten the reaction he wanted. And as much as you hated to admit it, you couldn’t entirely suppress the small, involuntary smile tugging at the corner of your lips. Annoying as he was, Lando always knew exactly how to push your buttons. The problem was, you were starting to wonder if you didn’t mind quite as much as you used to.

You and Lando moved quietly toward the tree line, the hum of the golf cart fading behind you where Carlos sat engrossed in whatever had captured his attention on his phone. The air between you and Lando was heavy with unspoken words, the kind of silence that stretched on just a bit too long. You wanted to say something, to break the quiet and fill the space with anything other than the sound of your own footsteps. But the words just wouldn’t come.

Thankfully, Lando beat you to it. “How are you enjoying vacation?” he asked, his voice cutting through the quiet as the two of you stepped beneath the canopy of trees.

His tone was casual, but there was a curious edge to it, as though he genuinely cared about your answer. You glanced at him, his expression soft and relaxed, the playful smirk from earlier now replaced with something a little more sincere. The sunlight filtering through the branches danced across his features, and for a moment, you forgot the irritation golf had caused earlier.

“I mean, other than humiliating myself on a golf course?” you replied with a faint smile, the lightness in your tone matching his. “It’s been... not bad.” You hesitated, then added, “Surprisingly decent, actually.” The admission surprised even you, but it wasn’t a lie. Lando’s teasing had made the day a lot more tolerable than you’d expected.

He chuckled softly at your response, his eyes flicking over to meet yours. “See? It’s not all bad,” he said, a hint of that trademark charm slipping back into his voice. “Maybe Carlos wasn’t entirely wrong dragging us out here after all.”

You shrugged, brushing a stray branch out of your way. “Maybe,” you admitted quietly, though your mind lingered on how much of your enjoyment had less to do with Carlos and more to do with the person standing beside you.

The forest seemed quieter now, the sounds of your footsteps mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves overhead. The playful banter from earlier had given way to a more comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need filling. You focused on the path ahead, brushing aside stray branches, until Lando’s voice broke the quiet.

“I know this might sound a bit weird,” he started, his tone unusually tentative. You glanced over at him, surprised to see his expression softer, almost shy. He looked ahead as he spoke, his grip tightening slightly on the golf club he still carried. “But... are you, uh, talking to someone?”

His question caught you off guard. Lando wasn’t exactly the type to beat around the bush, so this hesitation was... unexpected. And endearing. You blinked, processing his words as your mind raced. Was he actually asking? Did he care if you had someone? The thought stirred something in you, though you quickly pushed it aside, opting for humor instead of overthinking.

“Maximally with you now,” you replied lightly, a wry smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Your tone carried a hint of amusement, but there was no denying the truth behind your words. Your love life was, well, nonexistent. It was a fact you’d come to accept—laughing at it was easier than lingering on the ache it sometimes brought.

Lando turned his gaze towards you, his lips curving into a small, thoughtful smile. There was something in his eyes you couldn’t quite place, a flicker of emotion that almost made your heart skip. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was something more.

The question escaped your lips before you had a chance to second-guess it. “And you?” you asked, your tone steady but laced with curiosity. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, trying not to make the moment feel heavier than it already did. Sure, it was casual—just a question. But deep down, you couldn’t deny that you genuinely wanted to know.

Lando hesitated for a fraction of a second, his grip tightening slightly on his golf club. His smirk faltered briefly, replaced by an expression that was harder to read. Was that shyness? Vulnerability? You couldn’t tell, and it only made you more intrigued.

“Me?” he echoed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he glanced sideways at you. He cleared his throat lightly, and for once, his usual confidence seemed tinged with uncertainty. “No, not really,” he admitted, his voice softer than usual.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his echo of your earlier words, the sound light and genuine. There was something comforting in his answer, something that made the corners of your mouth lift without effort. The way he looked at you now—calm, unguarded—felt different. More genuine. And it left you wondering, for the first time, if there was more to him than the teasing grin and the clever remarks.

For reasons you couldn’t entirely explain, this felt easier—lighter—than anything you’d ever experienced before. All the boys you’d loved before had left a trail of complicated emotions, fractured hopes, and moments you’d rather forget. Each had been so differently flawed, so carelessly capable of turning something that once felt beautiful into something that left scars. Those experiences had planted seeds of doubt in your mind, making you question whether love could ever truly feel natural. But walking alongside Lando now, sharing easy laughter and playful banter among the quiet trees, it didn’t feel forced or complicated. It felt... right. Like it was meant to unfold this way, no pretense or pressure, just the simplicity of two people enjoying the moment.

“Maybe we should—” Lando began, his voice soft and uncharacteristically hesitant. It wasn’t the teasing tone you’d grown used to; this felt different, more careful, as if he was trying to choose the perfect words. You glanced toward him, curious, but before he could finish, something caught your eye.

“I have it!” you shouted suddenly, your attention snagged by the small, bright ball nestled among the leaves. You hurried forward, triumphant, as though finding it somehow made up for your earlier lackluster golfing attempts. Your excitement carried you into the moment, oblivious to the way Lando faltered mid-sentence.

He blinked, startled, before letting out a soft chuckle at your interruption. There was something warm in his laughter, a fondness you hadn’t quite noticed before. Turning back to face him, you realized what had just happened. “Uh, sorry,” you said quickly, embarrassment tinging your voice as you brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “What did you say?”

Lando hesitated for a beat, as though weighing whether or not to repeat himself. Then, his gaze met yours, steady and unflinching. “I said maybe we should go out sometime,” he repeated, his voice quieter now, as if he were letting the words settle between you.

The air shifted subtly in that moment. His question hung there, simple but impossible to ignore. For a second, you could only look at him, the sincerity in his expression catching you off guard. This wasn’t banter or teasing—it was honest, unfiltered. And in the quiet pause that followed, you realized just how much weight those few words carried.

“Yeah, we definitely should,” you said, your lips curving into an easy smile. The words came out naturally, without hesitation, as though they’d been waiting there, just beneath the surface, ready to be spoken. The warmth in your voice matched the way you felt—surprised, maybe even a little nervous, but undeniably intrigued.

Lando’s expression softened at your response, his usual cocky grin replaced by something gentler, something more sincere. He seemed almost surprised himself, as if he hadn’t quite expected you to agree so easily. For a moment, the two of you stood there in the woods, the trees around you swaying gently in the breeze, creating a little cocoon of quiet away from the rest of the world.

“Well,” he said after a beat, his voice light but carrying an unmistakable trace of relief. “I’m looking forward, then.” His smirk reappeared, though it was softer now, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he added, “Just promise me one thing—you won’t make me take you golfing.”

© norristrii 2025

[bbokicidal]

skz + cucking

You read the title. Synopsis: Based off of a request asking who SKZ would most want to be cucked by and why.

Genre: Smut Pairing: OT8 x Afab!Reader Warnings: 18+ (MDNI) Notes: None ~

Chan: Minho. Honestly, I think he would be totally fine being cucked by any of the boys; But if it were up to him, and the one that would rile him up the most, is Minho. He's just a little bit younger, and he's the 'uptight, stoic, older brother but somehow mom' of the group - And Chan just thinks Minho deserves a little break and to be able to relax for a while instead of looking out for the Youngers of the group. So, naturally, Chan tells you to ride Minho until he's pink in the ears and near to tears.

Minho: Jeongin. Guy gets off on seeing you with the youngest. He partially likes watching you two get it on because he likes seeing the way Jeongin fumbles with you and is a little surprised that you're so bratty and pushing his patience to see what riles him up and gets him rough. Jeongin expected you to be more submissive, given he figured Minho was the more dominant person in the relationship. Little did he know; This was just what happened when you had two tops who bit at each other and pushed the limits. Jeongin just had to figure out how to handle you.

Changbin: Seungmin. He loves seeing you with Seungmin; Either using his favorite younger to get yourself off, or letting the vocalist take out some of his frustrations on you. Seungmin didn't have a partner of his own so he always came to Changbin if he was needing to blow off some steam, asking if he could borrow you for the night - And Changbin always agreed on the condition that he could be in the room. Seungmin never minded, he actually kind of liked having his favorite Hyung watching. Even if it felt a little dirty using his sweetheart like this...

Hyunjin: Chan. Chan, all the way - but not for the reasons you may be thinking. Hyunjin wants you with Chan and Chan only because he trusts the eldest with everything he has. He trusts Chan to take care of you the way you deserve, to be as romantic as him and to be careful with you when something happens that might be a little more rough. He wants you in good hands and he trusts Chan to be delicate with you. (I'm sure you were hoping I'd say you get devoured and fucked hard the by Red Lights duo and you do, but only when they both need to let off some steam. Otherwise it's usually more romantic and soft.)

Jisung: Hyunjin. Jisung is antsy when it comes to sex; He's touchy, fumbling, rushing ahead of himself and always trying to get the most he can out of the time he has with you - so Hyunjin being with you is perfect because he is the complete opposite. Hyunjin's a romantic and is setting the room up with candles and rose petals, taking you by the hand and kissing you so sweetly while Jisung sits helpless in the corner. Jisung loves watching it all, sitting out and just observing, but because he's so antsy you do have to tie his hands to the armrests of the chair so he can't get up and try to join.

Felix: Changbin. Felix is NOT going to pass up the chance to see you with his favorite Hyung. He isn't super huge on being sucked in general but if it's Changbin, he'll let anything slide. And seeing Changbin being able to manhandle you so easily (not that Felix can't, he just can't toss you and lift you all that easily because of his back) makes Felix determined to work out more often. His favorite part to see is when Changbin literally folds you in half to fuck you easier. He's always learning new positions and techniques from his Hyung. <3

Seungmin: Jisung. Seungmin doesn't trust many of the guys with you because some of them can be so rough in the bedroom and he knows that because he swears he's heard all of them fucking at least once through the years of living together and swapping roommates. He likes listening sometimes, but watching one of his group members with you is so much more exhilarating. And of course he's picking Jisung to ask if he wants to join because he knows the answer will be yes and because he trusts Jisung to not rip you in half in bed. He also finds it a bit amusing how quickly Jisung moves with you, grabbing at your body to try and feel over every inch before his time with you is up.

Jeongin: Felix. His favorite Hyung is always welcome to join the two of you in the bedroom, but Jeongin knows well that he himself isn't interested in a threesome. Not with another guy, at least. So when Felix asks to join in some nights, Jeongin is always happy to say yes and invite him over to the apartment; And Jeongin is never upset about not being able to have sex with you because he's just as happy watching his favorite member taking care of you. Though he always ends up being a bit surprised by how feral Felix can get when it comes to you.

Permanent Taglist :

@dwaekkicidal @possum-playground

@thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie

@jeonginsleftcheek @pixie-felix

[sugurizz]

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐬, 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐬, 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐬 ✧ Feat. JJK MEN

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ── Jjk Men in their -real- Daddy era. (Am I secretly having a baby fever LMAOO)

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 ── fluffy stuff, pure wholesomeness and affectionate dads.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢

It's safe to say that sometimes you're raising two babies - only one of them is a big buff pouty one.

Daddy Toji sneaks to the kitchen in the middle of the night, leaving you both sleeping in your shared bedroom and then slowly closes the door. He promised himself he'd only take one *unnoticeable* spoon of your newborn's baby formula but ends up stuffing his face with the forbidden powder in the heat of the moment. He tries his best to hide his tracks by shoving the tin somewhere far in the cupboard.

He *oddly* always makes sure to be the one preparing his baby's bottle the next day - 'Oh darling, don'tcha move a muscle...I'll be right back with our baby's breakfast!'

You smile and raise a brow, already suspecting something. Daddy Toji is not much of a morning person. much less when it comes to baby chores...

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

Gojo is always there whenever you change your baby's diaper. He keeps laughing and giggling like a 6 year old, curiously learning from his baby momma how to take care of his little child. His sky blue eyes are staring at your skilled hands, handling your precious little one with infinte care. He keeps smiling in awe, chuckling every time your baby farts and making the funniest faces just to make them giggle.

He takes a million pictures of his baby every day; we're talking his whole camera roll is just his baby's face, cutesy hands, tiny feet, smiling, eating, sleeping on daddy's chest, drooling on his shoulder...the list never ends.

His baby looks so smol when he holds it in his huge hands. He has to bend all the way down just so he could pick them up cause obviously my dude is the tallest man ever.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐍𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢

He'd take full care of your newborn just to see you rest and relax. He told you to teach him everything he needs to know so that he'd be perfectly fit for his new -and best ever- occupation; your baby father. He's got however only one pet peeve; getting his little one to burp after feeding them.

The reason? He was doing it once, holding the baby while gently patting its back...until he suddenly felt a warm liquid slithering down his shirt - the expensive one you dearly gifted him on your wedding anniversary- and to his surprise it was none other than his little one's vomit dripping down his shoulder...

Now he makes sure you hold a napkin behind him whenever he does it.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨

He's by far the chillest Daddy EVER. Carries his little one whenever he goes. Gets super jealous when your baby starts calling for you, or wants you to hold them instead of him. He's determined to make them say 'daddy' first, but deep down knows it'd melt his heart when he sees the little version of him utter mommy's name for the first time.

Staying awake at night putting his baby to sleep just so you can get your full nightly rest is something he'd never miss out on. He hates seeing you tired or sleepy and puts both of your needs before anything else.

Daddy Geto is always calm and smiley, no matter how much mess his baby makes or how long it'd take for him to clean it up - sometimes makes you seriously wonder how he manages to be so damn chill all the time.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚

For a husband twice your size with four arms and eyes he sure should take most care of your little offspring - He does tbf - His baby is always laying somewhere on his body or at least near him; sleeping against his chest, nibbling on his thumb, drooling on the side of his shoulder or sitting on his huge lap.

He's got a 6th sense whenever it comes to his baby being hungry, thirsty, sleepy or needing anything at all. Instantly knows the reason why his little one is crying and most of the time is very quick to make them happy again.

Absolutely hates poopie smell and calls them a brat whenever he senses their diaper getting heavier. 'Aggh you little runt!' You can't help laughing at him getting overwhelmed with such a tiny thing and start teasing him over it.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐘𝐮𝐮𝐭𝐚

There's nothing that Yuuta loves more than children. He has always wanted to have kids and couldn't wait to create his very first and own one with you. He's in LOVE with seeing you taking care of them; almost admiring every move and every word you say. He smiles like an idiot whenever he sees you holding your baby, breastfeeding them, playing with them or even laying next to them.

His favorite game is to hide somewhere in the house and let his little one look for him. He does it so suddenly and quickly, leaving them puzzled with big round eyes - comes out of his hideaway when they start sobbing and laughs at their little red nose and pouty cheeks.

'Aww why is my little cupcake cryiiing?...Daddy's right here!'