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em1i2a3 · 3 days ago

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Something Human

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: Bob loves to watch you cook because he is practically incapable of making something edible–apart from baked goods. One evening you ask if he wants to help, and he reluctantly takes you up on that offer.

Warnings: No warnings, just a really small domestic fluff blurb (reader and bob aren’t in a relationship)

Author’s Note: After writing a crap ton of smut this week (and with more coming today and this weekend with RAF and my other stuff lol), I thought I’d take a little break with something cute. Maybe I’ll make it a series (Domestic Fluff Fridays! HA!) Anyways, thank you for reading as usual <3 In addition to that this one’s quite short because tomorrow’s post is super heavy and long (ha that’s what she said), and I just wanted some lightness to cut the rest of my stuff lol.

Word Count: 3,019

The garlic hit the pan first–minced fine, nearly beaten to a paste, added just as the oil began to simmer. It bloomed on contact, sizzling loud and bright, sending up an instant wave of scent: sharp and golden, the kind that made your eyes sting just slightly even before the heat reached them. The olive oil danced around the edges of the pan, spitting softly as the garlic turned fragrant and gold. You tilted the skillet just enough to coat everything evenly before adding the onion.

The thin half-moons were sliced with deliberate precision as you scattered them into the pan like fallen petals. The sound shifted to a deeper hiss, a slower sizzle as the moisture met heat. Their clean, vegetal bite softened within seconds, releasing something sweeter, something rounder. You didn’t stir right away. You just let them catch a little, the edges flirting with caramelization, until the first signs of browning peeked through the translucent layers.

The air grew heavier, denser with steam. Brown butter clung thick to the base of the pan now, dark and nutty, layering beneath the garlic and onion. You added the rosemary with a firm crush between your fingers–needles bruised, oils released–and the scent deepened, earthy and pine-sharp. Then came the tomato paste, a deep red dollop scraped onto the hot metal with the back of your spoon. It seared instantly, sticking for a heartbeat before surrendering, caramelizing into a darker, more complex version of itself.

Your hands moved on muscle memory alone.

The cutting board in front of you was already a mess of progress: stems stripped clean of their leaves, curls of lemon zest pale and waxy in the warm light, and scattered flecks of red chili clinging stubbornly to the heel of your knife. You worked through it all methodically–thunk, scrape, thunk–the rhythm steady and grounding. Your elbows stayed tucked in close to your ribs, blade gliding clean, your foot tapping gently on the tile in time with your slicing.

Every movement was its own kind of meditation. A ritual to smooth the static that lingered after hours of training and debriefs. The ache in your shoulder from being knocked into the mat still throbbed faintly beneath your collarbone, but the pain was distant now, blurred by steam and scent and focus. Here, in this space, your thoughts slowed. Here, you weren’t a weapon or a soldier–you were just someone cooking dinner.

You reached for a wooden spoon without looking, stirring the tomato paste through the softened onions and garlic, watching as the colour deepened into a rich amber-red now. The edges hissed as they caught again on the bottom of the pan, and you deglazed it with a splash of broth–just enough to lift in a single savoury cloud.

Then you heard it.

The soft scrape of metal legs against tile–hesitant, careful, and all too familiar.

You smirked, not turning at the sound, “There’s my audience of one.” There was a pause, then the slow creak of him settling onto the stool behind you, “You’re late,” You added glancing at the clock on the stove with mock sternness.

Bob let out a quiet, breathy laugh, almost sheepish, “Go–Got caught up with laundry.” You looked over your shoulder then, and there he was.

Perched in his usual spot on the other side of the kitchen island, hair damp and tied up from a recent shower, his hoodie wrinkled like it had been pulled on too quickly and was left unfixed. His sleeves were bunched at the elbows, exposing his pale forearms, as he rested them on the countertop as he leaned forward, posture relaxed but his expression was anything but that. His eyes were already locked on your hands, trailing every motion–how you stirred, how you scraped down the sides of the pan, how you worked with a kind of quiet authority that never demanded attention, but always held it.

He did this every night…Or almost every night. Sometimes you’d just be toasting bread, layering together a lazy sandwich, and you’d still catch the shuffle of his footsteps, the gentle weight of his gaze. There was something about the way you handled food–no matter how simple–that seemed to draw him in like gravity. And by now, you knew it wasn’t just hunger that fueled him to watch you, he just wanted to be around you.

Bob wasn’t watching to critique or assess. He wasn’t weighing your worth or noting your reflexes. He was just there, quietly absorbing every motion, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of something that made him feel a little more human.

You didn’t mind performing when the audience was just him.

He’d become your taste tester almost by accident, but now you couldn’t imagine cooking without handing him the spoon first. He had a good palate–gentle, observant. He always paused before answering, always really thought about the flavours. And you trusted him. Not just his taste buds, but the soft, earnest weight of his opinion.

Tonight was no different.

You felt his eyes tracking the arc of your spoon as you stirred the pan again, coaxing the sauce into silk with a slow, practiced motion. He was quiet for a long moment, hands clasped on the countertop like he didn’t want to interrupt the rhythm, even with a breath.

Then, finally:

“Wh–What’re you making?” He asked softly, like he was afraid to break the spell.

You glanced over your shoulder again, catching the faint curve of a hopeful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His brows were still knit slightly, as if concentrating on not fidgeting too much in your presence. You noticed a slight cut just below his lip–probably from shaving but you didn’t question.

”Just some pasta sauce for right now, prepping it for when everyone starts coming back from their briefings.” You returned your gaze to the pan, letting the sauce bubble low and slow beneath your spoon. It was smoothing out now, deepening in flavor with each gentle stir. Behind you, Bob shifted a little in his seat.

“It sm–smells really good,” He complimented, voice softer than the steam. You smirked faintly, turning the spoon once more.

“Well, thank you…” There was a pause. Then, without missing a beat, “Can you grab some heavy cream from the fridge for me?” You heard the soft thud of him standing–no hesitation. The familiar patter of socked feet over tile, then the subtle suction-pop of the fridge opening. You didn’t turn around, just kept stirring until the bubbling evened into a low, warm hum.

“Here you go,” He said, and you felt the chilled carton brush lightly against your hand. You took it out of his quickly, giving him a nod.

“Thank you.” You offered him the spoon. “Hold this for me?”

He blinked down at it, then nodded with a quiet, “Yeah–ye–yeah, of course.” His fingers curled carefully around the handle, knuckles brushing yours. Now that he was close, the scent of his hoodie hit you–fresh and clean and strong with lavender detergent, the kind of smell that stuck to warm fabric straight from the dryer. It made your chest tighten just a little.

He held the spoon upright like he was guarding the pan, eyes focused on you as you poured the heavy cream in a slow stream over the bubbling rue of tomato paste and fixins. The transformation was instant–the deep red turned a creamy orange, blooming in soft swirls like marble as it thickened. You gently took the spoon back from his hand, fingertips grazing his knuckles again.

Thinking that he was dismissed he turned to go back to his designated spot, before your voice intervened on his actions.

”Want to help?” He stopped mid-step, shoulders tensing slightly.

”Oh…Oh n-no, I’ll end up ruining it.” You rolled your eyes as you adjusted the heat, setting the sauce to a gentle simmer.

“You think Michelin star chefs never made mistakes while they were learning how to cook?” He cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up onto his cheeks.

”Well, ye-yeah, of course they did…But I’ll end up ruining what ev-everyone else is supposed to eat.” You let out a small laugh.

”I’ll take the fall if you ruin it. I’m not gonna throw you under the bus, Bob.” That made him pause. You saw it in his eyes, the way they slightly softened at your tone–at the reassurance, like he wasn’t used to hearing that someone had his back when it came to the small things.

“Now…” You said, pointing your spoon at him, “Go grab the red cutting board and take the chicken breast out of the fridge.” His lashes fluttered, startled by the sudden promotion of responsibility.

“Yo–You’re gonna put me in charge of handling chicken when I could literally kill someone by accident because I gave them sa–salmonella if I do it wrong?” You tilted your head slowly, fighting the grin that threatened to appear on your lips.

“Bob,” You started, voice low with affectionate amusement, “I’m gonna be guiding you. Please refrain from overthinking.” He bit the inside of his cheek gently, then slowly he gave you the tiniest nod.

”Alright…” He went for the red cutting board first, gently pulling it out from where it leaned upright near the sink and setting it on the island, his lips pressed into a thin determined line. Then, he made his way to the fridge, opened it, and bent slightly–peering in with intent before pulling out the package of chicken breast still sealed in its plastic from the grocery run earlier in the day.

You watched him from your place at the stove, resting one hip against the counter, spoon in hand. The sauce behind you gave a lazy blurp as it simmered low and thick. The scent filled the kitchen now—cream and rosemary and tomato and garlic all melting into one indulgent cloud that curled through the open space like incense.

He returned, standing beside the cutting board, holding the package in both hands like he wasn’t entirely convinced it wouldn’t attack him.

“Alright,” you said, pushing off the counter and walking over, “First, we’re gonna open that up, and pat the chicken dry with a paper towel.” He nodded quickly, already grabbing the roll from beside the sink placing it next to him so it was at the ready. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him peel back the plastic, which made a little slimy noise.

“Gross.” He muttered under his breath.

“It’s just a noise, it’s not like it was the actual chicken.” You commented. As he blotted the chicken dry, you handed him a sharp knife, resting your hand gently on his wrist for a second.

”Don’t over think,” You said again, “Just follow my lead.” You showed him how to trim off the excess fat, where to hold the blade. You stayed close, your hand occasionally ghosting over his to steady his grip or adjust his angle–but to also have an excuse to touch him in general. His knuckles were tense, shoulders hunched slightly with the weight of focus. Every now and then, you’d glance back at the sauce and give it a stir, and when you returned, he’d still be there, right where you left him–pressing through the task with quiet determination.

It was nice, watching him like this.

Helping him.

For once, you weren’t the one being watched–you were the watcher, guiding instead of performing. There was something quietly intimate about it. The soft concentration on his face. The wrinkle between his brows. The way he bit the inside of his lip whenever he wasn’t sure what came next. You tried to make small talk, asking about his training, the book you saw in his room last week

But his answers were minimal. Not unfriendly–just…Brief. Distracted. So you decided to let the silence take over for a bit, just watching as he methodically trimmed the fat off with the focus only he could have for something that could be seen as simple to others.

“Good,” You murmured, leaning in to check his work, “That’s perfect. See? You’re doing fine.”

He didn’t answer, but his ears went pink. His focus stayed locked on the cutting board like one wrong move might reset the entire process.

You turned back to stir the sauce again, watching it thicken into something glossy and rich. The scent swelled even deeper now that the cream had steeped fully into the herbs. When you turned back, Bob was brushing the last of the trimmed fat into the waste bowl you’d placed beside him.

He turned toward you slightly, still holding the knife.

“What’s next?”

You gave him a small smile. “Slicing it. Wanna do that too?”

He hesitated just for a second before nodding. “Sure…Ye–Yeah, that would be okay.”

You picked up the chicken breast and demonstrated how thick the slices should be–steady, even pressure, angled slightly for better sear coverage. Then you passed the knife back, brushing his fingers again, before heading to the sink to wash your hands. He shifted to mimic your stance without needing to be told.

As you dried your hands, you leaned your hip against the counter, watching him resume. “How come you know how to bake but you never touched the art of cooking?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. His throat bobbed. He adjusted his grip and began cutting, shoulders rolling up with a small shrug.

“M–My mo–mother used to have a lot of recipe books in our house…” His voice was quiet, unsure, but he didn’t stop slicing. “She wasn’t a baker or anything, but… sometimes I wo–would read them. I just found that the in–instructions were easier. Less… guesswork.”

You hummed, folding your arms loosely over your chest. It wasn’t much, but it was more than he usually offered. He never talked about his family–not in a way that gave you anything solid. There were scattered mentions, the odd comment about his dad’s truck, his mom’s sweet tooth, but never anything that grounded them in the room with him.

“Because it’s straightforward, right?” You asked gently. “The measurements are right there, and if you follow them, it’s supposed to work.”

Bob let out a little laugh–barely more than a breath, but genuine.

“Yo–You know me very well, Y/N.”

You both chuckled softly. His tone wasn’t bashful so much as…Grateful. Like being known by you was something he didn’t expect to feel good but did. Deeply.

He finished the last slice and reached for the next chicken breast without prompting, his movements more fluid now.

“What about you?” he asked after a beat, glancing over. “How’d you get so good at cooking?”

You smirked, reaching behind you to stir the sauce with your wooden spoon. “Living in a house full of tactical assassins kind of forces you to be a good cook, so… I had no choice.”

He raised a brow, blade paused mid-air. “You’re talking about yo–your past team, right?”

You turned your head, a sly glint in your eye. “No, I’m talking about this team of burnouts.”

That got another quiet laugh out of him, this time with a small shake of his head. “You guys are definitely way better than them. Least you appreciate my cooking.”

You snorted as you swirled the spoon through the sauce. “They di–didn’t?” he asked, voice softer now, just a little tentative.

You shrugged, not meeting his eyes right away. “Everyone was always on the go. I was too, of course, but…They didn’t really have time to sit and appreciate it. We were all on different paths, so bonding wasn’t really put on the highest pedestal.”

Bob was quiet for a moment. You glanced over and saw that his hands had stilled, knife resting flat on the board. He was watching you now–not with pity, not with discomfort, just…With that same steady attention he always gave when he tasted something new and tried to memorize what made it special.

You didn’t mind the silence. If anything, it felt earned.

He returned to slicing, a little more focused than before.

You knew he liked learning about you–liked gathering all the little breadcrumbs you dropped, whether they were intentional or not. You were more open than most on the team, but even so, Bob never pushed. He always waited. Always listened. Like there were lines you’d drawn in invisible ink and he was afraid to smudge them by asking too much.

But you didn’t mind when he asked. You liked when he did.

“You’re doing good, by the way,” You said after a moment, voice lower, meant just for him.

His hands stilled again, and when he glanced up at you, his eyes were soft. “Thanks,” He said. “That…Means a lot coming from you.”

You smiled, warm and easy, then bumped his shoulder gently with your own.

“Now finish slicing those and we’ll get the skillet hot,” You teased. “Time to see if you can master the flip.”

“Oh no,” He muttered under his breath, but you caught the twitch of a grin at the edge of his mouth.

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neeeooon · 1 day ago

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two-way mirror ;

blue lock itoshi rin x fem!reader, series

genre/cw

-> 16+ smau/writing hybrid (chs w writing indicated w a 🥁), shut me up spin-off (recommended to read it first but you don’t have to), rock band au, college au, aged up characters, strangers to business partners(?) to lovers, slow burn, real people are used in the photos, shipping, dark humor + kys jokes, violence/hate comments, mentions of drinking (ab)use, mentions of sex, smu’s y/n is called ichika to avoid confusion, credits to 🦊 anon! more will be added as the story progresses…

description

-> you transferred last minute to blue lock university in hopes of making their arts program… with a two day deadline. desperate and out of ideas, you stumble into a bar the night before your assignment is due and find yourself drawn to the band performing: bastard city. a struggling artist with a knack for photography, you take THE photo of itoshi rin mid performance that has his popularity skyrocketing, and find yourself in a whirlwind of fame, deals, and perhaps even a sprinkle of romance…

playlist

-> two-way mirror, loathe -> head in a ceiling fan, title fight -> hysteria, muse -> black hole sun, soundgarden -> about a girl, nirvana -> karma police, radiohead -> all i think about now, pixies -> pretty girls make graves, the smiths -> it almost worked, tv girl -> when the sun hits, slowdive -> when you sleep, my bloody valentine -> sober to death, car seat headrest -> covet, basement -> forget her, jeff buckley -> me and the birds, duster -> undressed, sombr

status

-> ongoing! updates every 1-7 days unless stated otherwise

-> extras! polls | asks

profiles (1) profiles (2)

0 | y/n’s big break

1 | why are you hot?! ( 🥁 )

2 | new fans newer employees

3 | brother dearest

4 |

taglist

-> @90s-belladonna @angelin4ssss @stal1n33 @ravenbc @s4turnx1 @heartsforfeitan @pumpkinpiegobbler @xoxojisu @vinzcoke @tenjikusstuff4 @n0tbelle @lylisimps @silverwings920 @saekisserfr @kuromixheartzzz @angelhqlo1111 @viaelax @rainychi2 @kai-zawa @wxwoobe @kaz-0e @ichcocat @saeglazer @ieathairs @kuronarnze @kyaanii @ilovealligators11 @cyberasterrr @akis-crazy-world @opheliuzz @jellychee @dontmindtheevie @ranzess @tired-child00 @introspectiveintroverthere @soph1sticatedly @kyeeeeeeeweeeeeeewi @cutonmyhrt @scoosh4you @ilovewonyo @mivqko @levihanmyotp @mihyas-dieehefrau @sapph1r3x @sst-4rl1ghttt @evilenchantresss @berrytyunnie @xynazylei @nor3ne @hanselate

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wearerats · 3 days ago

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So I've been reading some svsss fics recently,

One that I've been focusing on is called Butterfly Dreaming by Tiffindale, and omg

This is like my most favoritest thing ever, the author doesn't belittle our brains and they let SJ be the bitchiest bitch there is, honestly I have a type of character I like to read... this is it, I love pissy little cats who are hissing and scratching at the walls of the cardboard box they've been left in.

The trio of this fic has to be the funniest group of personalities I've read about ever, I'll do this often, go back to a fic i enjoyed reading and try to get that feeling back,

Reading these fools try and navigate the world of pidw in their second try is so entertaining, wait I don't think I've actually explained it... SJ and ogSQH regress with the help of our absent mother "The System". She doesn't actually do anything until our boys try to get out of doing the laundry or dishes (progressing the story) and even then it's just to scold them (punishment for trying to ex: kill protag/not fulfill their character roles)

The main ship in the fic is LiuJiu

And imma be honest I'm incredibly here for their slow burn romance.

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oh-hopeless-heart · 2 days ago

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ITS SLOW PROGRESS BUT STILL PROGRESS

#twisted wonderland #twst oc #twst #twst yuu #disney twst #oc x canon #deuce spade #deuceyuu #deuceyui

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communistkirby · 14 hours ago

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6/22

$150.46/1140

progress is slow, but we have made it closer to our goal. please keep sharing! we have 8 days left until we're out of time.

6/15

$0/1140

hey folks. our rent went up this month, so we'll be needing more help from now until i can secure a job. please share this post around so we can stay off the streets this month!

as usual, DO NOT TAG THIS POST WITH ANYTHING, thank you. Any amount helps!

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certaimromance · 1 day ago

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✶⋆.˚ It’s Astronomy; a series.

Spencer Reid x Mystical!reader

Playlist (updates with the chapters) ♡♬₊˚.

Spencer Reid is used to no one listening to him, that his presence usually goes unnoticed until he is needed. However, despite all the contradictions, everything changes for him when you become his partner.

main masterlist

Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. located in season 1 (very out of canon, with many changes). mentions of drugs, serial killers, murder and injuries. suggestive themes. frenemies to lovers. angst. hurt/comfort. lack of communication. slow burn.

Status: In progress.

Chapters: you must read these in order to understand.

Keys: (🌌 = angst ) ( 🖤 = fluff ) ( 🌒 = hurt / comfort )

✦ i. variable star ⸺ a star whose brightness changes (you) over the course of days, weeks, months, or years (1,4k) 🖤? : When your unusual practices get out of control in a dangerous case, your boss thinks he has a fantastic idea to keep you in check.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @withloverosse

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #matthew gray gubler #🌌🖤: it’s astronomy

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itsnotyouithink · 1 day ago

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AFRAID

PAIRING: tara carpenter x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Tara Carpenter never asked to be assigned to the school’s most frustrating student-athlete: cocky, charming, and somehow worse at Film 101 than she is at shutting up. But a tutoring session full of eye-rolls, slow smiles, and suspiciously flirty jabs leaves them both more affected than they’re willing to admit. And when someone asks Tara what it’s like tutoring “the hottest girl on campus,” the answer might be written all over her face.

WARNINGS: ghostface mention, daddy issues.

| part one | part two | part three |

WORD COUNT: 3.0k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: nottt proofread

————————————

You were five minutes late and Tara Carpenter was already annoyed about it.

She sat in the far corner of the library, where the tables were cracked from overuse and the overhead light flickered every six seconds. Her laptop was open, angled perfectly, a black gel pen tucked behind her ear like a warning. Her hoodie sleeves were shoved up to her elbows, and her leg was bouncing beneath the table—nervously or irritably, you couldn't tell.

You dropped your duffle bag onto the floor with a familiar thud, slid into the chair across from her, and offered your usual weaponized smile.

"Miss me?"

Tara didn't even look up. Just clicked her pen once—loud, intentional. "You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago."

"You said three o'clock."

"I said two-thirty.”

You blinked. Grinned. Shrugged. "Tomato, tomahto."

That earned you the briefest glance—eyes flicking up, sharp and unimpressed, before returning to the stack of worksheets in front of her. She shoved one toward you, "Same scene. La La Land. Color symbolism. Try using more than three brain cells this time."

You leaned in, elbows on the table, the sleeves of your hoodie scrunched up past your forearms, still warm from practice. Your last name and your game-day number: 4, was on the back. A faint sheen of sweat clung to your skin, but you smelled like lemon body spray and stubbornness.

Your eyes flicked to the still: Mia in that yellow dress, mid-spin under a purple sky, streetlights glowing like low-hanging stars.

"You ever get tired of this movie?" you asked.

"No."

"You ever get tired of me?"

"Constantly."

"Liar."

She didn't answer. But the corner of her mouth twitched—barely. You caught it anyway and tilted your head, tapping the image with your finger. "Okay. Yellow. She's hopeful."

"Go on."

"But it's nervous hope. Like she's wearing it too brightly, trying not to spill it."

Tara looked up again. Slowly. Her gaze lingered a second longer this time, "And the purple?"

"Makes it feel fake. Dreamy. Like they're borrowing a world that isn't theirs." She blinked. You could see her fighting the urge to be impressed. She clicked her pen again, once, twice.

"Not terrible," she said eventually.

"Did you just compliment me?"

"No."

"You totally did. Should I tell the press?"

"If you do, I'm telling them about your 'sunset means mystery' theory from last week."

You groaned and slouched back in your chair, knees knocking hers under the table. She stiffened for half a second but didn't move. You noticed. You always noticed—sadly.

She wore sneakers today—her usual, scuffed at the toe—and black jeans that were fraying at the seams near the knees. Her fingers kept brushing the edge of her laptop touchpad, like she was trying to look busy. But her eyes kept flicking to yours. You tried to ignore the scar on the back of her hand: how did she get that?

"Do you always wear black?" you asked.

"Do you always ask irrelevant questions?"

"I just think you'd look good in yellow."

A pause. Her foot tapped against yours under the table.

Once.

Then again.

"If I wear yellow, will you actually pass this class?"

"If you wear yellow, I'll be too distracted to focus."

"Gross." She gagged, but she was smiling. Sort of. The kind of smile she pretended wasn't a smile. You sat up straighter, "You like me a little."

"I tolerate you."

"That's progress. Last week I thought you were planning out my murder." You rested your chin in your hand, watching her scribble something in the margin of your worksheet. Her handwriting was small, neat, and way too aggressive for a simple note. Her knuckles brushed yours when she handed it back. Neither of you moved away and she ignored your comment; she was planning your murder.

"Why are you always looking at me like that?" she asked suddenly.

You blinked. "Like what?"

"Like I'm.. I don't know, interesting."

You tilted your head, "Maybe you are."

She stared at you. No eye roll. No comeback. Just that look again. Half-curious. Half-defensive. And maybe—just maybe—a little bit soft.

You tapped your pen against the table and changed the subject before it got weird.

"So," you say, tilting your head like you're not about to ruin her day, "what's your favorite movie?"

It's casual, almost lazy, the way you say it. Like you're just trying to fill the space. But you're leaning forward now, arms crossed on the edge of the table, your hoodie sleeves pushed up past your elbows, eyes tracing her like you're trying to memorize her answer before she even gives it.

Tara stiffens. Not noticeably to someone else, but you've spent enough hours across from her—bickering, teasing, trying to make her smile—to notice the way her pen stops mid-circle. The way her breath catches ever so slightly.

"That's kind of a loaded question," she says, not looking at you. She adjusts the cuff of her hoodie, tugging at the edge like it suddenly doesn't fit right. The fabric covered the scar on her hand. Her shoulders inch up slightly, and for a second, you think she might not answer at all.

"What, like it's embarrassing?" you tease. "Is it Twilight? Just say it. This is a safe space."

"No," she says quickly. Too quickly. There's a tightness in her voice now. A weird, careful control she doesn't usually bother faking with you. She's looking at the table, at the edge of her notebook, at anywhere but your face.

"I just..." She shrugs. "Don't really have one."

You blink.

Pause.

Let it settle.

You snicker as if she's joking around with you, "You're literally tutoring me in film."

She lifts one shoulder, eyes locked on a pen she isn't using. "So?"

"So you definitely have a favorite." You chuckle but it's tense, like you asked the wrong question at the wrong time.

"I used to."

There it is. Something sharp and quiet slips between the words—just enough to make your chest go still. Tara presses the tip of her finger into the spiral of her notebook like she needs the grounding. Her nail is chipped. There's a faint red indentation around her wrist where a hair tie used to be.

You watch her. Careful.

You don't push, but your voice softens automatically. "You don't have to tell me," you say. "I wasn't trying to—"

"It's fine," she interrupts, like if she says it fast enough, it'll make it true.

But she still won't look at you.

And for once, you stop smiling.

"I was just trying to get to know you."

That catches her. She lifts her gaze slowly—eyes darker than usual, like a storm pulling in over still water.

"Why?”

Your knee brushes hers under the table. You don't even notice this time. "Because I want to," you say, like it's obvious. Like it hasn't been building since the first tutoring session when she rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might fall out of her head. You had always been the type of person to want to see every place on Earth, try every hobby or activity, and meet everyone you could ever interact with. This included your somewhat stoic, emotionally-closed off tutor — Tara Carpenter.

That quiets her.

For a moment, she just stares. And her whole face changes—like she's trying not to let it change. Her mouth opens. Then shuts again. Her hand tightens around the pen she's not using, knuckles pale, like holding something keeps her from falling apart.

"So, what is your favorite movie?" you say, biting gently on the end of your pen with a light-hearted laugh. Chuckle? Giggle? It wouldn't even qualify as a laugh more-so a breath of air.

Tara hesitates. You see it—how her eyes go a little guarded, how she tugs at the cuff of her hoodie again like she needs something to fidget with. Why is she panicking over a movie selection?

Then she lifts her chin, like she's daring you to make fun of her. "The Babadook."

You blink, "Wait, really?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"No. No problem. I just..." You grin slowly. "Didn't take you for a gay grief monster allegory kind of girl."

She stares flatly. "I literally study horror for fun."

"True. But The Babadook?" You nudge her boot with yours under the table. "Bit on the nose, isn't it?"

"It's thematically rich," she fires back. "Also, it's camp."

"So what I'm hearing is: you see yourself in the Babadook."

"I see myself in the mother," she snaps, then immediately pauses. "Okay, wait, don't make that weird."

"Already did. Sorry. It's permanent now." You grin, happy that you could lighten the atmosphere between you two.

Tara groans and drops her forehead into her hand. Her hair falls forward in a curtain and she mutters something into her palm that sounds suspiciously like "I hate you."

You lean closer, "If it helps, I'd let the Babadook haunt me if it meant spending more time with you."

She groans louder.

"Stop talking."

"Make me."

That earns you a flick of her pen to your forehead. Not hard. Just enough to make your heart stutter like a dumb middle schooler.

For a second, it's quiet.

And kind of warm.

She's still leaning on her hand, looking at you with that tired, half-annoyed, half-not expression she always has around you. You're still grinning, like you don't know how to do anything else when she's sitting across from you.

"You should probably go," she says finally, glancing at the time. "Don't you have practice again?"

"Yeah." You don't move.

She notices. But doesn't say anything.

You reach down, shove your duffle over your shoulder, and stand up slowly. "Same time tomorrow?" you ask.

Tara shrugs, playing with the edge of her notebook. "Unless you finally drop out."

"Tempting. But then I wouldn't get to see your pretty face three times a week."

She raises her eyebrows.

"Did you just call me pretty?"

You back away toward the exit, walking backwards, "Don't worry, I'll deny it later."

She doesn't smile.

But she does look down. And when you glance back one more time before rounding the corner, her hand is resting where your boot tapped hers under the table.

She doesn't move it for a while.

——————

Mindy cornered you before you could swipe into your dorm, your ID — complete with that hideous freshman-year photo — already halfway to the scanner. She slid in like a glitch in the matrix, knocking the card from your hand.

"Uhm, excuse you?"

"I need a favor," she said, like she wasn't already on thin ice from the last one.

The last time Mindy asked for a favor, you almost got suspended for vandalism — something about a carton of eggs and a tenured professor with a vendetta. But Mindy made chaos look fun. She was the rare person who didn't treat you like a walking headline or a stats sheet.

Your days were regimented like military drills: practice, press, game tape, lift, brand deal, repeat. You had nearly a million Instagram followers dissecting your highlight reels, but they didn't see the way your knees screamed by midnight. Or how the only place you felt even remotely like yourself anymore was on the court — and even that was starting to crack. The burnout was loud, but your ambition was louder. And somewhere deep down, the little-kid part of you still loved basketball like it was a painting you were trying to finish, obsessing over every stroke, every angle. You weren't just a player — you were a craftsman. You played like it meant something. Like it was personal.

Mindy got you out of that headspace, even if it meant dumb decisions and third-wheeling her dates with Anika. (Anika was a saint, by the way. The only person on campus who ever told you to rest without sounding like a trainer.)

"Absolutely not," you muttered, nudging Mindy aside to reach for your card. Her foot landed on it like she was stepping on a landmine. You stared up at her. "Mindy. Move."

"No." Her voice was stern. "I need a favor."

You sighed. "Is it illegal?"

"Egging is, like, diet crime."

"It was your professor."

"We wore masks."

"I almost got benched."

"Details," she waved off. "Anyway. I need you to come to my film festival next month."

You stood upright, suspicious. "Okay... but why me?"

"To support your talented friend," she tried with a winning smile.

You crossed your arms. "Mindy."

She exhaled like she'd just been caught sneaking cookies. "Fine. People like you. If I say you're gonna be there, more people will show up. I don't want it to tank. I've been working so hard."

Your expression softened despite yourself. "You know I'm not actually famous, right?"

"Tell that to your blue check," she grinned.

You rolled your eyes. "Fine. I'll go."

She whooped and did a half-assed happy dance in the hallway before lunging in for a dramatic hug. Just as you reached for your door again, she spun back around. "Wait—one more thing."

"You are allergic to goodbyes."

"I didn't know you and Tara were, like, a thing."

You snorted. "We're not. She's just tutoring me for Film 101."

"She's color-coding that ridiculous textbook for you, FYI."

You blinked. "She is?"

Mindy nodded. "You sure it's just tutoring?"

"I don't even think we're friends. She kinda hates me. She never laughs at my jokes. Or... anything."

"Classic Tara." Mindy shrugged. "She's sweet once you get past the barbed wire and emotionally repressed vibes."

"She called me a 'cinematic liability' last week," you muttered.

"And yet she's still helping you pass. Even if it is a paid gig."

You didn't say anything for a second. Just let yourself think of Tara — those sharp eyes, the bite in her voice, the way she never smiled but still always showed up, like clockwork. You weren't used to people sticking around without asking for something in return. Especially not people like her.

You finally said, "I just want her to be happy, you know? Even if she's a little... emotionally allergic."

Mindy raised an eyebrow. "You like her."

You scoffed. "I don't even like myself half the time."

"Bullshit." She kissed your cheek with a loud mwah. "You're just scared because she's not part of your world."

"She's too smart for me," you admitted with a shrug. "And she hates basketball. She said she would rather go through AP Calculus again than go to one of the games."

"She tolerates basketball," Mindy said. "But she might not hate you."

You opened your door finally, backpack slung low, exhaustion dripping from your shoulders. "I'll come to your festival. Send me the details."

"You're the best." Mindy saluted you like she was in a war film and skipped away.

You stood there a moment longer, hand still on the doorknob. Your body ached — a thousand micro-tears in muscle that kept you upright, moving, powerful. People loved you for your game, but didn't realize it came at a cost. That behind every dunk and buzzer-beater was another layer of obsession, sacrifice, and hours alone in the gym trying to get it just right.

But Tara... Tara saw something else. And for the first time in a long while, you wondered what it'd be like to be wanted not because you were good — but just because you were you.

⸻

One of the study spaces at Blackmore University was quiet. It was the kind of quiet that made everything sound louder. Vending machine humming. Laptop keys clicking. The occasional sneaker squeak down the hallway or honk of a truck from outside in the city.

Tara sat curled up on the far couch, hoodie up, highlighter cap between her teeth. Chad was busy at the gym, Mindy was hanging out with Anika, and there was no way in hell that she would willingly go hangout with her older-sister, Sam. Her laptop was open to the same document she'd been editing for an hour — a study guide she'd already emailed. Twice.

She was rewriting the example section. Again.

"You're really going all out for a girl who's going to forget everything the second she gets back on the court."

Tara didn't look up. She didn't need to.

Julia, a blonde freshman with a sketchbook full of half-finished screenplays and a reputation for being observant in the most inconvenient ways, dropped into the chair beside her.

"I'm serious," Julia went on, flipping a pen between her fingers. "You've rewritten that thing three times. Are you, like, secretly in love with her?"

Tara shut her laptop.

Slowly.

"Absolutely not."

Julia snorted. "Relax. I had a crush on her last semester too. First week of classes — she helped me carry a box and then told me my handwriting looked like a movie character's. I thought she was flirting."

"She probably was," Tara muttered.

"Yeah," Julia said, smiling. "That's the thing. She flirts without even noticing. Smiles like you're the only person on Earth and then forgets your name by Friday."

Tara didn't respond. Just started capping her highlighters, one by one, methodical.

"She's good at it, though," Julia added, more softly. "Charming. Stupidly nice. Kind of a golden retriever thing going on."

Tara set her pencil case down harder than necessary. "She's not charming. She's late. Loud. Doesn't take anything seriously. I'm pretty sure she doesn’t even know her left from her right."

Julia watched her.

"She shows up to study sessions without a pen," Tara went on, faster now. "Brings snacks like that makes up for not knowing what a jump cut is. Sits too close. Laughs too loud. Like she's trying to make me like her in the most desperate way possible.”

There was a beat.

"You sound like you hate her," Julia said.

Tara's jaw clenched. "I do hate her."

Julia raised an eyebrow. "Sure."

Tara grabbed her laptop, shoved it in her bag, and stood. "She's a distraction. That's it."

Julia tilted her head. "Right. So why do you keep making her study guides that match her team colors?"

Tara didn't answer.

She just walked out and Julia couldn’t help but laugh a little.

The door clicked shut behind her. The hallway was cold, dim, echoey. She didn't move. Just stood there, back against the wall, staring at nothing.

"She's a distraction," she whispered to herself again. “A horrible, obnoxious one.”

#aesthetic #fiction #fanfic #jenna ortega #wlw #jenna ortega x reader #netflix wednesday #netflix #scream #scream 5 #scream 6 #tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter #sam carpenter #mindy meeks martin #chad meeks martin #basketball #fem reader #wednesday addams x reader

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ao3cassandraic · 1 day ago

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why tv!Mensah is the best

So, in the last five-six years, I went through a divorce, a pandemic, a sudden life-threatening illness (I'm fine now!), the absolute chaos and terror of US politics, perimenopause (continuing, sigh), and a major work reorg (still in progress; academia is slow about everything). Oh, also I just got promoted to part-time management as a first-time manager and am desperately hoping not to fuck it up because the people I manage are terrific and deserve somebody far more ept than I am.

It's been a lot. Really truly a lot.

But a thing I learned from my father the tenured professor, because he was exquisitely bad about it and I did not want to be like him, is that educators cannot shove their shit off on their students. This is a thing that Cannot Happen. Must Not Happen. Educator persona must be shit-free. My colleagues, too, do not come to work to help me deal with my shit.

I don't always quite manage this. I'm human, and I actually have a filthy temper; keeping it in check has been the work of a lifetime. But I always try, and usually I succeed.

It's been a rough time for students too, the last five-six years. Consensus is that the pandemic messed students up pretty good, academically and socially, kindergarten to grad school. I've noticed. There's only so much I can do to fix it for them. And some of them don't hesitate to take their shit out on me. Not all by any means! But... enough. Enough to be grindingly hurtful and saddening and exhausting.

So trying to teach in higher ed becomes this awful tug-of-war between the endless abyss of student needs, the institution's needs, and the needs of the professions I train for -- if I pass someone despite them clearly not doing the damn work, I'm not doing anybody any favors, actually.

It's a lot. Really truly a lot. But, you say, what does this have to do with Mensah?

This woman has got so much on her plate. Good lord.

The economic survival of Preservation Alliance. I hope it doesn't uniquely depend on one trip -- I doubt it does; Mensah's smarter than that -- but this trip is a big honkin' deal and it'd be Very Bad for it to fail.

A team she is managing that contains some pretty strong personalities (I have a strong personality; it has not made me easy to manage), at least one person with a deeply messed-up personal history, and some romantic entanglements that are probably not the greatest idea in a work situation, if I'm honest.

A SecUnit she didn't want, imposed on her by the corpos, who is (as she astutely recognized early on) going through something.

A planet that's a helluva lot more dangerous than she was told it was. Attacks, deaths, a spy. More attacks coming.

Several team members trying to cope with immediate and severe trauma -- the longer they're on the planet, the more and worse the trauma has piled up.

Having to be the rope in a tug-of-war between the neediest, most messed-up person in the team and the needy messed-up SecUnit.

A pre-existing (untreated? seems that way) anxiety disorder.

Gurathin's called her naive and repeatedly questioned her decisions. So has Murderbot, perhaps not in so many words. Pin-Lee's straight-up yelled at her. The only person who's offered her anything I would call support this entire time is Murderbot, who's trying its level best (to its credit) but is the opposite of a therapist.

But Mensah's first among equals. That means holding her shit together in their presence. She also has to be the person it's safe to yell at, to insult, to flake out on (sorry, Bharadwaj and Arada, but it's true), to blow off steam at. And she's so damn good at being the aggro sponge that I am literally fucking taking notes on how she does it, because I need to do it too, and management is slightly different from teaching in that respect.

I cannot with the book fans who think tv!Mensah is lesser. She is everything. "Intrepid galactic explorer" barely scratches the surface of this woman's level of awesome. I want to be her if I ever grow up.

#mbtv #murderbot tv #murderbot meta #mensah

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yanderechips4 · 2 days ago

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Yeah... A lot of people posting dp x dc content needs to stop tagging "#danny phantom" and tag only "#dp x dc" or "#dpxdc". This issue has been brought up before and while progress has been made, it has been slow.

And I say this as a fan of dp x dc. I love that crossover. But sometimes, I want exclusively Danny Phantom content and I can't do that if the main tag is clogged by dp x dc stuff that I do want to see but not in that moment. So it would be great for everyone if people posting dp x dc stops using the main tag.

finding out danny phantom fans are sick of dc/batman crossovers clogging THEIR tags is frying me idk why I never considered that. we are in the same damn boat omg

#danny phantom #dp x dc

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foxlorests · 2 days ago

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𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER TWO: THE REPRISE

♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger!Original Female Character

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 6.7k

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: Age Difference, Slow Burn, Yearning, Fluff, Smut (in later chapters), Soulmates, romcom vibes, billionaire harry, harry learning how to fall in love the human way, nervous harry castillo, pining, emotional vulnerability and all that sweet shi

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Five years after they met, Harry attended her concert.

Ao3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist | Poster/Masterlist

Harry Castillo was still not married.

He wasn’t against the idea, not exactly. But he wasn’t in a rush either, and that had been fine for a long time. He liked things that made sense. He liked return on investment. He liked decisions that came after long walks and longer silences. For most of his adult life, marriage had sounded like a kind of liability. Or at best, a negotiation. His mother, of course, saw it the same way. A transaction. She didn’t push—she was too elegant for that—but she was always saying things like, “Don’t wait so long you forget what it’s for.” Sometimes she would ask, “So?” and he’d be expected to say progress. Or, “No one wants to be alone when they’re sick.” As if the whole point of love was to secure a caretaker for your worst-case scenarios.

He could pay someone for that. Probably.

At first, he didn’t take her seriously. He thought he had time. And more than that, he thought he had options. He was successful, composed, a man who knew how to move through a room without stumbling. He dated, casually and then not-so-casually, and when things ended, he never wondered why for very long.

But it started to get to him. The way his brother looked at his now wife. The way the world suddenly had traditions you had to keep up with—holiday dinners, christenings, photos with matching sweaters. He started to wonder if maybe he had missed something. If maybe his mother was right in that subtle, unnerving way she always was.

As a businessman, the answer was simple: pick women who appreciate financial stability. Someone who will be impressed with a couple hundred bucks worth of dinner every night.

So when Lucy came into his life, he thought, this is it. He didn’t fall in love. But he did feel a kind of clarity. She ticked all his boxes, the same way he ticked all of hers. Smart. Grounded. Attractive in the way that ages well. She was pragmatic, emotionally efficient, and rarely sentimental—just like him. She didn’t ask questions she didn’t want honest answers to. She respected boundaries. She’s also easily impressed, which made it easier for Harry. They worked in the same world, spoke the same language: meetings, margins, expansion, sustainability. The relationship felt like a merger with excellent terms. It wasn’t thrilling, but it was reasonable. And he liked reasonable. A reasonable investment is always better than a thrilling one.

They didn’t talk about love often. He assumed that was the point. This wasn’t about drama or passion or whatever ruined people tried to salvage from their twenties. This was about building something stable. Something good. At least that’s what he told himself. Until, of course, it ended. Until the thing that made the most sense became the thing that unraveled. Harry Castillo thought Lucy might be the final, grown-up answer to the question his mother never stopped asking: “Who will take care of you?”

Truthfully, he just liked what she represented. An answer to the question. A working formula. A beautiful, rational equation with clean lines and no jagged edges. They went to dinners. They work well. She looked good on his arm and didn’t get nervous in front of his friends. They could sit in silence without discomfort. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

He remembered telling her once, not long before the end: “You’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.” And he meant it. But what he’d been looking for at the time wasn’t true, gutting love. It wasn’t fire or ache or anything close to wonder. It was something that worked. A system that ran without friction. A calm, competent life partner. It wasn’t “I love you.” It was something like “You’ll do.”

He was sad when they broke up, of course. But he didn’t fall apart. He didn’t get drunk and call her at 2 a.m. He didn’t beg on his knees or lose sleep or spiral. He just went back to work. Took the trip they were supposed to take together alone. Upgraded his sheets. Changed nothing else.

It didn’t even change his routine. Didn’t make his work life harder. He just… continued to live. Because even then, deep down, he’d known he could live without her. And that was the difference.

He tried her matchmaking company after they broke up. He was set up with Gemma. A nice woman in her thirties. She’s an art dealer. He went into the date the same way he went on a date with Lucy: with business in mind. His criteria: someone who he could trust (because isn’t that how you do business? With someone you could trust?) and someone he could respect. Gemma was someone he could respect. Gemma could do business like Lucy, but unfortunately, like Lucy, she also wanted love. He didn’t call after the first date. Didn’t even pick up the phone from the matchmaker.

He didn’t know if he’s capable of love. Not yet, at least. And certainly not with Gemma. Gemma was supposed to be a perfect investment. And you don’t have to be in love with something to invest in it. You just need to know it works.

So after Gemma, he lied to his matchmaker that he found someone else. Organically. Rose, his matchmaker, was upset but she said it made sense. People like him weren’t gonna be in the market for very long. He laughed like it was true. They were nice enough to give him a 80% refund. It didn’t matter, really.

Eventually, he gave up on the idea of marriage. Peter, his brother, had the family name sorted—happy wife, golden retriever, maybe even babies soon. That was enough legacy for the Castillos. Harry told himself he’d be the cool uncle. The one who sent expensive Christmas gifts and taught the kids poker too early.

He could live with that.

Harry had always preferred structure—clear lines, calm offices, espresso over cappuccino, silence over chatter. And when the chaos of life inevitably found its way in—whether in the form of a failed relationship or an overly ambitious intern—he had learned to manage it with professionalism, coolness, and if that didn’t work, expensive liquor.

Emma came in during one of those transitions. He had needed a new assistant, and she had been available. She was in her early thirties. Maybe thirty-three? Had left her dream of becoming an artist to help her husband support her family. He remembered her saying something vague during the interview—fine arts? Theatre? Maybe music theory? He hadn’t listened that closely, to be honest. It hadn’t seemed important. The job wasn’t creative, after all. It was scheduling, logistics, emails, making sure the water bottles were always stacked in the little fridge under his desk.

But Emma did it well. Unobtrusively, efficiently. And, yes, she was the sort of secretary who remembered things like what kind of bagel he preferred after a heavy night out. Everything bagel, warm, no cream cheese on Mondays and Tuesdays. She had shown up one morning, already in office attire—black dress, far from what artsy people look like.

She held out the bagel without comment, then opened his calendar and said, “We need to move the two o’clock. You’ll want a nap before the calls.”

He had blinked at her, still hungover, and realized she’d become indispensable.

He paid her well. He didn’t think about her much beyond that. She was a good assistant. She didn’t make his life messier. She didn’t ask questions when he was late, or when he looked like he hadn’t slept in three days. She knew how to read a room, how to bring him coffee when he was fuming but didn’t want to say so.

On slower days—days like this—he moved through his space like a man wandering the remains of an empire. Half-shaved, robe still hanging loosely, coffee cooling on the desk. Emma was already there, seated at her desk just beyond the open glass divider, typing away, her own mug beside her and classical music playing quietly from her laptop.

It wasn’t unusual. Sometimes she puts on jazz. Sometimes piano. He didn’t mind. It filled the air gently. It softened the sharpness of the city skyline beyond the windows. And then—

He paused. Mid-step, mid-thought, the motion caught in his throat.

She was watching something. A video. And on the screen, there she was.

The cello, the way she moved with it like it was another limb. That impossible grace, unrepeatable in anyone else he’d ever met. And that face—green eyes, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips, dimples barely there. Freckles on her neck. Honey blonde hair, pulled back now, neater than he remembered, but unmistakable.

His throat tightened.

Emma hadn’t noticed him. She was lost in whatever it was. He stepped closer, quietly, without even meaning to. Just one word rose in him, like breath held for too long finally escaping.

“Catherine.”

Emma looked at him, brow lifted in genuine curiosity.

“You know classical music?”

“No.” Harry barely glanced at her before his eyes flicked back to the screen. “I know her.”

“You do? People who aren’t into classical music wouldn’t know about composers.”

“She’s a composer? I thought she was a cellist.”

Emma smiled faintly, as if charmed by how clueless he sounded.

“She plays sometimes, but she was always a composer,” said Emma.

He didn’t respond right away. He was listening. Listening the way he had that night in the cabin—when the music hummed under his skin and dared him to remember it. Now, years later, it was back in his chest like a pulled thread. One sound and the whole memory unraveled.

“Catherine Ainsworth,” he murmured, reading the video title aloud.

“She’s one of the youngest composers ever commissioned by the Royal Philharmonic,” Emma said, sliding back in her chair, watching him. “At 25, she had a piece debuted at the Barbican, and another in Vienna. Her music’s this weird thing—elegant, unpretentious. Sort of haunting, sort of joyful.”

Harry smiled quietly at that.

"I’m surprised you know her, really. She composed mostly love songs, not for everyone. Certainly not something I imagine you listening to. It’s always sweet and never too complicated, like she’s not trying to impress anybody with her skills. Where did you hear of her?" Emma asked.

“I didn’t.” He shook his head, still lost in thought. “I met her.”

Emma’s head tilted. “Oh. You know know her.”

The room went soft for a moment. There was a long pause—his pause, really. He leaned on the edge of her desk, looking at nothing.

“We met. About five years ago,” he said finally, his voice low. “She was very young.”

“She’s still young. Twenty-seven,” Emma said, her voice mild.

“Yeah.” He nodded, eyes still fixed somewhere far beyond the window. “That’s young.”

“She’s going to come back to New York in December. A concert. You wanna go see her?”

“I don’t know,” he said quickly—too quickly.

Then, without giving her a chance to prod further, he turned the conversation elsewhere. A safe detour into something about schedules or deadlines or the mess with the Anderson account.

Emma didn’t push. She rarely did. That was something he appreciated about her. She knew how to clock a boundary without making a show of it.

But the thought lingered.

Even when he made calls or sat through meetings with people who talked too long and said too little, Catherine’s name threaded through his mind like a whisper. Not loud, not insistent. Just there.

It came to him in odd flashes—the way her fingers had moved on the cello strings, the way her coat had smelled faintly of cedar and something floral, the way the storm softened when she’d spoken.You’ll need a coat. The memory played like a looped symphony movement, quiet in the background, but impossible to ignore.

And that was new, because Harry rarely lets anything disrupt his routine.

He tried not to let it show. Not in the emails he dictated, or the investor pitch he reviewed. Not even when he watched Emma walk out with her coat, humming something vaguely classical under her breath.

But distraction had a way of making a home. It seeped into the quiet moments. When the office emptied, and the city buzzed below. When he poured himself a drink he didn’t finish. When he stood by the window with nothing in his hands, nothing to do, and everything waiting.

He pushed it down. Like he always did. Folded the thought neatly, tucked it beneath work and habit and his carefully measured life. That was what he had built in the years since forever—a life that made sense on paper. Balanced, professional, manageable. No edges. No typhoons. Until the very end, at least.

He told himself he didn’t want it, not anymore. The whirlwind, the ache, the unpredictability of falling in love. Love—God. Even the word sounded like a marketing scheme these days.

But he wasn’t proud of that version of himself. He was older now. Wiser. Tired.

And maybe a little lonelier than he cared to admit.

It was one morning in December when he saw it. He looked at the screen, a red circle on his calendar. Underneath it, in a font he definitely did not use: 7 PM, Carnegie Hall.

He frowned. “What’s this?”

Emma, sitting on the edge of his office couch, froze like she’d been caught stealing. Then she exhaled. “Oh.” A pause. “I bought you a ticket. For Catherine Ainsworth.”

He stared at her. No words. Just stillness.

She shifted uncomfortably but kept her chin up. “You have to go. It’s my money.”

“I’ll pay you back,” said Harry quickly.

“Go. Consider it a Christmas gift from my husband and I.”

He couldn’t say anything to that. Not without unraveling something. Because Emma didn’t know the weight of that name in his chest. She didn’t know the smell of cedar and drizzle or the way her voice could quiet a room like snowfall. But still—she had known enough, probably from his reactions. Enough to draw the circle. To say go.

And the reason he did not want to go was because of the feeling in the pit of his stomach, something like anticipation. It felt familiar. Like hope.

The days leading up to the concert passed in a strange kind of haze. New York in December was both beautiful and brutal—icy wind on your face one second, holiday lights the next. Fifth Avenue glimmered like a snow globe, and every sidewalk corner had someone selling roasted chestnuts or playing saxophone under twinkling strings of fairy lights. It was a romantic city if you had someone’s hand to hold. He didn’t.

But he didn’t feel alone either. Not in the obvious way.

He thought about canceling the day before. Told himself he had a meeting, that he couldn’t sit through two hours of music without unraveling. But he didn’t cancel.

Instead, he let the day arrive.

He let himself walk into it slowly, like stepping into cold water.

Emma picked a great suit for the evening.She had thought of everything—down to the cufflinks he’d forgotten he owned. She laid it all out on his office couch that morning, like a quiet but firm declaration: You’re going.

He hadn’t said thank you, not out loud. He just looked at her, nodded once, and said, “Remind me what time it starts.”

“I know you know, Harry. You’re not going to be late,” she replied, not looking up from her computer. “I already scheduled the car. It’s in your calendar.”

The car ride was quiet. Just the city humming past. His mind raced, slowed, raced again. He didn’t know why he suddenly told the driver to pull over near a florist on 57th.

He stood outside the small, warmly lit shop for a few seconds, hands deep in his coat pockets, before walking in and asking for a bouquet. “Something simple,” he said.

The florist gave him a look that said every man says that, and put together white ranunculus, some pale eucalyptus, and a few soft roses—not red, not pink, but a washed-out cream, like candlelight.

He didn’t know why he bought it.

He didn’t know if Catherine would want flowers.

He didn’t know if she’d forgotten him entirely—or worse, remembered him only faintly, like a passing storm she once sat through and never thought of again. She might have a man. A husband. A life. She might look at him and smile politely, say thank you, take the flowers and never think of it again.

But he bought them anyway.

He told himself he’d just say hello. Just a word after the concert, in that strange backstage hum of applause and exhaustion. Hand her the flowers, thank her for the music, maybe say I saw you in a storm once, and you’ve never really left my mind, though he probably wouldn’t say it out loud. He’d give her the bouquet, smile, and walk away.

And that would be that.

He’d go back to his life. The office. The schedules. The version of himself he’d been trying so hard to maintain.

He went inside Carnegie Hall as if in a haze. Sat down, as if drunk, not knowing where to look. His back was rigid. He looked around the room and saw how it was mostly couples, enjoying a romantic night out. He smiled at that.

The lights dimmed slowly, like the hush that fell over New York on snow-heavy nights. The crowd at Carnegie Hall settled into silence.

Then she stepped out.

Catherine Ainsworth.

It had been years, and yet Harry recognized her instantly. She had changed, yes. There was a quiet grace to her now, a self-assuredness in the way she walked toward the cello, cradling it like a part of her body. Her once wild, wet hair was swept up neatly, revealing the softness of her face, the light freckles that still danced faintly on her neck. The girl who had offered him a coat was now a woman who commanded an entire room with a glance and a breath. Still green-eyed. Still real. But older. Better.

The small smile on her lips hadn’t changed either. That half-smile, the one that never stretched too far, but tugged at something deep inside him. He remembered it. It was the smile she wore the night she bought soup with a song.

And then she played.

The first piece was a solo—a quiet, yearning composition that began with a single note held long enough to stretch across the years. Harry felt it in his chest. No grandeur. No showing off. Just beauty, unveiled gently and without ego. Effortless. Alive.

He hadn’t known he could still feel things like that. It came uninvited, the smile—slow and real—tugging at his mouth before he realized it. God, it had been a long time.

And he understood, finally, what Emma meant when she called her music romantic.

He watched her fingers dance over the strings—those same dainty fingers he remembered from a memory blurred by storm and scotch.

Harry, who knew music like most people knew algebra—just enough to pass by—was completely disarmed. He didn’t need to understand it. He felt it.

The concert unfolded in movements. After the solo, the orchestra filed in. Catherine returned later—not to perform, but to conduct. She stood at the front like she belonged there, eyes focused, hands lifting, guiding a dozen musicians like it was second nature.

The audience watched with a silence that buzzed. And Harry—he didn’t watch like an audience member. He watched like a man who had just remembered how to live.

She conducted one more piece. Then came another solo—a piano this time. She played with her eyes half closed, and it felt like the sound was pouring from her very lungs.

Harry didn’t blink.

He sat there in the dark, flowers beside him, and let the music do what it had always promised to do: make everything else fall away.

And for just a while, it did.

It started soft—quiet strings, then piano. And there, tucked into the melody like a memory, was a sound that reminded him of home. Not literal bells, but close enough. That kind of jingle they use in old movies—the kind you hear when someone falls in love on a snowy street. It made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t ready for.

He looked down at the program again. Love, in December.

It wasn’t a flashy piece. None of hers were, really. The entire concert had been like that—emotional, but never begging for it. Beautiful, but never loud about being beautiful. She didn’t show off. She didn’t need to. She just played, and that was enough.

People were crying. He caught a few wiping their faces. He watched Catherine through the curtain of applause and could tell she’d been crying too—just a little. But she smiled through it, bowed low. Everyone stood up and gave her a round of applause.

When the light came on, the crowd slowly stood.

He stood too, eventually. Walked out with the rest. But when they veered toward the exit, he didn’t.

He followed the hallway signs to the backstage area.

Of course there was security. A guy at the corridor—stocky, name tag said Hubert—held up a hand to stop him.Harry expected that. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out the slick business card. Not the casual one, the serious one, the fancy one. Harry Castillo. He introduced himself with his business voice too, and said something about some opportunities for some of the musicians. Hubert squinted at the name, clearly didn’t recognize it, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Harry said it like it should be recognized. Like it belonged in the room. And he had a lot of practice with that. The security guy hesitated a second, then stepped aside with a short nod.

He walked past without a word.

He passed a few dressing rooms—most with names taped to the doors, some cracked open to reveal assistants and musicians gathering coats or finishing bottles of water. Some cheering. Laughter.

And then—at the end—her name. Catherine Ainsworth. Typed neatly, taped to a white door.

He stared at it for a beat.

His palms felt hot.

He raised his hand. Knocked once, firm but quiet.

Inside, movement. A pause. Then her voice. Familiar, unmistakable.

“Coming.”

And there he stood. Suit pressed, bouquet in hand, heart stupidly loud in his chest.

She opened the door, and green eyes fell into his.

Her cheeks were still flushed from the stage, a touch of powder barely hiding it. Her hair was up now, pinned and loose in places, elegant without trying. She still had her performance dress on— black silk dress, modest, but it did something with the way she moved. Or maybe it was just her. Grown. Poised. Lovely.

“Harry?”

He smiled. “Hello, Catherine.”

“Oh gosh. How long has it been? I didn’t know you were coming. Please—come in! I’m so sorry it’s messy, I didn’t expect—why didn’t you contact me first? I would’ve gotten you a better seat, somewhere I could see your face and guess what you think.”

She stepped back to let him in. He took a breath and followed, the bouquet light in his hand, but suddenly feeling foolish.

The room was cozy—soft lighting, clothes and makeup scattered in corners, a chair with a coat slung over it, another bouquet sitting forgotten on the counter. There was a faint scent of perfume and roses, warmed by stage sweat and hairspray. Her cello case was still open.

He sat on the edge of the couch while she fussed with tidying, though it didn’t do much. He didn’t mind.

“I almost didn’t come,” he said. “But I’m glad I did. You were… incredible.”

She looked over her shoulder with a quick smile. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

“No, really. It was beautiful. When you played— it felt like something cracked open in me.”

Catherine blinked, then looked down and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You always knew how to say things like that. Like a line from a book.”

He gave a soft laugh.

There was a pause. The kind that wasn’t awkward.

“You never called me,” Harry said, quieter this time. “Or left a message.”

Catherine looked at him, then leaned against the vanity, arms folded.

“Oh, funny story about that. I fell into a puddle. And the card was too wet and it ripped. You should really invest in some high-end business cards. You know, the ones made of metal.”

“Really?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Yeah.” She grinned.

“That’s the best you came up with?”

She laughed. “It’s true! It was a big puddle too. I sprained my ankle and everything.”

“Ah, shit. Sorry.” He leaned forward a little. “Should’ve taken you back. Given you a ride.”

“No, no. It was fine. Managed to get a ride.” She shrugged, then smiled gently. “I still had a fun day, despite it all. The soup, Jim, you, the people I met… it more than made up for it.”

There was a stillness after that. Not tense. Just charged.

Harry’s fingers tapped against his knee. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this relaxed and alert at the same time. Maybe years ago, back home, when he still thought he had a future doing things that mattered. Now it was mostly boardrooms. Deadlines. Deals. People speaking at him, him barely listening.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, straightening up, “you wanna go for a burrito?”

He blinked. “What?”

“There’s a truck I like. Not far. But it’ll be gone in thirty minutes, so we have to hurry. Come with me.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, sure. We’re old friends, aren’t we?” She stood up.

He tilted his head. “I wouldn’t say we’re friends. Still strangers, really.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” she said as she grabbed her coat. “I remember everyone who’s made an impression on me.”

“And I did?” he asked, following her to the door. He noticed the other bouquets still sitting untouched on the counter. Only his was in her hands.

She shooed him out with a grin. “’Course you did. Hold on—” she handed him her scarf, like he was already someone she knows well. She bent, locking the door and Harry couldn’t help but admire her form, for just a moment. “I told you, didn’t I? I’ve always had a soft spot for old men in the rain. Like they’re in a French movie.”

He smirked. “Yeah. I forgot you said that.”

That was a lie. He remembered. Word for word. He thought it was funny because he didn’t look French at all.

They left through the back hallway, her coat slung casually over one arm, the flowers still in his hand.

“Tell everyone I’m going out for dinner,” Catherine called to someone down the hallway.

“Aw, you got a date already, Catie?” the man shouted back.

“Sure do! I’ll see you all at midnight—Jen’s place, yeah? We’re still on.”

There was laughter from down the corridor, and someone called after her—teasing, familiar.

He didn’t plan on asking. He really hadn’t. But the words edged out anyway, like steam from a cracked pipe. “So… it’s a date?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you want it to be.”

“Sure. It’s a date. But we’re going somewhere after.”

“Only if you drop me off at my friend’s place by midnight.”

“Done.”

It should’ve felt strange—rushed, unexpected, unprofessional, even—but it didn’t. It felt like something that had already begun years ago, paused somewhere between wet clothes and a café table, and picked up again the way only real things could. Without fuss. Without ceremony.

They didn’t talk much on the walk. There wasn’t a need. She led, he followed. He noticed how she kept her hands tucked inside her sleeves, her shoulders relaxed despite the weather.

He didn’t know what scared him more: how easy it was, or how deeply it settled into him. That feeling. That quiet, breathless, inevitable sense that this—whatever this was—wasn’t a spark. It was something else. A match already struck, a flame he’d walked away from once and was now standing in front of again.

He’d dated, of course. Dated well. Dated enough. There had been pretty ones, brilliant ones, ones who challenged him, soothed him, made him laugh. But even at their best, it had always been a climb. Work. Polished versions of himself turning over carefully rehearsed lines. But Catherine—God. Catherine had never asked for any version of him. Even worse, he didn’t have the need to put on a version of himself.

And he remembered—how comfortable it had been the first time. That rain-soaked day. How much of him had stayed with her, tucked away in whatever memory she carried. How she remembered the soup, and Jim, and his card—ruined by a puddle, apparently. A story so absurdly hers, he almost laughed when she told it.

He glanced at her now, walking a few paces ahead.

They ate outside. Not at a table, not at a restaurant—just the side of a food truck wrapped in yellow lights, on a quiet street where the steam from open grates rose like lazy ghosts. She had ordered two burritos, extra hot sauce, and passed him one without asking what he wanted. He took it anyway. It was good. Greasy, hot, and falling apart in the right places.

They stood side by side on the curb like they had done this a thousand times, like they’d done this in another life, another city, another version of themselves. She talked while chewing.

“I always wondered what happened to you,” he said, as they leaned against the side of the truck, warm foil burritos in hand.

“Well I told you what would happen to me.”

“Your studio?”

“Yeah. I have a studio. It’s underground. You wouldn’t know if you weren’t in the arts.”

“Ah, exclusive club?” he asked, biting into the burrito. “How’d you get the money?”

“I have my ways.”

He believed her. Not because it made sense, but because of how she said it—like the details didn’t matter as long as the music still got made. And maybe they didn’t.

She didn’t stop talking when they got into his car. She didn’t even stop to think about how Harry had a driver ready a few feet away, almost like he was trailing them since they left the concert hall. He smiled at how easy it was. Answered all her questions about his life like they were old friends instead of two people who met only hours in total.

The driver took them somewhere not too far—somewhere fancy he liked to go—for just a drink.

He hadn’t expected to like the night this much. He hadn’t expected to feel younger, or older, or anything at all. But he did.

She told him she’d order a Shirley Temple, but when the waiter came, she asked for coffee instead. She said it was because she had to stay awake for the party tonight. He could tell she was tired, though.

He asked, gently, “You sure you want to go? You can rest. I’m sure your colleague would understand.”

“My friends, you mean. I’m sure they will, but I have a big ‘Fear of Missing Out’ disease. You wouldn’t get it. You probably want to miss out.”

He laughed at that, because she was right. It was funny how she knew him. After living the life he had (and a long one at that), parties became boring, friends became few, and the older you get the less you want to waste your time spending it with random people. Somehow, he thought, it wouldn’t be the same for her.

He canceled her coffee when she wasn’t looking and ordered her the Shirley Temple anyway. She sipped it with that little smirk of someone who knew exactly what happened, yet happily drank anyway.

She tapped her foot beneath the table like music was playing somewhere only she could hear.

He didn’t say much for a while. He just watched. And felt. And tried not to let the warmth of the moment scare him the way good things sometimes do.

She had never felt fragile to him—never delicate or breakable. But she did feel real now in a way he hadn’t been ready for before. Real, and within reach. And that was what terrified him. Not the night, or the feeling. But how easy it was to want it again.

It was still only 10:30 when they left and the fancy drink place was long behind them. They ended up back in his car with popcorn in their laps, the kind sold in plastic tubs from a vendor outside a movie theatre. Something childish about it made her laugh. That had been his favorite part of the night so far.

They didn’t need a plan. The city hummed around them, but for once, he didn’t feel like they were in it. It felt like they were just… here. Two people sitting side by side, like they’d done it every Thursday for years.

The conversation drifted.

She asked how long he’d been in private equity now, if he still flew to Zurich every January, if his friend had finally retired like he’d once promised. He said over a decade, yes, and no. He said he focused on acquisitions mostly—real estate, hospitality, infrastructure—though he didn’t touch the spreadsheets anymore. Just the closings. Just the capital.

She asked if he liked it. Just that.

Not "how’s work." Not "how’s business." But do you like it?

He’d been asked that before, of course. At dinners, in passing. But it was always rhetorical. No one ever really wanted an answer. Catherine, though—she just waited. Like he had all the time in the world to figure it out.

So he told her. That he didn’t hate it. That he was good at it. That it paid well. That it was easier than what his brother did, and harder than what people thought. That he was good at it and that’s what matters. He also told her how it distracted him from his boring life. How he liked the stability, and somehow it made him feel in control.

She nodded through all of it. Not like she understood, exactly. But like she thought it made sense that he felt that way. And for some reason, that was enough.

She had already given the driver an address—her friend’s place, he assumed. Some apartment where the music people gathered like moths to the last lamplight of the night. But the car didn’t move.

Somewhere along the way the conversation had started to quiet. A long pause here. A soft sigh there. And somewhere between the story about her audition in Berlin and the one about the pianist who once fainted on stage, she stopped responding.

He turned, and found her asleep. Just like that.

Head tipped against his shoulder, her face relaxed in a way it hadn’t been all night. Hair slipping slightly from its clip. Her breathing even.

Harry didn’t move. Not right away. He just stared ahead, the lights of the city blinking through the glass like distant stars, and let the silence stretch.

It wasn’t that she’d fallen asleep—that part was almost funny. But that he’d talked her there. That she felt safe enough to let her guard down.

When they pulled up in front of her friend's building, just a minute or two before midnight, Harry didn’t have the heart to wake her.

He tried, halfheartedly. Nudged her shoulder, murmured her name. But she barely stirred—only shifted deeper into sleep, like her body had made the decision for her. She’d stayed up for everything else, carried the whole night on sheer momentum, and now it had run out.

So he let her rest. Gently slid his shoulder out from under her head, left her curled up in the corner of the backseat, jacket draped over her legs. For once, the city outside the car didn’t feel hostile. The streetlamp made everything look a little softer. Her building stood tall but not unkind.

He got out and looked around, unsure at first what to do. Then, like fate was a little too on-the-nose tonight, a man walked past with a guitar case strapped to his back. Early thirties maybe, thin, a little dazed-looking—like someone who’d just played a show or left one. Harry asked if he knew the musicians he’s looking for, the apartment number, said he was trying to find a friend’s place.

The guy didn’t even blink.

“Yeah, everyone’s upstairs. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Harry followed him in but stopped at the entrance to the stairwell. Another man, still in a suit, exactly like the concert outfit the orchestra wore a few hours ago, greeted him.

“She’s asleep in the car,” he said, quietly. “I don’t think I can wake her up. It looked like she needed rest.”

The guy nodded, unfazed. “Ah. No worries. She is safe, though, yeah?”

“Safe.” Harry handed over a card—his actual one, with his personal number. “Here. Just in case.”

The man squinted at the card, nodded again. “Cool. Mr… Castillo.”

“Oh, and uh—if you could not mention too much how fun it was tonight,” Harry added, hesitating. “She said she had a big, uh—”

“FOMO?” the guy offered.

Harry blinked. “Sorry?”

“Fear of missing out?”

“Yeah. That.”

The man chuckled. “All right. So you do know her.”

“I do.”

“Okay then. Take care, Mr. Castillo.”

Harry said goodbye, offered one last thank you, and stepped back out into the night.

The car was still idling quietly under the streetlight, warm and sealed away from the hum of the city. Catherine hadn’t moved. She was still curled up in the backseat, one hand tucked under her cheek, lips slightly parted, breathing deep and slow.

He opened the door gently and slid inside beside her, careful not to disturb the quiet. He settled her head on his lap, trying his best to make her comfortable. The driver gave him a look in the rearview mirror—something between curiosity and amusement—but said nothing. Harry thanked him, and made a mental note to ask Emma to give him a raise.

There was something sacred about that moment. Maybe because no one else was watching. Maybe because it didn’t feel like something he’d earned. Her hair spilled across his legs like ink, and her breath was warm against his thigh. He kept a hand hovering near her face, just in case she stirred. She didn’t. Somewhere along the way, his hand patted her hair.

The last time he brought a woman back to his apartment, it was only for sex. And it had been… vastly different. Intentional, sexual, carefully orchestrated. He’d made sure the lights were dimmed just right, that there was a drink ready, that jazz was playing faintly in the background. There had been laughter and flirtation, the smooth exchange of practiced lines and mutual expectations. But this—this was not that. This was Catherine.

When the driver pulled into his building, Harry didn’t think too hard. He didn’t want to. He just slipped one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lifted.

He carried her inside—not like a friend doing someone a favor, but more like a partner would. Not in the public way, the performance of it. But in a quiet way. Arms around her back and legs, careful not to jostle her. Not a single word said. He kicked the door closed behind him with his heel and moved straight to his bedroom. There wasn’t even a flicker of hesitation.

She weighed less than he expected.

He laid her down, eased her onto the bed like she was something fragile. Removed her shoes, then tucked the blanket over her legs. She shifted again, brow twitching at the change in environment, but never opened her eyes.

Harry stayed there for a long time after. Kneeling beside the bed, just watching her. As if she might disappear if he looked away. As if none of this was real, and she might flicker out like the ghost of some half-forgotten evening. He didn’t touch her. Just watched. Only for a moment.

He got up, pulled off his tie and jacket, and went to sleep on the couch. He didn’t bother with a blanket, but he slept better than he had in months.

A/N: Let me know what you think! Will be updated every week, but might upload twice a week if I feel like it/confident enough to do it.

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 2 days ago

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⋆｡˚✶ masterlist — rafayel ⋆｡˚✶

❝ what kind of god paints his own ruin—and calls it love?❞

✧ a complete guide to my Rafayel collection: devotion dressed as destruction. brushstrokes of obsession. stories where love ruins beautifully.

✧ one-shots ✧

➤ magnum opus : for my eyes only he doesn’t paint you. not because he can’t—but because the moment he does, he’ll have to share you. so he worships you in silence. until the silence breaks. ☁︎ artist x muse | obsession | slow burn | poetic smut | 7.6k

➤ in oil and obsession he paints you not to preserve—but to survive. and when you return, he meets you not with mercy, but with need. ☁︎ artist x muse | psychological power play | poetic smut | obsession | 8.1k

✧ multi-part ✧

➤ to drown a god once, the siren gave up his voice for love. now he waits—not to be heard, but to be found. ☁︎ siren AU | myth retelling | reincarnation | tragic romance | 5.2+

✧ in progress ✧

➤ to be updated

♡ taglist is open!

want to be notified when i post new writing? just reply or drop me an ask and i’ll add you to the list!

#love and deepspace #love and deep space rafayel #love and deepspace rafayel #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #lads #love and deepspace masterlist #rafayel masterlist #navigation

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transgendz · 2 days ago

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Nothing has been received for this in days. When I first posted something related to this almost a month ago, I clarified that we would be splitting the big goal of moving up into smaller goals so that we can feasibly make the progress we need to in time to move. Currently, we are not on track to meet our first-month goal, with progress having slowed to a standstill. We are not on track to move by winter, which could leave us stuck here in increasingly worsening scenarios. Everyone involved is scared of that. Additionally, one of my roommates has been told its not actually cancer that she has, but a similar, more chronic condition, which she will need major surgery and probably still chemo for.

Things are bad, and worsening. Please help,

This is an update to a previous post. tl;dr on the previous post: My roommate/fiance and I (intersex, trans respectively, both disabled) need to flee to a safer state because of increasing fascism in our state. We have a place waiting, more affordable, more consistent work, food we will be helping to grow and preserve, etc. Long-established farm of a friend situation, not some overly ambitious and inexperienced project. It's a move that could very much save our lives. This is where I answered an anon asking about the situation.

In the past week, we have found out that our roommate, who intends to stay here for a variety of reasons, will probably need cancer treatment after all-- its been a lot of flip-flopping on the issue from her doctors. We are waiting for more information, but the general idea of "the cancer is for sure there, a problem, and will need something done about it" is clear. I am having to devote a significant amount of time to helping with the advocacy side of her situation. We are currently unsure what her future in regards to moving or, frankly, anything else might look like.

Because of that whole situation may need to raise our goal, but as it is now, we aren't really on track to move before winter as we'd hoped. That being said, the goal below is a monthly goal with getting moved by winter being the end and total goal. Progress has slowed immensely since the first week or so.

Dm me for proof or more details, or send me an ask ig. I am also vetted by @kyra45-helping-others, who does scam busting on here, and @milkweedtussocktubers has vouched for us on previous posts as an instrumental ally in this move. I have an artblog @theartistrans and a kofi where I run a casually educational newsletter and other such stuff in the tiers if you'd like a different way to support. Examples of the stuff I do on my artblog are below the cut.

PP V $C kofi GFM

$2,136/$3,000

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kimquatz · 1 day ago

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Hi Kimbo! Atacus and Hafora are my fave of ur OCs, they live rent free in my mind >=] Can you tell us about Hafora Anfeng? 10 and 19 on the Ask Meme please

Send me an OC name and a number to ask!

Thank you for enjoying them as much as i do! 🥺🫶 And ty for asking for Hafora, they're one of the more underrated of my OCs LOL

10. What is their main character arc in the story? Where do they start and how do they develop? Do they get a happy ending or is their story a tragic one?

Since Hafora is one of the more minor characters present in the jadebloods' story, her arc is a bit more subtle and still a WIP! She, like the other jades (Lanque and Bronya), is also trying to cope with the grief and loss of someone they deeply cared for. Where the main story begins, she's very closed off. After Atacus' death being 'punished' by the Empire, it scared her into never opening up and unable to embrace herself as an individual. She was already quite reserved, and Atacus was one of the few people she could confide in, to feel comfortable with herself, and have a hope for the future. But, with them gone, it was like a grim reminder of Alternia's cruelty towards kindness and individuality in this world.

Hafora is only relevant in their way past though, and is already off-planet by the time the story technically "starts." I like to imagine either Lanque or Bronya would run into her again off-planet! They were only kids since they last saw her, and it would be nice to see them reconvene when they're older to talk about their feelings on the past. 🤔 Whether she gets a "happy" or "tragic" ending is yet to be determined, but i'm inclined to think it will be a very slow progression of learning to overcome her fears.

19. What is your general favourite thing about the character? What is your least favourite?

One of the many things I'm fond about about Hafora's character is that she's very reminiscent of what it feels like to be a closeted dfab individual growing up in a severely strict asian household (the brooding caverns lol). There's expectations on you; who you have to be, who you're growing up to be, how to act, etc. Even when you know deep down you don't want to, you put it all aside because of the fear of disappointing and/or failure. Of course, It's not a complete 1-to-1, but it definitely draws from a lot from those feelings and experiences that i feel sentimental towards them. My least favorite thing about them is how stubborn they are LOL. Though, not that i hate that about them, it's just a result of the life they've lived. More like I just want them to learn to be happy and free, and it makes me sad that they keep holding themselves back for so long v_v

#mieuxn #ask game #i think this is my first post abt hafora on t*mblr actually LOL #hafora anfeng

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tinyshyteacup · 3 days ago

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Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @oceanticspace @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp @xmiaacxio @meyukoo @grilka @itsgivingdepression @timebomb1101 @inejghafasdagger @koshkahhh @juliperezsilveira @pandaofsilentdeath @straw--b3rry @nynxtea

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TW: Cussing, Walkers (Zombies), fluff, kissing, cuddling, hurt/comfort, angst, Negan is a Villan, SA (Implied, offscreen), panic attack.

Part 47

Dead Weight - Part 48

The moonlight filters through the Kingdom's windows, casting gentle shadows across the bed where you lie sleeping. Daryl lays on his side facing you his eyes scanning over your features, his calloused fingers intertwined with yours - the only point of contact between your bodies.

There's still distance between you, careful space that's been there since the Sanctuary, but your hand in his is progress.

Small, fragile progress.

She's beautiful, he thinks, studying your face in the soft light. Even in sleep, there's tension around your eyes, a tightness that wasn't there before. Before Negan.

His mind drifts to the weeks at the Sanctuary - the cell, the dog food, that damn song playing over and over. "Easy Street." He'd thought his own torture was hell, but knowing what was happening to you... knowing you were somewhere in that place, forced to be one of Negan's wives, forced to ...

Don't think about it, he tells himself, but the images come anyway. Your terrified face when you threw yourself over him that night. The way Negan had looked at you, talked about you. The crude comments, the vulgar possessiveness.

Daryl's free hand hovers over your face, wanting desperately to touch you, to trace the curve of your cheek like he used to in the attic. Back when things were simpler, when the biggest worry was walkers and supply runs. When you'd curl up against him every night, trusting and warm and safe.

But now... now he's terrified that his touch might remind you of him. Of Negan.

What if she can't stand it? What if when I kiss her, all she thinks about is what that asshole did to her?

The thought makes his stomach turn, bile rising in his throat. What that bastard did to you—what he forced you to endure—it makes Daryl physically sick. His whole body trembles with a rage so deep it threatens to consume him.

Even Merle, for all his faults, for all the terrible things he'd done, would never have laid a hand on a woman like that. Would never have forced...

Daryl can't even finish the thought. His jaw clenches so hard it aches.

It ain't fair.

You deserve to be cherished, protected, treated like the precious thing you are. Instead, that monster made you one of his "wives," used you like you were nothing more than an object for his twisted pleasure.

Daryl settles for barely brushing his fingertips over your forehead, the touch so light it's like a whisper against your skin. He traces the line of your brow with reverent care, follows the curve of your cheek with the pad of his thumb. So light it won't wake you, but enough to convince himself you're real. You're here. You're alive.

The moonlight filters through the curtains, casting everything in soft silvers, and you look like an angel wrapped in the thick quilts. The blankets rise and fall with your steady breathing, and Daryl finds himself memorizing the peaceful expression on your face—the way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks, the slight part of your lips.

"Y'perfect," Daryl whispers to the darkness, voice full of awe and heartbreak.

He thinks about all the ways he'd take care of you if you'd let him, if you want that.

How he'd wake you every morning slow and softly. How he'd hold you when the nightmares come, chase away every shadow that Negan's left behind.

He'd cook over a fire, spend hours just listening to you talk about books or music or any damn thing long as it makes you smile.

He'd build you a garden, maybe. All women love flowers, and god your prettier then any he's ever seen. He'd learn their names, teach you how to make 'em grow, just to see that soft wonder in your eyes when the first blooms appeared.

He'd fix anything that broke, would work his hands raw if it meant keeping you comfortable and safe.

She could have anyone, he realizes, the thought like a knife to his chest. Bet that King's already half in love with her, and he's got a whole kingdom to offer. What do I got? Nothin' but scars and bad memories and failure.

Very carefully, hardly daring to breathe, Daryl leans down and presses his nose to your hair.

"M'sorry" he mumbles.

He inhales deeply, breathing in the scent that's uniquely you—something like home and safety and everything good he'd thought was lost forever.

The gentle nuzzling is cautious, like he's trying to memorize this moment before it slips away.

The quilts are soft and heavy around you both, creating a cocoon of warmth in the cool air. He can feel the way they've molded to your body, can see how peaceful you look wrapped in their embrace. Part of him wants to pull them higher, tuck them under your chin to keep you warm, but he's afraid to move too much, afraid to disturb this perfect stillness.

Your fingers twitch slightly around his, even in sleep, and he watches as your breathing starts to change—becoming less deep, more aware. You're waking slowly, naturally, the way you used to back when the world felt safer.

A small sound escapes your throat, barely more than a sigh, and your eyelids flutter. Daryl holds his breath, watching as consciousness slowly returns to your features.

Your hand tightens around his almost instinctively, like even in sleep you know he's your anchor, and he remembers how you'd chosen his arm over the king's today. How you'd looked at him like he was the only solid thing in a world gone mad.

Your eyes open slowly, blinking against the soft morning light, and there's no fear there. No flinching. Just recognition, and something that might be relief.

You watch as Daryl's eyes trace your face in the dim moonlight, memorizing every detail like he's afraid you might disappear. The way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks, the soft curve of your lips, the trust in your eyes despite everything.

You shift slightly, and Daryl's blue eyes find yours in the moonlight. Your fingers are intertwined between your bodies, that small bridge of connection that's taken so much courage to maintain. There's still careful distance between you, but less than before. Progress measured in inches.

"Can't sleep?" you whisper.

"Nah." His voice is rough with exhaustion and something deeper. “Just been... thinkin’. S’nothin’.”

"About what?"

He sighed, the sound brushing against your ear.

"S'nothin' ... G'back to sleep."

“Please, Daryl,” you whisper.

Daryl's jaw tightens, and when he speaks, there's steel in his voice that makes you shiver. "M'gonna kill him."

You don't need to ask who he means. The name hangs between you like a curse.

"M'gonna put him in the dirt for what he did to you," Daryl continues, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. "What he took from you ... from us"

The words should frighten you, but instead they make you feel something you haven't felt since the Sanctuary - protected.

Safe.

Like maybe the nightmare might actually end someday.

Your breath hitches, and for a moment he's afraid he's said the wrong thing, brought back memories you're trying to forget. But then you shift closer - just an inch, but it's deliberate, intentional.

"Need you," you whisper, the words so quiet he almost misses them. But they hit him like a physical blow, stealing his breath.

Slowly, carefully, you close the distance between you. Not pressed against him like you used to be, but close enough that he can feel your breath on his skin. Your free hand comes up tentatively to rest on his chest, right over his heart.

Daryl wants to kiss you so badly it hurts. Wants to erase every trace of Negan's touch. But the memory of your nightmares, your flinching, holds him back.

Instead, he does something softer. Something that feels like coming home.

He nuzzles into you, his nose brushing against your cheek with the gentleness of a prayer. You don't pull away. If anything, you lean into the touch, your eyes fluttering closed.

"Y'beautiful," he murmurs against your skin, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. "So damn beautiful, M'gonna make sure y'know it. Gonna take care of you. Gonna protect you."

He traces the line of your jaw with his nose, so light it's barely a touch at all. A whisper of contact that's somehow more intimate than any kiss.

You make a soft sound - not of fear or panic, but something that sounds almost like contentment.

"Y'okay?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

It's the first sound that's been close to familiar since the Sanctuary, and it breaks something open in his chest.

"Yea," you nod your breath fanning over his skin.

His hand traces patterns on your back, reverent and gentle, while his nose continues its soft exploration of your face. Your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

Each touch is a promise, a prayer, a plea for forgiveness he thinks he doesn't deserve but desperately wants.

I'm gonna take care of her, he thinks fiercely. Gonna spend every day provin' you're safe. Gonna give you every damn thing you deserve.

"Daryl," you breathe his name like a prayer, and he can't help the way his hand tightens around yours.

His nose finds the spot behind your ear, nuzzling into your hair with the same careful reverence. You smell like home and something uniquely you, and he breathes you in like you're oxygen.

Your free hand moves, fingertips tracing the line of his cheekbone with feather-light touches. He turns his face into your palm, pressing the softest kiss to your wrist.

"You're so gentle," you whisper, wonder in your voice like you'd forgotten what gentle could feel like.

"'Course," he whispers back, like it should be the most baltant trait he has, a unbreakable promise wrapped in tenderness.

Your eyes meet his in the darkness, and slowly, carefully, his thumb traces the curve of your lower lip. You don't flinch. You don't pull away. Instead, you lean into the touch like a flower turning toward sunlight.

Emboldened, he traces your features with his nose again - the curve of your cheek, the bridge of your nose, the spot where your hair meets your forehead. Each touch is reverent, worshipful, full of the intention of reminding you that you're cherished.

Safe.

Wanted.

Home.

You're both breathing carefully, like you're afraid to break the spell. Your hand moves from his cheek to rest against his chest again, and then, so slowly it makes his heart race, you begin working at the buttons of his shirt.

"Y'sure?" he asks, his voice rough with emotion, vulnerability threading through every syllable.

You nod, your fingers working the first button free with trembling hands.

"I... just want... just this, that's all."

The small plastic disc slides through the fabric with the softest whisper. Daryl's breath catches, his eyes watching you through the curtain of his hair, searching for any sign of hesitation.

"Take your time," he murmurs, though his heart is hammering against his ribs. "Ain't goin' nowhere."

Your fingers pause at the second button, and he sees the ghosts flickering behind your eyes. Without thinking, his hand covers yours, stilling your movements.

"S'okay," he breathes, waiting until you look at him. He loosens your hand gently, bringing it up to his lips where he holds it there, his mouth barely brushing your knuckles as he murmurs soft reassurances. "Ain't gonna do nothin' "

His lips move against your skin with each whispered word, warm breath ghosting over your fingers. "Don't need nothin' more. Just you. Just this."

"You make me feel... safe." you whisper, your voice steadier than he expected, turning your hand in his so you can trace his lips with your fingertip, like he did to yours.

That word breaks something open in his chest. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "Y'safe. Always gonna be. Ain't goin' nowhere we don't both wanna."

The second button gives way under your careful touch, revealing a sliver of scarred skin. He can see his own scars beginning to show in the dim light, the raised lines and old wounds he's carried like shame his whole life.

His jaw tightens involuntarily.

The third button comes undone easier, your confidence growing with each soft encouragement he offers - a gentle hum, a barely-there smile, the way his eyes never leave your face instead of looking down at the parts of him you're revealing.

"Daryl," you whisper as the fourth button slips free, his shirt now hanging open across most of his chest. The scars are visible now - raised lines and faded marks that tell stories he's never wanted to share. But the way you're looking at him... there's no judgment, no horror. Just acceptance.

"I know they ain't pretty," he starts, his voice catching.

"Shh." You silence him softly. "They're part of you. And you're..." You struggle for words, your thumb tracing along his collarbone with infinite care. "You're perfect to me."

His eyes flutter closed at the words he never thought he'd hear, never thought he deserved to hear. When he opens them again, there are tears threatening at the corners.

Unable to find words, he leans down and captures your lips in the softest kiss, barely more than a whisper of contact. It's tentative, asking permission even as he gives it. When you don't pull away, he deepens it just slightly, his lips moving against yours with reverent slowness. He tastes like hope and healing, like coming home after being lost for too long.

When you part, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in. "Never thought..." he starts, then shakes his head, overwhelmed. Instead, he traces the line of your jaw with his nose, pressing tiny kisses along the way. Each one is a promise, a declaration he's too overwhelmed to speak aloud.

Your hands frame his face, thumbs stroking slow careful circles on his cheeks. "I'm so lucky" you murmur more to yourself then to him.

The fifth and final button slides free, his shirt falling completely open. But instead of pushing the fabric away, you simply let your palm rest against his chest, over his heart.

When your fingers finally trace the edge of one of his scars - not with pity, but with the same care he's shown you - he nearly comes undone.

"Thank you," you whisper against his skin, and he knows you're not just thanking him for this moment, but for all of it.

For the patience, the gentleness, for showing you that touch doesn't have to hurt, that intimacy doesn't have to be taken.

"Thank you," he echoes back, his voice thick with emotion, "for trustin' me. For... for this."

Daryl eyes watch you through the curtain of his hair.

Your movements are achingly slow, the way you're looking at him, tracing the lines of his chest with your eyes like you're memorizing him...

He carefully pushes the shirt off his shoulders, his movements careful and deliberate. The cotton falls away, leaving him vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with his exposed skin and everything to do with trust.

You press closer, your warmth seeping thru the flannel your wrapped in and seeping into his skin, and it's like coming back to life after being dead. Warm and soft and perfect, and for a moment he can forget everything else exists.

He cups your cheek in his hand, thumb tracing just under your eye, in a soft steady arch. You lean into the touch, your eyes closing in something that looks like peace.

"Y'got me," he whispers against your forehead, pressing the softest kiss there. "Always gonna have me."

"Promise?" you ask, and there's something vulnerable in your voice that makes his chest ache.

"Promise," he says, sealing it with another gentle kiss to your temple. "M'here, always."

Your lips find his jawline, pressing tiny kisses along the rough stubble. Each one sends electricity through him, but it's not desire - it's connection, intimacy, the rebuilding of something.

His nose presses into the curve of your neck, the space between your hair and your soft skin breathing you in, letting himself believe that maybe, just maybe, you can heal from this together.

You're both moving slowly, carefully, mapping each other with gentle touches and soft kisses, replacing cruelty with care. Your fingers trace the lines of his face in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, and he leans into every touch like he's been starved for tenderness his whole life.

Barely-there brushes of lips, tentative and sweet, like you're both afraid the other might disappear. Daryl's mouth finds yours with infinite patience, pressing soft kisses to your lips, the corner of your mouth, your cheek.

"Still okay?" he whispers against your skin, forehead pressed to yours, he's so close you can see the small flecks of gold in the blue of his eyes, and when you nod a smile curving your lips, he deepens the kiss just slightly, his lips moving against yours with careful reverence. There's no urgency, no demand—just pure care, the kind that makes your heart flutter like a bird taking flight.

Your hands find his face, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, and he leans into your touch with a soft hum. His own hands are gentle as they frame your face, thumbs stroking across your cheekbones as he kisses you again, deeper this time but still so careful, so controlled.

The kiss grows gradually, hesitantly, like a flower blooming in slow motion. When you part for air, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in. "Can't believe you're here with me." he murmurs, voice thick with emotion.

His lips find yours again, and this time there's more certainty, more trust. Your fingers tangle in his hair at the nape of his neck, and you make a soft sound against his mouth—part gratitude, part wonder. He kisses you like you're spun glass that might shatter if he's not careful enough.

When you break apart, both breathing hard, he trails soft kisses across your face—your temple, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose. Each touch is a promise, a declaration of how much you mean to him. His hands smooth over your shoulders, down your arms, fingers interlacing with yours.

"Never thought ... was so scared ... thought I'd lost y'forever," he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper.

You respond by pressing closer, your lips finding his again. This kiss is deeper, more trusting, and you can feel something shifting between you both—walls coming down, fear giving way to something warmer, safer. His hands are warm against your skin, careful, slow barely there as they trace patterns along your arms, your shoulders.

The night air is cool against your skin where the blanket has shifted down to your waists, but wrapped in Daryl's arms, you feel nothing but warmth. The blankets cocoon you both in softness, and for a moment, the world outside ceases to exist. There's only this—the gentle give and take of tender kisses, the careful exploration of hands that have learned to be gentle after years of violence.

Then Daryl shifts, his weight settling over you slightly as he reaches to pull the blanket up, and everything changes.

The movement is innocent—protective, even—but the moment you feel his weight above you, your body betrays you. You freeze beneath him, every muscle going rigid as panic floods your system. Your breathing turns sharp and panicked, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow gasps.

Daryl feels the change immediately. The way you go still beneath him, the way your hands that were just holding him now push weakly against his chest. When he looks down at you, your eyes are wide with terror, pupils dilated, staring at something he can't see.

"No," you whisper, so quiet he almost doesn't hear it. "Please, don't..."

Tears well in your eyes, and he can practically see the flashback happening—Negan's weight, Negan's hands, Negan's voice telling you what he was going to do to you. You're not seeing Daryl anymore; you're back in that room, trapped with a monster.

"S'me," Daryl says immediately, rolling away from you to give you space, his hands raised where you can see them. "It's just me. Yer wit' me. You're safe."

But you're somewhere else, lost in a memory that makes you curl inwards, arms wrapping instinctively around yourself, quiet sobs shaking your shoulders. Your whole body trembles like a leaf in a storm.

His hands hover over you, wanting desperately to comfort you, but he doesn't dare rush. Instead, he reaches for your hand, his fingers gently finding yours.

"Hey," he whispers, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Can you feel my hand? M'right here w'you."

When you don't respond, lost in the terrible memory, he carefully interlaces his fingers with yours, squeezing gently—not demanding, just anchoring. A lifeline back to the present.

"Hey, hey, look at me," he says, his voice cutting through the panic like a lifeline. His hand squeezes yours gently. "S'me. It's Daryl. You're safe, you hear me? You're in the Kingdom. You're w'me."

When you can't stop shaking, when the terror has you in its grip and won't let go, he doesn't try to hold you still. Instead, he talks you through it, his voice steady and sure.

"Feel my hand? S'me touchin' you. Ain't nobody else. Just me." He takes your hand and presses it flat against his chest. "Feel that heartbeat? S'me ... Jus' me ... Daryl, your Daryl ... right here w'you. Won't let nobody touch you"

His voice is like an anchor in the storm, rough and gravelly but so gentle it makes your chest ache. "Y'safe. I got you. Ain't gonna let nothin' happen to you, you hear me? Not now, not ever."

What you don't see is the glisten in his eyes, his voice is steady, but there is genuine effort to keep it that way and his lip trembles ever so slightly at the sight of your panic.

The contact seems to anchor you. Your breathing starts to slow, the panic gradually ebbing like a tide pulling back from shore. The tears continue to fall, but the shaking lessens.

"That's it,"

Eventually, your breathing evens out. The tears stop. You uncurl slowly, like a flower opening to hesitant sunlight. When you finally look at him, your eyes are red-rimmed but clearer, more present.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, voice hoarse from crying. "I just wanted... to be closer... but not... I can't..."

The words break his heart. That you're apologizing to him, that you think this is your fault somehow.

His voice is so gentle but full of conviction. "I know what you wanted. S'all I wannted too, ain't trying for nothin' more."

You look at him with such gratitude it breaks his heart all over again. This man who could take what he wanted, who's strong enough to overpower you without breaking a sweat, and instead he's sitting there holding your hand like it's made of precious metal, giving you all the space and time you need.

Slowly, carefully, you move back toward him. You curl into his chest, your head finding its perfect place against his heart. His legs settle on either side of yours, creating a protective cocoon without any weight pressing down on you.

You can feel the tension leaving your body as you melt into him completely, every muscle finally relaxing in the safety of his embrace.

He wraps his arms around you with infinite gentleness, like he's cradling something infinitely precious. One hand comes up to stroke your hair, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back.

"Still need you," you whisper against his skin, the words barely audible.

"M'here," he promises, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath your ear. "Imma pull the blankets up? Keep you warm?"

You nod against him, and he presses the lightest kiss to your crown before he moving with deliberate slowness, reaching for the soft cotton and drawing it up around both of you.

Every movement is careful, telegraphed, making sure you never feel trapped or overwhelmed. The blankets settle around your shoulders like a gentle embrace, sealing you both in warmth and safety.

"Ain't going nowhere."

He holds you as you drift back toward sleep, one hand stroking your hair with feather-light touches, the other keeping yours safely tucked against his chest. He listens to your breathing even out, feels the tension gradually leave your body as sleep claims you.

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rika-mmendmethings · 1 day ago

Text

Mirage l Caleb

Chapter 2

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 coming soon

Summary: In a world where power is survival's currency, you are a former top Colonel in the Farspace Fleet, now demoted to lieutenant colonel. You've lost your rank to Caleb, a newcomer who has taken your place. But when fate takes, it also gives. You discover that the man you despise is linked to the very organization you've been trying to expose for years. Yet, you find yourself being deterred from your mission as the line between loathing and love blurs.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story but main ones are: enemies to lovers, slowburn, major character death(s), extreme violence, yandere themes. For currently this chapter: reader is insane, mentions of brainwashing, malnutrition, and experimentation, fratricide, emotional manipulation, minor character death and guns, graphic violence, eye gore/ trauma, implied torture, revenge narrative, major foreshadowing, psychological trauma, morally grey protagonist.

Word count: 2.2k

Notes: This story is the Caleb girlies especially the ones who love Colonel Caleb. Farspace Fleet and EVER are not related, i.e., both are different organizations with distinct criminal histories. The timelines can be and will be going astray because this is a reader-insert. This feels like a filler chapter with hell lot of foreshadowing for future. If you have any more questions, feel free to ask me, and I'll try my best to give you a proper answer without revealing too much. Let me know if you wish to be added to the tag list for this. ♥

Tag list: @browneyedgirl22 @tatauane @his-ocean-emissary @rxelarailuj @junni-berry @glowinthedarkforests @motherspider @justpassingdontworry @nm4565natty @luwumii @chiikasevennn @lads-ficrecs @aiehtta

"Do you regret it?"

Your voice is flat — colorless, empty, like a slate scrubbed raw. It echoes in the sterile chamber, each syllable hollow and slow. Your face is shriveled from starvation, the skin stretched too tightly over your cheekbones, a frail frame draped in the papery folds of a hospital gown. Test after test had devoured your body, carved youth from your bones — but there’s still something young in your eyes, something that hasn’t quite died.

Across from you, your brother kneels. His colonel’s cap lies abandoned at his feet like a discarded crown. His head is bowed. His whole frame shakes with the weight of what he cannot take back.

“Every single minute of it,” he sobs, voice wet and broken. “I shouldn't have done that. I'm so sorry...”

He folds before you, hands clasped, face crumpled by grief, the proud soldier reduced to nothing but a penitent man. Behind you, a glass box is lit with sterile white light, lined with the silhouettes of higher-ups who watched not as people, but as mechanisms of control. Their pens moved in tandem, indifferent.

You lower yourself to your knees. A mirror of his posture, hands drawn together in a gesture not of prayer, but of bitter imitation. A few tears roll down your cheeks, but your face remains blank. You mirrored his desperation with a detached precision like a puppeteer imitating his own puppet.

He stills, the horror dawns slowly in his eyes as he truly sees you — the pallor, the sunken cheeks, the trembling hands that no longer tremble from fear, only from what they’ve endured. He sees the aftermath of what he helped build.

“What’s so special about this position?” you murmur, voice distant. “Look, I’m kneeling too. Does that make me sorry enough?”

His breath catches, eyes wide, shame catching up to sorrow. He begs again, trying to reach out to his younger sister, hoping she’s still there, “Please…forgive me.”

You reach out, cupping his face with your hands. Your fingers brush beneath his eyes, catching his tears as he once caught yours when you were younger, when love hadn't yet been replaced by greed.

“I do forgive you.”

You notice the exact second the hope flickered in his eyes, like a spark catching on kindling. That small, pathetic second. You watch his shoulders release, as if he could finally breathe again, hope blooming like a fool’s flower.

You continue without a rush, "Except my forgiveness is death."

Then, without warning, you plunge your nails into his eye.

His scream shatters the silence. A high, animal cry that rattles your skull, reverberates through the glass, crashes into the cold hearts of your observers like a warning. But no one moves. They simply write faster.

Your brother’s scream rips through the sterile air — hoarse, guttural, drenched in agony. It fills the room, bounces off the reinforced walls, and claws at your ears. But you remain silent.

His hands flail weakly toward his face, blood gushing from the ruined socket in thick, uneven pulses, painting his face in deep, wet reds. His body shakes as he crumples forward, knees buckling.

You don’t look away.

Instead, your hand moves to his hip, swift and deliberate. With a single pull, you draw the revolver from his holster — the one he always wore with pride, with the false weight of command. The cold steel rests in your palm like it was made for you.

You flip the cylinder open. It spins with a metallic whisper — the sound sharp, purposeful, final. Then you snap it shut with a flick of your wrist, the weight of loaded chambers locking into place. You raise the revolver and aim at his chest, right over his heart.

Six bullets. You fire without taking a single breath.

Each one hits just above the heart — a tight cluster. His body jerks, folds inward, then drops entirely. The life leaves him before the sixth casing clinks to the floor. He lies motionless in a spreading pool of blood. It pours from his chest in waves, soaking into the floor beneath him and radiating outward, thick and dark. The splash extends almost a full meter — reaching even his fallen colonel’s cap.

His face is frozen in the last moments of pain and disbelief. You look at him for a second longer. Then nothing. Wordlessly, you place the revolver beside you with detached care.

Your gaze shifts to the cap — the once-pristine symbol of rank now soaked in his blood, resting like a crown at the feet of a corpse. You pick it up slowly. Blood smears across your fingers. It drips down the sides as you lift it and press it onto your head with both hands.

It sits crooked. It doesn't matter.

Your brother’s blood trickles down your temple, streaks your cheek, drips along your jawline but you make no effort to wipe it away. You simply turn.

And from beyond the glass wall, the higher-ups stare back, impressed. One of them speaks in a measured voice, “The Farspace Fleet welcomes the new colonel.”

You cough as you frantically sit up on your bed, lungs convulsing like they’re rejecting the air. For a moment, you don’t know where you are — only the phantom of everything lingers, still echoing behind your eyes. You reach blindly for the glass on your bedside table, knocking it over in your desperation before finally finding the rim. The water goes down in gasps, not gulps, like you're trying to drown the memory still lodged in your throat.

Nightmares like these plagued you every night ever since that day six years ago.

The faint white glow of the clock flickers. Still ten minutes before the alarm. You could lie back down. Pretend you still have rest left to salvage. But you don’t. With a slow exhale, you push off the sheets and swing your legs over the edge of the bed to freshen up for the day.

You stand before the mirror, the sterile light of your quarters casting a cold sheen over the navy blue uniform hanging on the rack. It’s an alien thing, this fabric dyed with the insignia of Lieutenant Colonel — junior adjutants must have slipped it in, replacing the deep, commanding black of your Colonel’s attire like a thief in the night. Your breath catches, a bitter laugh barely contained in your throat. To wear it feels like donning shackles forged from threads of humiliation, each stitch whispering the quiet betrayal of your demotion. The cloth presses against your skin with a strange chill, as if your own flesh rejects the designation sewn into its seams.

Fingers steady, you brush your hair back, eyes locked on the new badges, aiguillette, insignia for the Lieutenant Colonel — these small, ornate emblems, representing your fall from the ranks. You slip into the uniform reluctantly, the stiff collar biting into your neck, the fabric stretching uncomfortably over shoulders that had once borne the weight of command with pride.

Once dressed, your gaze returns to the mirror. Your eyes trace the faint, nearly imperceptible scar just a centimeter below your hairline — a fine, cruel incision, starting from your right side of the forehead and evenly straight till ending at the left side. The scar stirs a sour taste in your mouth, bile rising unbidden as the flood of recollections crashes through your mind. You turn away abruptly, unwilling to confront the ghost reflected back at you.

Your hand moves with practiced ease to the leather holster at your hip, the familiar cold weight of your revolver reassuring against your thigh. It is the only constant in this sea of upheaval, the single thread of power and control left within your grasp.

The corridors outside are slick with metal and light, the hum of cybernetic systems vibrating through the walls like the pulse of some great beast. Your destination: the cyber operations unit, a labyrinthine nexus of screens and servers where information is both weapon and shield.

You made your way to the far left end of the unit, boots dragging a little more than usual, and flopped into a vacant chair without ceremony. The hard metal frame groaned under your weight, but you didn’t care. You leaned back, eyes tracing the ceiling for a second before settling on the figure in front of you.

Inez sat behind her monitor, fingers already tapping at the keys, though they slowed when she noticed you. Her station was a clutter of wires, screen glare, and half-drunk energy cans, but she moved through it all like it was second nature. Over the years, she’d become something between a contact and a comrade — always at the backend of your hunts, digging through firewalls when your suspicions flared. She wasn’t flashy, but she was efficient and reliable.

Without looking up, she asked, “Whose data do you want me to pull out?”

You heard the subtle acceleration in her typing as she preemptively started combing the secure archives. Probably backdoor access — she didn’t bother hiding that from you anymore.

“Caleb Xia.”

Her fingers paused and so did her breath.

When she looked at you, it wasn’t confusion — it was quiet scrutiny. You met her stare, no expression, no hesitation. After a beat, she exhaled hard through her nose and muttered, “The new colonel? You think he’s with that organization?”

You rested your chin in one hand, fingers tapping a lazy rhythm on the edge of her desk. “Involved is too soft a word. He’s probably splitting Friday takeout with the CEO.”

She didn’t laugh. Just gave you the kind of unimpressed look that said she was already regretting asking. But she turned back to her terminal and began pulling records anyway.

“How are you still so sure it’s EVER?” she asked, voice even.

You rolled your eyes and sat up straighter. “Come on, Inez. EVER’s been crawling up the Fleet’s spine for five years. We’ve all felt the shift — ghost promotions, redacted ops, officers disappearing into black-site contracts and never coming back. And now, out of nowhere, an adjutant becomes colonel? Please.”

You leaned back again, letting your shoulders drop. “With the kind of access he has now... If we don’t stop him, we’ll be two steps behind forever. And I don’t intend on being behind. Not this time. Not with him.”

She didn’t argue, just gave a slow, acknowledging nod and kept typing. You watched the flicker of windows open on her screen, one after another.

“Alright,” she murmured, scanning. “No parents and was adopted by a woman named Josephine. She also adopted another girl. Xia’s three years younger than you. Graduated top three from the Aerospace Academy. Did some classified work under DAA for three years before transferring into the Fleet.”

You nodded, distracted, eyes drifting toward the rubik’s cube on her desk. Your hands moved on instinct, twisting colors into place as the room filled with the soft clack of plastic.

Inez's face has gone still — too still. Her fingers hover above the keyboard, frozen in place like they’d hit something sharp in the code, something she hadn’t expected. The steady click of keys has died, replaced by a silence that buzzes louder than any alarm. Her lips press into a thin line, her brows inch together just slightly — enough to make your instincts prickle.

You straighten in the rolling chair, the worn leather creaking under your shifting weight. The rubik’s cube stills in your hand. “What?” you ask, voice low, measured. “What is it?”

Inez’s eyes narrowed, her fingers hovering above the mouse. The glow of her monitor cast thin shadows over her face as she read, lips pressing into a firmer line.

“He has a death certificate attached,” she said, voice clipped, almost skeptical. “Filed by Linkon City Hall. It’s been crossed out now, but the reason listed is an accidental fire at Josephine’s house in the Bloomshore District. His body wasn’t recovered, but he was still declared dead.”

You didn’t stop solving the cube, but your focus had sharpened. Each turn now deliberate.

She continued without prompting. “The certificate was erased from the system last year, after he joined the Fleet as an adjutant. They filed it under document irrelevance. And here’s what’s interesting — before that fire, he worked with DAA. Then he vanishes. After he’s declared alive again, suddenly he’s with Fleet. No in-between. No transit records, no job switches, not even a relocation stamp.”

You finished the cube with a firm twist, all the colors falling neatly into place. A breath left your chest, shallow and unreadable. You placed it back on her desk, standing up with a smooth motion and adjusting your hat like it were a mantle being shifted back into place.

“Thanks for the pull,” you said, tone light but eyes fixed, unreadable.

Inez raised a brow, mildly taken aback by your lack of commentary. “That’s it?” she asked. “What are you gonna do now?”

Your silence lingered for a beat too long, then a slow, cunning smile took your lips. One that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Oh, you know,” you said, brushing imaginary dust off your sleeves. “Prod. Put our dear colonel in a spot where the mask slips. See if he holds up when things get... personal.”

You tipped your hat once — a subtle motion to bid her farewell, more habit than flair — and she gave a lazy wave in return, already turning back to her screen as if she hadn’t just handed over the keys to someone’s buried past.

And with that, you turned, your boots thudding against the steel floor as you figured where to locate him.

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