#I feel like I missed a few people but if I did

[abbotjack]

Asking Robby to walk you down the aisle after u said yes to Jack hOLD MY HAND SYDDDD 😭😭😭😭

The Handoff 𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

a/n : I fear I took your idea and turned it into a 4k word emotional spiral. I genuinely couldn’t help myself. like… Jack crying in uniform??? Robby soft-dad-coded and holding it together until he can’t??? the handoff?? the dress reveal??

summary : Jack proposes in the trauma bay. You say yes. Before the wedding, you ask Robby to walk you down the aisle.

content/warnings: emotional wedding fluff, quiet proposal energy, found family themes, Jack crying in uniform, Robby in full dad-mode, reader with no biological family, soft military references, subtle grief, emotional intimacy, and everyone in the ER being completely unprepared for Jack Abbot to have visible feelings.

word count : 4,149 (... hear me out)

You hadn’t expected Jack to propose.

Not because you didn’t think he wanted to. But because Jack Abbot didn’t really ask for things. He was a man of action. Not words. Never had been.

But with you? He always showed it.

Like brushing your shoulder on the way to a trauma room—not for luck, not for show, just to say I’m here.

It was how he peeled oranges for you. Always handed to you in a napkin, wedges split and cleaned of the white stringy parts—because you once mentioned you hated them. And he remembered.

It was how he left the porch light on when you got held over.

How he’d warm your side of the bed with a heating pad when your back ached.

He’d hook his pinky with yours in the hallway. Leave your favorite hoodie—his—folded on your pillow when he knew he’d miss you by a few hours.

Jack didn’t say “I love you” like other people. He said it like this. In gestures. In patterns. In choosing you, over and over, without fanfare.

No big speeches. No dramatic declarations.

Just peeled oranges. Warm beds. Soft touches.

So when it finally happened—a proposal, of all things—it caught you off guard.

Not because you didn’t think he meant it. But because you’d never pictured it. Not from him. Not like this.

The trauma bay was quiet now. The kind of quiet that only happens after a win—after the adrenaline fades, the stats even out and the patient lives. You’d both been working the case for nearly forty minutes, side by side, barked orders and that intense, seamless rhythm you’d only ever found with him.

You saved a life tonight. Together.

And now the world outside the curtain was humming soft and far away.

You stood by the sink, scrubbing off the last of the blood—good blood, this time. He was leaning against the supply cabinet, gloves off. Something in his shoulders had dropped. His body loose in that way it never really was unless you were alone.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched you in that quiet way he always did when his guard was down—like he was trying to memorize you, just in case you weren’t there to catch him tomorrow.

You flicked water from your hands. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You gave him a look.

He hesitated.

Then, casually—as casually as only Jack could manage while asking you something that was about to gut you—

“I’d marry you.”

You froze. Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just enough that he caught the subtle change in your face, the way your mouth parted like you needed more air all of a sudden.

His eyes didn’t move. He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke.

“If you wanted,” he added after a beat, voice a little lower now. A little rougher. “I would.”

It didn’t sound like a performance. It sounded like a truth he’d been sitting on for months. One he only knew how to say in places like this—where the lighting was too bright and your hearts were still racing and nothing else existed but you two still breathing.

Your chest ached.

“Yeah,” you said. It came out quieter than you meant to. “I’d marry you too.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

And then he stepped toward you—not fast, not dramatic, just steady. Like he’d already decided that he was yours. Like this wasn’t new, just something the two of you had known without ever having to say it.

No ring. No big speech. No audience.

Just you. Him. The place where it all made sense.

“You’re it for me,” he murmured.

And you smiled too, because yeah—he didn’t say things often. But when he did?

They wrecked you.

Because he meant them. And he meant this.

You. Forever.

You didn’t tell anyone, not right away.

Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you didn’t have anyone to tell. Not in the way other people did.

There were no group texts. No parents to call. No siblings waiting on the other end of the line, ready to scream and cry and make it real. You’d built your life from the ground up—and for a long time, that had felt like enough. You’d learned how to move through the world quietly. Efficiently. Without needing to belong to anyone. Without needing to be someone’s daughter.

But then came residency.

And Robby.

He hadn’t swooped in. Hadn’t made it obvious. That wasn’t his style. But the first week of your intern year, when you’d gotten chewed out by a trauma surgeon in the middle of the ER, it was Robby who handed you a water, sat next to you in the stairwell, and said, “He’s an asshole. Don’t let it stick.”

After that, it just… happened. Slowly.

He checked your notes when you looked too tired to think. He drove you home once in a snowstorm and started keeping granola bars in his glovebox—just in case.

He noticed you never talked about home. Never mentioned your parents. Never took time off for holidays.

He never asked. But he was always there.

When you matched into the program full-time, he texted, Knew it.

When you pulled your first solo central line, he left a sticky note on your locker: Took you long enough, show-off.

When a shift gutted you so bad you couldn’t breathe, he sat beside you on the floor of the supply room and didn’t say a word.

You never called him a father figure. You didn’t need to.

He just was.

So when the proposal finally felt real—settled, certain—you knew who you had to tell first.

You found him three days later, camped at his usual spot at the nurse’s station—reading glasses sliding down his nose, his ridiculous “#1 Interrogator” mug tucked in one hand. He didn’t notice you at first. You just stood there, stomach buzzing, watching the way he tapped his pen against the margin like he was trying not to throw the whole file out a window.

“Hey,” you said, trying not to fidget.

He looked up. “You look like you’re about to tell me someone died.”

“No one died.”

He leaned back in the chair, eyebrows raised. “Alright. Hit me.”

You opened your mouth—then paused. Your heart was thudding like you’d just sprinted up from sub-level trauma.

Then, quiet: “Jack proposed.”

A beat.

Another.

Robby blinked. “Wait—what?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Three days ago.”

His mouth opened. Then shut again. Then opened.

“In the middle of a shift?” he asked finally, like he couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or impressed.

You smiled. “End of a code. We’d just saved a guy. He said, ‘I’d marry you. If you wanted.’”

Robby looked down, then laughed quietly. “Of course he did. That’s so him.”

“I said yes.”

“Obviously you did.”

You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure.

“I didn’t know who to tell. But… I wanted you to know first.”

That landed.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, his face soft in that way he rarely let it be. Like something behind his ribs had cracked open a little.

Then he let out a breath. Slow. Rough at the edges.

“He told me, you know,” he said. “A few weeks ago. That he was thinking about it.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“Well—‘told me’ is generous,” he muttered. “He cornered me outside the supply closet and said something like, ‘I don’t know if she’d say yes, but I think I need to ask.’ Then grunted and walked away.”

You laughed, head tilting. “That sounds about right.”

“I figured it would happen eventually,” Robby said. “I just didn’t know it already had. This is the first I’m hearing that he actually went through with it.”

He looked down at his coffee, thumb brushing the rim. Then back up at you with something warm in his expression that made your throat go tight.

“I’m proud of you, kid. Really.”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t really have… anyone,” you said. “Not like that. But you’ve always been—”

He waved a hand, cutting you off before you could get too sentimental. His voice was quiet when he said, “I know.”

You nodded. Tried to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

“You crying on me?” he teased gently.

“No,” you lied.

“Liar.”

He reached up and gave your arm a firm pat—one of those dad-move, no-nonsense gestures—but he kept his hand there for a second, steady and warm.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said. “The two of you. That’s gonna be something good.”

You smiled at the floor. Then at him.

“Hey, Robby?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

You opened your mouth—hesitated. The words were there. Right there on your tongue. But they felt too big, too final for a hallway and a half-empty cup of coffee.

You shook your head, smiling just a little. “Actually… never mind.”

His eyes softened instantly. No push. No questions.

Just, “Alright. Whenever you’re ready.”

And somehow, you knew—he already knew what you were going to ask. And when the time came, he’d say yes without hesitation.

It happened on a Wednesday. Late enough in the evening that most of the ER had emptied out, early enough that the halls still echoed with footsteps and intercom beeps and nurses joking in breakrooms. You’d just finished a back-to-back shift—one of those long, hazy doubles where time folds in on itself. Your ID badge was flipped around on its lanyard. You smelled like sweat, sanitizer, and twelve hours of recycled air.

You found Robby in the stairwell.

Not for any sentimental reason—that’s just where he always went to decompress. A quiet landing. One of the overhead lights had a faint flicker, and he was sitting on the fourth step, half reading something, half just existing. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows.

He looked tired in that familiar, permanent way. But settled. Like someone who wasn’t trying to be anywhere else.

“Hey,” you said, voice low.

He looked up instantly. “You good?”

You nodded. Walked down a few steps until you were standing just above him.

“I need to ask you something.”

He squinted. “You pregnant?”

You snorted. “No.”

“Did Jack do something stupid?”

“Also no.”

He closed the folder in his lap and gave you his full attention.

You hesitated. A long beat. “Okay, so—when I was younger, I used to lie.”

Robby blinked. “That’s where this is going?”

You ignored him.

“I’d make up stories about my family. At school. Whenever there was some essay or form or ‘bring your parents to career day’ crap—I’d just invent someone. A dad who was a firefighter. A mom who was a nurse. A grandma who sent birthday cards.”

Robby didn’t move. Just listened.

“And I got good at it. Lying. Not because I wanted to, but because it was easier than explaining why I didn’t have anybody. Why there was no one to call if something happened. Why I always stayed late. Why I never talked about holidays.”

You looked down at him now. Really looked at him.

“I didn’t make anything up this time.”

His brow furrowed, just slightly.

“Because I have someone now,” you said. “I do.”

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

You took a breath that shook a little in your chest.

“And I’m getting married in a few months, and there’s this part I keep thinking about. The aisle. Walking down it. That moment.”

You cleared your throat.

“I don’t want it to be random. Or symbolic. Or just… for show.”

Another breath.

“I want it to be you.”

Robby blinked once.

Then again.

His mouth opened like he was about to say something. Closed. Then opened again.

“You want me to walk you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He exhaled hard. Looked away for a second like he needed the extra space to catch up to his own heart.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re really trying to kill me.”

You smiled. “You can say no.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” He looked up at you, and his voice cracked just slightly. “Of course I’ll do it.”

You hadn’t expected to get emotional. Not really. But hearing it out loud—that he’d do it, that he meant it—it undid something small and knotted in your chest.

“You’re one of the best things that ever happened to me, you know that?” he said.

“I didn’t have a plan when you showed up that first year. Just thought, ‘this kid needs a break,’ and next thing I knew you were stealing my chair and bitching about suture kits like we’d been doing this for a decade.”

You laughed, throat thick. “That sounds about right.”

“I’m gonna need a suit now, huh?”

“You don’t have to wear a suit.”

“Oh, no, no. I’m going full emotional support tuxedo. I’m showing up with cufflinks. Maybe a cane.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

He stood then—slower than he used to, one hand on the railing—and looked at you with that same warmth he always tried to hide under sarcasm and caffeine.

“You did good, kid.”

You gave a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

The music started before you were ready.

It was quiet at first. Just the soft swell of strings rising behind the door. But your hands were shaking, your throat was tight, and everything felt too big all of a sudden.

Robby looked over, standing next to you in the little alcove just off the chapel doors, tie only mostly straight, boutonniere slightly crooked like he’d pinned it on in the car.

“You’re breathing like you’re about to code out,” he said gently.

You gave him a half-laugh, half-gasp. “I think I might.”

He tilted his head. “You okay?”

“No,” you whispered, eyes already burning. “I don’t know—maybe. Yes. I just—Jack’s out there. And everyone’s watching. What if I trip? Or ugly cry? Or completely blank and forget how to walk?”

Robby didn’t flinch. He just reached out and took your hand—steady and instinctive—his thumb brushing over your knuckles the way he had that night during your intern year, when you’d locked yourself in the on-call room and couldn’t stop shaking after your first failed intubation. He didn’t say anything then either. Just sat beside you on the floor and held your hand like this—anchoring, patient, there.

“Hey,” Robby said—steady, but quieter now. “You’re walking toward the only guy I’ve ever seen drop everything—without thinking—just because you looked a little off walking out of a shift.”

You blinked, chest already starting to tighten.

“I’ve watched him learn you,” Robby continued. “Slow. Quiet. Like he was memorizing every version of you without making it a thing. The tired version. The pissed-off version. The one who forgets to eat and pretends she’s fine.”

He let out a quiet laugh, still looking right at you.

“I’ve seen Jack do a thoracotomy with one hand and hold pressure with the other. I’ve seen him walk into scenes nobody else wanted, shirt soaked, pulse steady, like he already knew how it would end. He doesn’t rattle. Hell, I watched him take a punch from a drunk in triage and not even blink.”

His hand tightened around yours—just slightly.

“That’s how I know,” he said. “That this is it. Because Jack—the guy who’s walked into burning scenes with blood on his boots and didn’t even flinch—looked scared shitless the second he realized he couldn’t picture his life without you. Not because he didn’t think you’d say yes. But because he knew it meant something. That this wasn’t something he could compartmentalize or walk away from if it got hard. Loving you? That’s the one thing he can't afford to lose.”

Your eyes burned instantly. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Good. Less pressure on me to be the first one.”

You gave him a teary smile. “You ready?”

Robby offered his arm. “Kid, I’ve been ready since the day you stopped listing ‘N/A’ under emergency contact.”

The doors creaked open.

You sucked in a breath.

And then—

The music swelled.

Not the dramatic kind—no orchestral swell, no overblown strings. Just the soft, deliberate rise of something warm and low and steady. Something that sounded like home.

The crowd stood. Rows of people from different pieces of your life, blurred behind the blur in your eyes. You couldn’t see any one of them clearly—not Dana, not Langdon, not Whitaker fidgeting with his tie—but you felt them. Their hush. Their stillness.

And at the far end of the aisle stood Jack—dressed in his Army blues.

Not a rented tux. Not a tailored suit.

His uniform.

Pressed. Precise. Quietly immaculate.

It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t for show. It was him.

He hadn’t worn it to make a statement. He wore it because there were people in the pews who knew him from before—before the ER, before Pittsburgh, before you. Men and women who had bled beside him, saved lives beside him, watched him shoulder more than anyone should—and never once seen him like this.

Undone. Open.

There were people in his family who’d worn that uniform long before him. And people he’d served with who taught him what it meant to wear it well. Not for attention. Not for tradition. But because it meant something. A history. A duty. A vow he never stopped honoring—even long after the war ended.

And when you saw him standing there—dress blues crisp under the soft chapel light, shoulders squared, mouth tight, eyes full—you didn’t see someone dressed for a ceremony.

You saw him.

All of him. The past, the present, the parts that had been broken and rebuilt a dozen times over. The weight he’d never put down. The man he’d become when no one else was watching.

Jack didn’t flinch as the doors opened. He didn’t smile, didn’t wipe his eyes. He just stood there—steady, quiet, letting himself feel it.

Letting you see it.

And somehow, that meant more than anything he could’ve said.

The room stayed still, breath held around you.

Until, from somewhere near the front, Javadi’s whisper sliced through the quiet:

“Is he—oh my God, is Abbot crying?”

Mohan choked on a mint. Someone—maybe Santos—audibly gasped.

And halfway down the aisle—when your breath caught and your knees went just a little loose—Robby spoke, voice low and smug, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Well,” Robby muttered, voice low and smug, “remind me to collect $20 from Myrna next shift.”

You glanced at him, confused. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes forward, deadpan. “Nothing. Just—turns out you weren’t the only one betting on whether Jack would cry.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“She said he was carved from Army-grade stone and wouldn’t shed a tear if the hospital burned down with him inside. I disagreed.”

You gawked at him.

“She told me—and I quote—‘If Dr. Y/L/N ever changes her mind, tell her to step aside, because I will climb that man like a jungle gym.’”

You almost tripped. “Robby.”

“She’s got her sights set. Calls him ‘sergeant sweetheart’ when the nurses aren’t looking.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, laughing through the tears already welling. And the altar still felt a mile away.

He finally glanced at you, face softening. “I said she didn’t stand a chance.”

You blinked fast.

“Because from the second he saw you?” Robby added, voice lower now. “That was it. He was done for.”

You had never felt so chosen. So sure. So completely loved by someone who once thought emotions were best left unsaid.

Robby must have felt the shift in your weight, because he pulled you in slightly closer. His hand—broad and warm—curved around your arm like it had a thousand times before. Steady. Grounding. Father-coded to the core.

“You got this,” he murmured. “Look at him.”

You did.

And Jack was still there—still crying. Not bothering to wipe his eyes. Not hiding it. Like he knew nothing else mattered more than this moment. Than you.

When you finally reached the end of the aisle, Jack stepped forward before the officiant could speak. Like instinct.

Robby didn’t move at first.

He just looked at you—long and hard, eyes bright.

Then looked at Jack.

Then back at you.

His hand lingered at the small of your back.

And his voice, when it came, was rougher than usual. “You good?”

You nodded, too full to speak.

He nodded back. “Alright.”

And then—quietly, like it was something he wasn’t ready to do but always meant to—he took your hand, and placed it gently into Jack’s.

Jack didn’t look away from you. His hand curled tight around yours like it was a lifeline.

Robby cleared his throat. Stepped back just a little. And you saw it—the tremble at the corner of his mouth. The way he blinked too many times in a row.

He wasn’t immune to it.

Not this time.

“You take care of her,” he said, voice thick. “You hear me?”

Jack—eyes glassy, jaw tight—just nodded. One firm, reverent nod.

“I do,” he said.

And for once, that wasn’t a promise.

It was a fact.

A vow already lived.

Robby stepped back.

A quiet shift. No words, no fuss. Just one last glance—full of something that lived between pride and grief—and then he stepped aside, slow and careful, like his body knew he had to let go before his heart was ready.

And then it was just you and Jack.

He stepped in just a little closer—like the space between you, however small, had finally become too much. His hand tightened around yours, his breath shallow, like holding it together had taken everything he had.

The moment he saw you—really saw you—something behind his eyes cracked wide open.

He didn’t smile. Not right away.

He didn’t say anything clever. Didn’t reach for you like someone confident or composed.

It was like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life—and still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tried to laugh, but it cracked—caught somewhere between joy and everything else swelling behind your ribs.

The dress fit like a memory and a dream at once. Sleek. Understated. A silhouette that didn’t beg for attention, but held it all the same. Clean lines. Long sleeves. A bodice tailored just enough to feel timeless. A low back. No shimmer. No lace. Just quiet, deliberate elegance.

Just you.

Jack took a breath—slow and shaky.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was speaking out loud.

You blinked fast, vision swimming.

“You’re not supposed to make me cry before we even say anything,” you managed, voice trembling.

He gave a small, broken laugh. “That makes two of us.”

You could feel the crowd behind you. Every attending. Every nurse. Every person who thought they knew Jack Abbot—stoic in trauma bays, voice sharp, pulse steady no matter what walked through the doors.

And now? They were seeing him like this.

Glass-eyed. Soft-spoken. Undone.

Jack looked at you again. Really looked.

“I knew I was gonna love you,” he said. “But I didn’t know it’d be like this.”

Your breath caught. “Like what?”

He smiled—slow, quiet, reverent.

“Like peace.”

You blinked so fast it almost turned into a sob. “God. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” you whispered, smiling through it.

Behind you, the music began to fade. The officiant cleared his throat.

Jack didn’t move. Didn’t look away. His thumb brushed over your knuckles like it had done a thousand times before—only this time, it meant something.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said softly. “Not in combat. Not in med school. Not even the first time I intubated someone on a moving Humvee.”

You laughed, choked and real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours,” he corrected. “That’s the important part.”

The officiant spoke then, calling for quiet.

But Jack leaned in one last time, voice so low it barely touched the air.

“Tell me when to breathe,” he said.

You smiled, heart wrecked and steady all at once.

“I’ve got you.”

And Jack Abbot—combat medic, ER attending, man who spent a lifetime holding everything together—closed his eyes and let himself believe you.

Because for once in his life, he didn’t have to be ready for the worst.

He just had to stand beside the best thing that ever happened to him.

And say yes.

[intheupside]

“I get to do what I love,” Crosby said. “The least I can do is treat people well along the way.”

really good sid article in the athletic today

Moments before overtime of Game 6 between Sidney Crosby’s Pittsburgh Penguins and Alex Ovechkin’s Washington Capitals in 2016, the Penguins all sat in the silent home locker room. No one moved. No one uttered a word..

Over the years, the Penguins had been mentally tougher than the Capitals, which explained why they owned their bitter rival in the biggest games. Now, the tables appeared to have turned and the Penguins were rattled. It was all silent in the Pittsburgh room, until only a few intermission minutes remained.

Then Crosby, the soft-spoken captain of the Penguins, stood up and addressed his team.

“Hey guys,” Crosby said. “We’re better than that f—ing team. This ends now.”

It took only 6 minutes, 32 seconds of overtime for Bonino to score the game-winner, ending the series and paving the way for Crosby and the Penguins to win their second of three championships. But Crosby’s message left a lasting impression.

“No one could believe it when he did it,” Cole said. “Bones scored the goal, but it was Sid. We needed to hear it. It was all Sid. That’s the kind of leader he is.”

Crosby has been the captain of Team Canada since 2014, and for almost half of his life, the 37-year-old Crosby has skated with the “C” stitched on his chest in Pittsburgh. Along the way, he has developed a reputation for leadership that is second to none. There is a family atmosphere and a charitable spirit within the Penguins organization that largely exists because of him.

Even this season, as Crosby’s Penguins miss the playoffs for a third straight season, his leadership attributes have never dimmed. The results and on-ice success may vary from year to year; Crosby does not.

What’s his secret? What makes him unique? What makes him a great leader?

Those who have shared a locker room with Crosby swear by him and talk about a set of common principles:

He treats everyone the same and insists that he’s treated like everyone else.

He makes everyone feel welcome and does so with personal touches.

His competitiveness rubs off on everyone else.

His work ethic and consistency inspire others to be better.

“There’s never been anyone like him, and there never will be,” said former Penguins general manager Jim Rutherford. “I’ve been around a while and I’ve met a lot of people. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

In 2014 the Penguins acquired Lee Stempniak and Marcel Goc at the trade deadline, and the pair was set to play in San Jose the following day. Goc and Stempniak were en route to the SAP Center in San Jose.

The rest of the Penguins had long since departed the arena in San Jose for the hotel to engage in the standard pre-game afternoon nap. Stempniak and Goc, however, were headed straight to the arena, so Crosby sat for hours in the Penguins locker room, waiting for the new players to arrive. He had already welcomed them to the team via text, but he prefers to add the personal touch.

“That’s what I noticed when the Penguins first traded for me,” said Ryan Pohling, who played one season for the Penguins before moving on to Philadelphia. “I get a text from Sid. And he’s chatting you up, making you feel so comfortable. And you’re like, ‘Sidney Crosby is talking to me.’ It just gets your attention because of who he is. But he just wants to make you feel welcome immediately. He’s different than anyone else.”

There is a long trail of evidence of Crosby making new guys feel welcome.

“It’s crazy,” said Rutger McGroarty, one of the youngest Penguins. “You’re barely in the NHL, and Sidney Crosby is chatting you up.”

But those personal touches extend to longtime teammates as well.

“If you’re having a bad day or having a problem, he’ll take care of you,” said Marc-Andre Fleury, his former teammate. “He’d talk in French to make me feel better.”

During the 2016 Stanley Cup run, Crosby frequently took the young players out to dinner, wanting them to feel comfortable in a new city.

Sometimes they’d be itching for a nap on the road. Too bad.

“We usually have these team lounges at hotels,” Rust said. “Trust me, he was always encouraging us to get down there. He wanted everybody there, but especially the younger guys. So you would go down to the lounge, and he’d be there waiting. Shoot the bull, play cards, whatever. I think he just wanted everyone hanging out together. It was important to him, and it still is. We’d have team dinners, stuff like that, and he’d always make sure the young guys attended. He went out of his way to make us feel comfortable during that time.”

That, Rust said, led to the Penguins’ back-to-back championships as much as their talent.

“It’s 100 percent a real thing, and Sid always understood that,” Rust said. “It can be the missing piece to the puzzle.”

Just because he wants to make people feel welcome doesn’t mean Crosby wants them to stay too relaxed. Not for long, anyway.

Crosby makes those around him better simply by challenging them.

“He doesn’t even mean to do it,” former teammate Mike Rupp said. “At least, I don’t think he does.”

In 2010, the Penguins were conducting their annual team testing at the beginning of training camp. Rupp, a 6-foot-5, 230-pound power forward and menacing physical presence, had earlier in the day thrown the medicine ball further than any of his teammates.

when Crosby walked up to him.

“So I heard you have the record for today?” Crosby said. “Not anymore.”

“So we started throwing the medicine ball back and forth after this,” Rupp said. “I throw it the first time, and it goes maybe 25 feet. Then he gets 26. Then I throw one 27. So then he throws one that goes 30 feet. I think we got up to 33 feet.”

“The point is,” Rupp said, “I had thought, at that time, that I had thrown it as far as I could. That I gave everything that I could. But I hadn’t. That’s how Sid brings you to another level.”

On or off the ice, Rupp had never seen anyone who could inspire greatness from those around him like that. The oldest of his former teammates agrees.

Matt Cullen was almost 40 when the Penguins won those championships in 2016 and 2017. Even he found himself looking up to Crosby.

“I think his drive to constantly improve his own game and his unmatched work ethic leaves teammates no choice but to follow,” Cullen explained.

[inuiiwonderland]

Empire

Being crowned as empress of the Yuunkaedangon empire at the age of 17, you begin to start loving the new status and power. But it soon gets a bit boring and demanding the moment you turned 18. Harem? Heirs? Tf not!

Chapter 4

Words: 1.1k

-

Loud cries are heard throughout your room as you try to calm and quiet down the poor boy on your lap. This is the third time this week, grim not being able to fall asleep and still grieving the loss of his father. You wiped the tears that ran down his chubby cheeks as you gently rocked him back and forth.

“Papa! I want my papa where is he!” He cries again. Your heart aches at his words. That’s all what he’s been saying for the past couple of weeks.

Where is my papa?

“He’s not here honey” Grim continues to cry. Tears streamed down his cheeks before he choked out a few words.

“W-why? W-where did h-he g-goo?” he says in between sobs. And for the first time in your life, you don’t know what to do.

What do you say to a kid who lost his only parental figure in his life? That his father is dead? That he’s never coming back?

How do you even explain the concept of death to a child?

“Sissy….where is my papa?”

-

Hush whispers and worried glances went your way as you walked out to the palace garden. Grim holding onto you as he played around with your hair jewelry. Your eyes looked straight ahead, not caring to look at anyone.

Atsushi walks behind you, he notices the worried looks of the people around you. How some lean over to one and another to whisper about how tired and drained you look. Some even fault the poor boy for making you this way which makes Atsushi send them a look to make them stop.

Which works

“Sissy” Grim whispers.

“Mm?”

“M’sorry…..for crying” You halt. You look at grim and notice the glossy look in his eyes.

“Don’t apologize, you have the right to feel sad and hurt” You whisper back. You wiped the single tear that ran down his chubby cheeks before lightly squeezing them. This gesture made grim laugh as he then hid his face on the crook of your neck.

“Empress!” Both you and Atsushi turned around at the sound of your name. There you see one of the eunuch rush to you with a horrified look.

“Empress!” Your brows furrow as you watch him try to catch his breath.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

“T-t-traveler! T- *gasp* they are wounded!” Your eyes widen. You look at Atsushi and he quickly nods before rushing to go get the palace doctors.

“I-it’s bad! Really bad!” He says.

“Take me to them”

-

He wasn’t Kidding when he said that the traveler that came knocking at the palace doors was in bad condition. You had one of your maids take grim away before following the eunuch.

Upon arriving, you were horrified to say the least. The unknown traveler was in bad shape. A big gash across their stomach along with one of their eyes seeming to be bleeding and you wouldn’t be surprised if their eye is missing.

You don’t even know how they made it all the way here.

“Are they going to be okay?” You ask one of the doctors.

“They lost a lot of blood, luckily they came here right on time”

“One of their eyes is missing” you say. The doctor chuckles.

“It’s better than having your organs fall right on out. It’s a miracle it didn’t happen”

“Mhm” The doctor checks on them for one last time before bowing and leaving. You were now left alone with the traveler. They were still unconscious but the doctor reassured you that they weren’t dead.

You wouldn’t be able to handle being in the same room if they were

Atsushi then comes in

“After doing some investigating, it’s the unknown traveler that everyone is talking about”

“Unknown traveler? Like- the one people are saying is from a different world?” Atsushi nods. You turn to the traveler.

They look human. They bleed and breathe like humans.

You scoff

“From the rumors people made it seem like they weren’t human…..it’s cruel”

“Do you want me to transfer them to a nearby clinic?” You shook your head.

“No, I doubt they’ll want to take them in after all those rumors. They can stay here until they are stable enough to travel” You stood up from your seat before walking out the room.

Atsushi eyes the traveler one last time before also leaving the room.

Riddle's eyes lighten up at the sight of you. Both Ace and deuce quickly bow before leaving the two of you alone, you hear them bicker on the way out as riddle only sighs and mumbles about how he’s going to have them scrub the floors later.

“How have you been?” You ask. Riddle eyes turn to you and soften.

“Good now that you’re here….how about you?” You chuckle.

“I’m doing fine”

“Are you sure? Me and the others haven’t seen you in a while….you haven’t visited any of us…visited me” He whispers the last part and you burst out in a fit of giggles. He turns red before trying to walk away.

“Not so fast!” You grabbed him by his waist and turned him around. Now this made his face turn even more red as he looked anywhere else but you.

“Aw I didn’t know my absence would make you upset” You tease.

“I-I wasn’t upset! Just worry that’s all!” He screeches. You like how easy it was to tease him. Seeing his cheeks go bright pink along with his whole face, how he would avoid eye contact with you and how cute his face looks when he glares at you.

“Well okay….you didn’t miss me at least a tiny bit?” You tease.

“No!” He then crosses his arms over his chest and looks away from you. Cheeks tinted a rosy pink as he shied away from your eyes.

You stopped to admire him.

He looks beautiful

“I am back with the strawberry tart you requested-” A tall man with short dark-green hair and glasses stops at the sight of you and riddle. Riddle looks up at Trey before going beat red. You were still holding onto his waist and your head was resting on his shoulder.

“O-oh, sorry I didn-” You cut him off with a light laugh.

“I was just about to go” You gave him a light squeeze before leaving.

Once you were gone, Trey turns to face riddle and just as he was about to tell riddle his tart was finished he was met with the sight of a red faced but also lovesick man.

“Did you see the way she was looking at me?”

Trey shakes his head with a sigh.

-

@gl00muraaii

@ghostlysyntaxed

@zoukaposts

@twistedcece

@kisses2kanao

@s7-evermore

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-

Let me know if you want to be added to the Taglist!

Sorry for late chapter 😞

Anyways, should I start moving with some romance between reader and their concubines? 👀

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 05. Tim doesn't understand you

inspired by acid-ixx, rizzanon and nikovraskol

PREV PART trigger warnings: medical + emotional + physical neglect, Stephanie and (Name) don't mix, misgendering (reader isn't out to the bad family yet), shouting, manupilation attempt, shouting, filler chapter main m.list      series m.list

Tim doesn’t understand you, he doesn’t understand why you were never told about their ‘nightly business’. To him you seemed the most trustworthy, the best at empathy and quite frankly the least problematic one, so he doesn’t understand Alfred’s anger. He doesn’t understand why he shouted at you the minute you walked through the door, he doesn’t know what to do except just stand there as Stephanie comes to look for him. They were supposed to play video games, after all. “Geez, Alfie is really laying it into her,” she comments, popping some popcorn in her mouth. “nice, finally it isn’t one of us.”

“Alfred,” You interrupt his yelling, painfully aware of how Stephanie and Tim are watching you two. “you lost the right to be concerned over me a long time ago.” Those words brought tension in the air Tim had only ever felt at his home. It was the tension of anger, righteous anger. Anger that Tim knows all too well. “I was spending time with my friends, my family.”

Those words made Stephanie scoff; “Hey genius this is your family.” But Tim knew better, he just hadn’t calculated that their neglect would harm you this much. He wants to keep you safe, but, oh he should have stepped more after what Jason did to you.

“Is it?” You ask Stephanie. “Oh, Stephanie, you of all people should know that blood doesn’t equal family.”

Alfred grabs you by your pulse and you try to pull it back instantly. “Your anger has become childish,” he hisses, squeezing your pulse tighter and Tim notices the way your eyes become numb. They look like those dead eyes Kon-el always show’s him (the clone had always been worried about not looking like he was human, even with all the reassurance that he is). “I am disappointed in you, and you will apologise to miss Brown.”

Tim turns to Stephanie as he sees her nostrils flare out, she’s furious. “She’s right,” he whispers to Stephanie, and she looks at him betrayed.

“This is not you, (Name),” Alfred scolds you, his voice harsh and unfamiliar to not just your ears but Tim’s as well. “where has my sweet girl gone, where has she disappeared to?”

“Let me go, Mr. Pennyworth,” you say, your voice shaking but steadfast at the same time. “you lost my trust the day you let Jason beat me, but you started losing me long before that.” You finally get your pulse lose and step back, the glare you had on your face was one that the whole family had only seen twice. It was the glare you had given Damian when he attacked Tim, just after he attacked you, and it was the glare you gave the family the day Jason beat you. “I was never that easy, I made myself that easy so that I at least got your affection!”

You were shouting back at Alfred, and to Tim it felt like the dam finally broke.

You could be strong and still feel hurt, you could be strong but still tell Alfred the truth without faltering.

“Be glad I haven’t showed anyone the scars that Jason gave me,” you laugh out. “I didn’t press charges, because I couldn’t. And I am too tired to even think about that man,” Stephanie and Tim were frozen. Tim felt like they were intruding, but Stephanie wanted to see how this would end. After all, to her you were just throwing a tantrum about the past. “I could ruin your precious Wayne family by just leaking a few photos. But I haven’t, don’t make me change my mind.”

Alfred says nothing. He was taking your threat seriously, but Tim knows better. He threatened the same so many times, this was just a method to make Alfred back off. Threats were the only way to make this family listen to you. Tim feels guilty, but what can he do?

“She wouldn’t, right?” Stephanie asks. “I get that Jason messed up but isn’t this too far?”

“She doesn’t have all the context,” Tim couldn’t help but defend you. “how can we expect her to understand when she does not know the full story?”

Stephanie hums. “I guess that’s why she made that comment about my dad, huh.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees, just to placate her. “she was beaten to the point she couldn’t leave the house for almost a year. I think (Name) is rightfully pissed still, she was attacked in her own room. And the last things she had gotten from her mother were destroyed by Jason.”

While Tim understands your anger is righteous,

he doesn’t understand you, for that he has to know you and he never took that chance. Oh, how many chances you have given him, them.

But if he was to try now, would you still let him after all this time? Would you still accept him when you realise that he neglected you because he thought that was better for you? Would you protect him again if you knew the truth about why he kept you in the dark. Would you view him different from the rest of the family (and team). Would you love him? Would you be siblings?

Would you let him in so that he can learn to understand you?

 NEXT PART this isn't my best work, but I got the motivation for this chapter idea again thx to the ask about Tim. 

Taglist: @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @shadowytravelerlover, @1abi, @leeiasure, @frank-vanderboom, @stove-top96, @amber-content, @lithiumval, @bunniotomia, @chericia, @marsmabe, @cssammyyarts, @lingxio, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @alwaysholymilkshake, @miashico, @kittzu, @ironsaladwitch, @pix-stuff, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @icefox8155, @seemee3, @nxdxsworld, @princessbonnie-bell, @kenman00001, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @welpthisisboring, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @rtyuy1346, @lilyalone, @lettucel0ver, @dirtydiavolo, @leogf, @trashlaternfish360, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @plsfckmedxddy, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @smithieandy, @xzmickeyzx, @holderoflostmemories

[pez3639]

This is probably so weird, but can you do one where Luke hughes and the readers' younger sister are dating and you have to meet him for the first time

Endings and Beginnings

Luke Hughes x Reader's Sister || Quinn Hughes x Reader (kinda not rlly. the smallest inklings of it)

WC: 2.2k Words

A/N: No I actually love this and had so much fun doing a lil emo piece about being an older sister. This probably isnt what you had in mind so my bad, this def focuses alot more on the older sister. BUT i feel like i should continue this, esp with the dead end i left there... maybe. Also NOT proofread.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

“Yes, I’m on my way right now,” there was a pause in the phone call as you heard your sister's shaky breath. The silence wasn't awkward, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It was the kind that screamed hesitation, even when no words have been spoken. You let her simmer a moment before speaking up. “Hey. You’re going to cross that stage and move onto bigger and better. No more stupid 8 A.M. classes. No more forced smiles to people who talk behind your back. No more college bullshit.”

It’s a few seconds before you hear a long exhale, her quirk that always signals she's finally coming down from whatever ledge her thoughts had chased her to. “Yeah, yeah…you’re right. This is good, it’s great actually,” you continue driving, speeding actually, barely missing the pothole that you were hurtling towards. The sun glares through the windshield, illuminating the necklace that hangs from your rearview. A simple chain with a star attached to it. The sweet sentiment blinded you with a reflection of the sun before your sister's voice came to life over the phone again.

“But why does it feel like nothing's okay and everythings crashing down around me?” her voice no longer carried the anxiety that it held before, now much more quiet and watery as if her tears were collecting in her throat rather than her eyes. Its your turn to take a long exhale before reminding her of how many times she’s done this.

“Do you remember your kindergarten graduation?” you breathe out, knowing that she's hopefully slept since then, either way she lets out a huff of laughter before you continue. “You refused to crawl out of my bed that morning. You were too scared to even look at the little cap and gown. You hid under my covers and cried and cried until I held your hand and told you it would be okay. I did the same thing when you graduated middle school. I think by the time you graduated highschool you just wanted to steal my bed, but that didn’t stop me from holding your hand and telling you it was okay. And I’m doing that now. Everything is going to be fine.”

Your sister laughs at the memories of you two. That’s how it’s always been. The two of you. The two year age difference didn’t matter much, at least to you it didn’t. Most of the memories you had were of you and her. The first time she called you “sissy” while waddling towards you. The late nights on the trampoline, both of you armed with sleeping bags and flashlights that never got used since both of you were far too scared of the dark trees. Her screaming ecstatically when you graduated highschool and you subsequently having to speak for her the next day when she lost her voice. And now her college graduation. Every memory, every moment in time, splattered across your consciousness like constellations. All of those stars linking the two of you together. You and her. 

You felt your eyes sting at the thoughts of the future, both of yours carrying a certain haziness that couldn’t be defined. The only thing you knew is that you would always hold her hand through it. You continue driving with misty eyes and a tight throat before she cuts the silence.

“I love you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Her sincerity broke you out of reverie. Not ready to face those emotions yet, you let out a dry and humorless laugh, “You’d live. You’re too much like a rat to not survive without me.” Her laugh on the other side of the line mirrored yours before she was onto another anxious tangent. 

“Okay, so when you get to your seats there should be…” she drifted off before you heard her mumbling one, two, three, under her breath. The thought of her standing there in her graduation gown while still having to count on her fingers made you grin. She crackled back to life after a moment. “There should be seven seats.” 

“Seven? I thought it was just me, mom, and uh…” you trailed off guiltily at having forgotten her boyfriend's name. Luka…Leo…Logan? No none of those were right as you shook your head at the names that popped up. “Your boyfriend?” 

“Did you really forget his name?” she accused in a dry tone. You pressed the brakes as you took a right turn before grimacing. Shit. “Oh yeah I definitely did…sorry?” She laughed a little at your antics as you continued to try and think of names. In your defense, you’d never met the guy, no less seen a picture of him. The relationship was still a bit new, so you never pressed about it, understanding that maybe she wanted to keep it a little more hidden as they grew closer with one another.

“Oh my god I can’t believe you, and yes he’ll be there, but so will his family.”

Your eyebrows shot up at the new information, “Holy shit, does mom know?” you question, wondering if you were the last to receive this news.

“Yes because she actually reads our group chat messages”

“Whatever,” you say dryly and with an eyeroll, “Okay, I’ll get there and make sure all the seats are good. Don’t worry about it. Everything is going to go great. Now go get in line or whatever you have to do at these things.” The two of you exchanged goodbyes as you got in line for the car park and hung up the phone. The college she attended wasn’t crazy big, but it definitely had a bigger student body than the small-town highschool the both of you attended. Eventually you found a spot and pulled in. You gathered your purse, coat, and ticket into your lap before just sitting there and staring. You felt the ache in your chest begin. The ache that always accompanies growing up. 

It felt like just yesterday that the two of you were giggling and ogling over your prom date. It was just last week that you two were pulling her last baby tooth. Only a month ago you two were running through the sprinklers in the backyard. But in reality, all of that was years ago. Your mind playing a cruel trick to bring up heart-ache and nostalgia. Nostalgia for times that were long gone and never coming back.

The trees along the pathways were budding in the late spring. The blossoms would woefully float down to the ground as if they were scared to let go of their mother branch. Two living things being torn apart by the movement of time. The lively weather was rolling in, a shift from the hoppy wistfulness of spring to the slow and sweltering heat of the summer. Collecting yourself, you unzip your purse to tidy up before heading into the large chapel where commencement was held. Pulling down your mirror, a polaroid stare back at you. Your own college graduation, more rather the pre-party. You hope your sister had that. One last stand with the people she's come close to. At least for now. They may end up bridesmaids, or co-workers, or strangers. Breathing out a heavy sigh, you blot your nose with powder as you take yourself in. Older and more mature than what you were when you graduated. 

Pushing up the mirror, you begin to shift and prepare for the walk to your seat. Unbuckle, open the door, and go. It should be easy but your body drags as if your bones have been turned to lead. Of course you were excited for your sister and her future, but you couldn’t help but mourn for the times before this. Before these big life events. Before you two grow old. You shut the car door and follow the masses to the chapel. The air serves as a lifeline of breath as the old brick walls enter your eyesight. So many people have gathered here to watch and celebrate someone. Everyone here has come together to support one another. It's warming to know such a diverse and expansive group of people can come together for a cumulative reason.

Getting closer and closer, people start collecting tickets as you walk past. You hand yours over and receive a program in exchange. You continue to walk further into the warm atmosphere of the church. Finding your sister placecards, you count out seven and shoot a text to your mom. You take a seat and shed your jacket while glancing around you. There's not many decorations, just some balloons and streamers here and there. A projector screen is in the middle of the stage where pictures of the graduates scroll through. Many of them are club and sports photos, but every now and then a straggler will pop out at you. Your mother begins to walk down the row of seats and chooses the spot to your left, sitting at the end of your reserved seats, meaning you’d have to sit next to these people you've never met before.

Once settled, your mother kisses your cheek and pats your knee in a comforting way, both of you feeling the emotion of today. She begins to make small talk, half of which you’re zoned out for, only throwing in a nod and Uh-huh here and there. About ten minutes pass before a family of five begins scooting down the rows of seats. Three boys and what you’re assuming are their parents. Your mother grabs you hand as she stands, pulling you up with her. Exclaiming in excitement, she greets the older woman first before saying hello to the boys.

“Oh Ellen it’s so good to see you here! She’ll be so happy that everyone made it.” Your mother speaks around you before introducing the family to you. Ellen, Jim, Quinn, Jack, and Luke. Right, his name was Luke. You remember your sister dropping it a few times. You all sit down, with Luke sitting to your right. You try to inconspicuously look him over, but probably failing. He tall and looks lanky under his somewhat formal attire. His dress pants fit loosely around his legs but his polo wrapped around his bicep. His curls looked well maintained, something you had no doubt that your sister had a hand in. He extended his hand to you before choking out a quiet “Hi, I’m Luke.”

You raised an eyebrow a bit and felt the corner of your mouth tug at his nervousness, your older sister protectiveness dropping by a lot at the simple gesture. “Hi, it's nice to meet you Luke.” You offered your name to him before making basic small talk. He told you about his brothers while you gave stories of your sister. While you two were playing with the hose and making mud puddles, the three brothers spent their time together enjoying hockey. As he continued to talk about himself, you understood why your sister chose him. He was the youngest of his brothers and close to all of them, especially Jack. You were glad that she found a family that loves each other as much as yours does. 

Soon his brothers joined in the conversation, making you realize how different he was from your sister. She was outgoing and fun but also had a soft side. You could imagine Luke bringing it out of her more, the two of them sharing a coffee and eating dinner. You understood that the two were more than just a new couple, they truly complimented and matched each other. Luke would often find himself going red as he defended himself from his brothers chirps at him. Moreso Jacks than Quinns. Jack was a true middle sibling–  boisterous, witty, and a bit cocky. Quinn on the other hand was different from both of the boys, from his dark and tousled hair, to the scruff that adorned his jaw, and the heavier look in his eyes. You recognized that look all too well as you caught eyes and he smiled at you, making your heart flutter. You averted you eyes as people began filing onto the stage as the music began to draw in. Everyone hushed as the graduates walked down the aisles and up to the risers on the stage.

As the ceremony continued, speakers came and went. Each one following the same formula on hitting the highs and lows of college. Admin and local “celebrities” filtered to the mic before congratulating the class and sitting down. As long-winded as the ceremony was, you don't miss the way Luke jumps from his chair along with you and your mom when your sister gets called to walk the stage. Or the way he’s grinning ear to ear when he sees his family cheering just as loud as him. It brought a smile to your face. Quinn caught your eye again as you shared a knowing look.

After the ceremony, the graduates ran to their loved ones. You barely had time to brace yourself before your sister borderline launched herself into you. Shes bouncing everywhere between people, from you, to your mother, to Luke, then Quinn and Jack, before slowing down with Ellen and Jim. Everyone stands congratulating her, with Luke showing extra affection for her. Always a hand on the small of her back or interlocked with hers. Everyone continues to mingle before a head of dark hair appears in front of you.

“Hi, I’m Quinn.”

[bloomseishiro]

A STUPID CELEBRITY CRUSH — ITOSHI RIN

౨ৎ — you should be your boyfriend’s biggest fan, right? so why did rin find your twitter logged into a fan account of another former blue lock contestant? 

itoshi rin x reader. fluff, pro soccer player!rin, established relationship, rin is silly and so is reader :p, blue lock manga spoilers (ch 298 events mentioned!) 

word count. 1.3k

Itoshi Rin isn’t exactly someone who is well-versed in fan culture. 

He doesn’t even run his official social media accounts himself. Why would he need to when he has a manager and a team for that? 

Still, he knows the basics. He’s aware there are delusional fans who think they have a chance with him. He knows about fan accounts and fan sites that post about his goals, his everyday outfits, and everything in between. While there are parasocial fans his security team has to keep an eye out for, Rin knows most fans are just there for harmless fun, though he himself doesn’t understand it. 

Rin also knows he’s not the only soccer player with a large fanbase. Isagi’s following is huge, his team has informed him. Kaiser’s as well. Hell, even Bachira and Kunigami are well liked for whatever reason. 

You’re someone who enjoys following the current events of soccer, Rin knows that, but it seems he never understood to what extent you were actually into it. 

That is, until he walks by your computer screen and sees it opened to a blown up photo of Nagi Seishiro. 

Rin blinks as he notices the face on your PC that is not his own. What the hell is that? 

You aren’t at your desk—meaning you are either using the bathroom or grabbing a snack—and so he exits out of the image with a huff. You don’t need to be staring at Nagi when you return. 

When he closes the screen, however, he sees the same photo as your profile picture on Twitter. he stills. There is no way that’s your personal account, or Rin would’ve noticed that atrocity of an icon you had. As he takes a closer look, he sees the display name of “NAGI’S #1 GLAZER” and scratches his head in confusion. 

What the fuck is a glazer and why does it sound explicit? 

Rin wants to respect your privacy, but a bigger part of him has to know what this is. Why is your computer on this account? Why is it logged in? And if this is your secret fan account, why the hell is it of Nagi and not him? 

“Oh! Hey, babe,” he hears you greet from behind his back. 

“What is a glazer?” 

“A w-what?” you stammer nervously, rushing beside him to look at your computer. 

“What’s a glazer?” repeats Rin, tone unamused. 

You close your eyes in defeat, sighing as you plop down on your seat. “You saw my fan account, didn’t you?”

“It’s difficult to miss,” he retorts. “Another man’s face was blown up on your 27-inch screen.”

“I was just changing my profile picture,” you say meekly. “I wasn’t staring at it, or anything.”

Rin frowns, feeling a dull pit in his stomach. So it is your account. That means you have a fanpage of Nagi Seishiro of all people. 

He stays silent, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

A few beats pass before you look up at him with wide eyes and furrowed brows. “Rin, you know the fan account is just for fun, right? As a fan of the soccer player. I don’t know Nagi as a person—only the parts the public is able to see. Like a stupid celebrity crush!”

The frown stays on his face, but the lines are less severe. 

“But you,” you say, “I know the real you. And I love both what you show to the public, and what you show to only me.” 

“Then why isn’t your fan account of me?” he counters, and even Rin hears the bitterness in his own voice. 

You blink. “Because that’s weird. You can’t have a fan account of your boyfriend.”

“You should only have a fan account of your boyfriend,” he mutters dryly. “Why are you a fan of Nagi anyway? He didn’t even make it to the U-20 World Cup back in the day.”

At his words, your spine straightens and a pout forms on your face. “Hey! You can’t just say that. It’s too soon!” 

“It’s been years!” 

You sniffle, folding your arms across your chest. “Not enough years! But that is part of the reason I like him as a player so much.”

“Because he got eliminated and couldn’t keep up with the rest of us?”

“Rin!” you chastise, tears forming in the corners of your eyes much to his surprise. “Nagi got eliminated when we least expected… It seemed so hopeless for a while. I was heartbroken! But then he makes a huge comeback and becomes an even greater soccer player than before! All on his own, too. It shows he can be hardworking and dedicated, and his skill isn’t just from pure useless talent!” 

After your long spiel that Rin thinks sounded just a bit delusional, he sighs. “So you like Nagi as a soccer player more than me?”

“No, of course not!” you protest, standing up from your chair and staring firmly into his eyes. “You are still my favorite soccer player. My favorite person in the world, in fact.”

His gaze softens but he still can’t help but be skeptical. 

You exhale gently as you elaborate, “I’ve had that account since I was young—a high schooler watching you guys change what it means to play soccer. I’ve made lots of friends from there, some I still talk to today! It’s not all about Nagi, though we do hope he’ll become one of the world’s best players. Still, he’ll never compete with you, Rin.” With a warm smile, you pinch his cheek. “You’re always number one to me.” 

“That’s not what your display name says,” he mumbles, but there is no sharpness in his voice. 

Groaning, you insist, “It’s just a stupid meme name. You don’t have to worry, I promise. I don’t even know what a glazer is! I just see people using it a lot on social media lately! I have to try staying trendy with the young ones…”

Rin snorts. That does sound like something you would do. 

“I’ll change it if you want,” you offer hesitantly. “I don’t want this to be something that causes issues with us—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupts. 

Rin is jealous. Rin is possessive. Rin doesn’t want anyone else to be number one in your heart. But he doesn’t want to control you. You told him not to worry and offered him reassurance, and though he still wants to rip Nagi’s throat out with his bare hands, he knows he has to trust you. It’s not something that comes easy to him, but it’s something the two of you built together in your relationship. You bring out a better side of him, one that isn’t always angry and bitter and obsessed with the past. 

“It sounds like a weird hobby,” he says with a huff, “but if you enjoy it, then I won’t stop you.”

You smile at his begrudging support. “It is a silly hobby, but that’s all it is. You are the one I love and the only person I obsess over in real life.” 

“Good.” Rin smirks. “Then you won’t mind when I destroy Nagi’s chances of winning the world cup?” 

Your eyes widen as another pout starts to settle in. “D-destroy?” you repeat mournfully.

He nods.

“I suppose if you are the one doing it,” you say, “then it’s okay. I’ll always root for whatever team you’re on.”

“As you should.” 

“I always will,” you promise, sticking your pinky out. 

Rin shakes his head at the childish gesture, but the smile on his lips betrays him. He interlocks his pinky with yours and makes a promise of his own. 

Rin will be the world’s best striker and beat everyone else, including Isagi and now, Nagi. And he knows you will be by his side when it happens. 

[litomilo]

miss you

billie eilish x reader ⭐

context: just listen to miss you by conan gray!

warnings: angst but happy ending ig, use of y/n, not proof read, im pretty sure i didn't use any pronoun other than "you" to refer to the reader idk

a/n: i wrote this thinking about one of my college classes, one of my teachers said that hate is not the opposite of love, but rather the closest feeling to it that can be found and damn she's so right 💔

You thought you weren't made for love. You weren't made to love or be loved, and maybe you didn't even deserve it. After a few relations and situationships you started thinking that you were a difficult person to deal with. You didn't want to bother whoever ended up falling in love with you — since that was what always happened. So you just pushed them away.

You constantly thought about the strange monotony that love began to reveal in your life. Always the same, but in the end, only one thing changed: if you wasn't hurt, you were the one who hurt someone, consequently hurting yourself as well.

Hurt by unrequited love, by harsh words, maybe by abandonment, or even by the melancholy caused by remembering important memories and unfulfilled promises... Or hurt by guilt, regret, remorse, anguish and so many other feelings caused by having hurt someone, even if it was necessary or what you thought was the best thing to do.

When you meet Billie you felt it all again. You felt happy, special, loved, but then all the possible good things you felt got blurred and momentarily forgotten 'cause of the paranoid.

I'm so hard to deal with, she won't stay.

That's what you always told yourself. But if you leave first it won't hurt that much, right?

After ghosting her for about three days you had several lost calls in your call logs and texts in all the apps possible.

"y/n?"

"did i do something? why don't you answer?"

"look idk what happened but i'm sorry"

"talk to me pls"

You gave her a week, maybe two, to give up and stop texting you. That's what always happens, One day they always disappear and you move on with your life.

You were surprised, what always happened didn't happen. She insisted, kept texting you almost daily for a whole month, sometimes she even knocked on your door, you never answered. She slipped two or three letters through your door.

"hi, it's me, billie, again.

i know you don't want to see me anymore, but i wanna know why, can we PLEASE talk about it? i can't bear the thought of possible have hurt you, that's killing me.

i'm so sorry, please let's talk, just to sort things out, i promise you'll never see me again if that's what you really wants.

i love you so much, i'm missing you, y/n/n."

Fuck.

You couldn't move on. She wouldn't let you do that, or maybe you just loved her too much to let go. That's exactly why you didn't block her at all and spent nights conflicted about calling her, but you didn't want to face reality.

In that one month that passed you couldn't talk to anyone else, you wanted to prove to yourself that you had overcome it, you didn't need her, but how do you do that when no one captivates you or calls your attention, not even for a simple hookup.

"I don't know why... why don't she just fucking give up?" you ask your best friend, in tears, through the phone. they keep quiet for a few seconds, then sigh.

"Maybe it's because she loves you?" they say as if it was already obvious, and it actually was "I think it's pretty clear at this point that she's not like the others, and you still keep pushing her away... You're not only hurting yourself, you're hurting her too, y'know?" you don't say anything, just sob and sniff, then they continue "Call her, you should talk and try to explain yourself, y/n, i keep telling you that pushing people away just 'cause you're starting to get attached is not nice and, as your best friend, i need to tell you that this time you've really messed up".

You didn't want to give in, you were too proud for that, but in one of those nights you just senseless called her, and she picked up.

"Y/n??" you hear her soft voice on the other side of the line, she sounds so worried, she was so worried "Hey, love, are you there?" and that was all it takes for you to break down.

"Come over, please" that's all you could say between sobs.

"Fine, i'm on my way, okay?" you just nod, even tho she couldn't see it.

She stayed on the line all the way, trying to calm you down until she parked in front of your house. You hang up the call and gone to the front foor as soon as you heard her car. When she was about to knock on the door, you opened it, immediately hugging her.

You hear a soft gasp leave her lips, but she hugs you back, her hands finding your hair, stroking it soothingly while guiding you inside and closing the door with her foot.

"I'm sorry" you whisper with your face buried in her hoodie "I shouldn't have pushed you away, but I was so scared"

"Scared? Of what?" she asks confused, her right hand holding your chin gently to make you look up at her.

"Of loving you and I thought you were going to end up leaving me so I just left first" you say feeling her thumb wipe the tears away from your face.

"I would never leave you, i love you, y/n" Billie said kissing your forehead and sitting you on the couch with her "have you pushing me away broke my heart".

"I never meant to, I just... I didn't knew how to cope with everything I was feeling, I thought that pushing you away would be the best but I spent all these past weeks only wanting you" you say resting your head on her shoulder "I'm so sorry, I miss you" she looks at you, her heart clenching at the sigh of your teary eyes.

"Shh, it's fine... It's okay" she whispers pulling you closer against her chest "y'know i missed you too".

[pankowcrumbs]

Matchmaker X Will Poulter

MasterList

If you’d told me the highlight of my week would be Joseph Quinn playing Cupid at his own house party, I’d have laughed in your face. And yet, here I was standing in the middle of his very stylish flat in Camden, clutching a glass of wine, trying not to visibly stare at Will Poulter across the room.

“So,” Joseph said, suddenly appearing at my side like he’d apparated there. “Met Will yet?”

I gave him a sideways look. “You’ve mentioned him three times already and, no, I haven’t.”

“Well, let’s fix that, shall we?” he said far too eagerly.

“Joseph.”

“What?” he blinked, all faux innocence. “You’re both tall, absurdly charming, and enjoy sarcastic banter. It’s practically fate.”

I laughed into my wine glass. “You’re insufferable.”

“But adorable.”

“Debatable.”

He grinned and leaned in slightly. “Just… be open-minded, alright?”

I rolled my eyes, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn��t curious. I’d known Joseph since our Stranger Things days. We’d clicked almost instantly he was like the chaotic older brother I never knew I needed. And when he invited me to this party, I thought it’d be a good excuse to catch up, drink wine, and wear something sparkly. I didn’t think he had matchmaking plans.

And yet… every time I turned around, there was Will. First by the drinks table. Then near the speakers. Then casually standing behind me in line for the loo. Coincidence? Maybe. But more likely, Joseph was subtly puppeteering our entire social orbit.

When I finally caught Will’s eye, he smiled and it wasn’t just a “hey, I’ve seen you around” kind of smile. It was warm. Soft. Like he already knew I’d laugh at his jokes and remember how he takes his tea.

“Hi,” he said, stepping over. “I feel like we’ve been orbiting each other all night.”

I let out a breath of laughter. “Was starting to think Joseph’s been playing Sims with us.”

He laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that made you want to say something funny again just to hear it. “Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s been giving me looks all evening. Like I’m missing something obvious.”

“Same.”

Will raised his glass. “To being pawns in Joseph Quinn’s dating chessboard.”

I clinked mine gently against his. “Cheers to that.”

We ended up finding a quiet-ish spot in Joseph’s tiny garden, away from the music and the steady rise of chaos inside. It was draped in fairy lights, a little bench nestled among a few overgrown plants. We sat down without even really thinking about it.

“So,” Will said, settling beside me, “what’s your connection to the puppet master?”

“I worked on Stranger Things with him,” I said. “Hair and makeup. We got on immediately. I think it’s because I kept telling him he looked like a Victorian poet who’d lost his pen.”

Will laughed, a proper, from-the-belly kind of laugh. “He does have tortured artist vibes.”

“Exactly,” I grinned. “What about you?”

“We just did a film warfare together. He’s one of the good ones.”

“He is,” I agreed softly, glancing back towards the house.

We fell into easy conversation after that like the kind you don’t realise is happening until you’ve been talking for half an hour and your wine glass is still half full. Will was funny. Like, genuinely funny. Not in a performative way, but in that effortless, observational way that made everything feel a bit lighter.

“I feel like I’ve seen you in a million things,” I said at one point. “And yet I’m still surprised every time you show up with a completely different look.”

He grinned. “Comes with the job. One minute I’m a Marvel hero, the next I’m in a gritty BBC drama crying in a rain-soaked alley.”

“Range,” I said, impressed. “Emotional squinting in the rain is a very specific skill.”

“I pride myself on it.”

The night wore on. People came and went. Joseph popped out at one point, glanced at us, and muttered “finally” under his breath before disappearing back inside.

“I feel like we should thank him,” Will said, smirking.

“Not yet. Don’t want to encourage him.”

Will turned slightly on the bench, his knee brushing mine. “Can I ask you something a bit forward?”

I tilted my head. “Sure.”

“Why are you single?”

It wasn’t said with arrogance. It wasn’t even flirty. Just… curious. Like he genuinely wanted to understand.

I blinked. “I… honestly don’t know. Timing? Work’s been intense. I travel a lot. And maybe I just haven’t met someone who makes me want to rearrange my life.”

His gaze softened. “Fair.”

He paused. “Is it weird that I feel like I’ve known you longer than just tonight?”

“Not weird,” I said. “Just nice.”

We sat in the soft hum of the garden for a beat. Then he said, “Would you want to do this again sometime? Just… you and me? No Joseph meddling?”

I smiled. “I’d like that.”

A week later, we went for coffee at a tiny place near Hampstead Heath. It rained halfway through our walk, and we ducked under a tree, laughing like kids. Will took off his jacket and held it over us dramatically.

“Chivalry isn’t dead,” he said.

“No, but your jacket might be,” I laughed. “It’s getting soaked.”

He shrugged. “Worth it.”

And somehow, every moment after that just… flowed. Simple. Easy. Like we’d always been meant to find each other, we’d just needed a gentle shove from our mutual chaos goblin of a friend.

That night, Will texted me.

WILL: “Still can’t believe it took a house party and Joseph Quinn’s meddling to meet you.”

ME: “And to think, I almost didn’t go.”

WILL: “Thank God you did.”

[isetfiretomyself]

Yandere Ex Wife X G/N Teacher Reader

This is technically a part two. It's in the same story as Yandere Butcher but starts after the events of his introduction!

Trigger warnings! Cheater not regretting their behaviour. Yandere Ex Wife is implied to like you more the her son. (It's just a sentence but better safe then sorry!) , Stalking, manipulative behaviour, mentions of murder, This is all fictional I don't condone toxic behaviour irl!

🥀Yandere Ex Wife who did cheat on Yandere Butcher! She doesn't regret it!

This town was so dull she needed something to entertain her... obviously.

🥀Yandere Ex Wife moved out of that town two years ago. Isaiah was so big in their tiny town how was Alice going to cope? (I mean there's no way to look good in this situation 😭)

I mean she did come see her son every other weekend! She's not a total monster.... Just cheater!

🥀Yandere Ex Wife who had to pick up her son earlier then usual on a Friday because he got into a fight. Recently a local drunk's gone missing and people like to say his dad looks like the type to get rid of them.

James (Finally gave this boy a name - Jay) was sitting in the headmasters office with you waiting for someone to come pick him up. Usually his dad would respond, especially if he got to see you but it's his mum's weekend. You had helped patch up his hands. You are a good person.He knows his dad's a little obsessed too. He's not stupid, he almost feels bad for you. But his dad's a good person, right? He wouldn't go that far surely.

James looks at the clock on the wall before turning to you "It's 1pm...Mums probably got some business thing or whatever-" before he had a chance to ask for them to call his dad Alice comes rushing in.

🥀Yandere Ex Wife looks very put together, Designer head to toe. She left this lifeless little town to focus back on her job. She hated that Isaiah wanted her to be a little housewife. Filling out documents and paperwork was less painful then washing up or cleaning the floors to her.

"Ah! Miss Alice. Thank you for coming!" You stand up and shake her hand. You had heard from the locals at the pub all about her. Cheating on her husband and the father of her child with an author who was visiting for a bit. Isaiah was quite sweet, you couldn't understand why she would but you had to stay professional.

"Please take a seat. Obviously this isn't the first time James been reported but now it's escalated to violence..." The headmaster was planning on expelling James. That's easy to see but Yandere Ex Wife isn't dumb. After pointing out someone accused the poor boys father to be the cause of a missing person it's normal for a teenager to lash out. "And have you talked to the other students parents about not gossiping about my son's father near their child!?" She stood up.

🥀By the end of the meeting James could come back to school on Monday like nothing happened. She lead her child out before hearing you call after her.

"Thank you" you mouth. "I know you're not particularly liked in this town. Sorry! That's rude! I just meant...if you ever need any extra support to be involved with things like the school plays or parents evens. Here's my school email."

Now did she fall for you in the exact same way her ex husband did....yes. yes she did. You cared! Even when she cheated (still won't say it was wrong) you pushed through and cared! That's what she was looking for her whole life! Someone to care for her!

🥀Yandere Ex Wife waited for son to go to bed before looking up your social medias. You had a few aesthetic photos of the town but if scrolled down. Really, really far down. You had lived in the city she does now!

🥀That Monday the town was surprised that Yandere Ex Wife was round! She hadn't shown her face in awhile for good reason. She had her pencil skirt paired with her blouse that was a button too low.

In the early morning you walked into town on your way to work. "Oh (Reader)!" Yandere Ex Wife sang behind you. Had she been there long? "I hope you don't mind but I saw you used to live around my parts so I bought you a few snacks that are popular around there! As a thank you for looking out for my beautiful boy!"

🥀 Now isn't she adorable? Yandere Ex Wife started to be more involved in the community again and even moved back into the town!The locals weren't happy What everyone didn't know is it's so she can follow you around! She loves it!

She can work from home whenever so when you walk home. She walks with you! Just far behind without you knowing! She takes a few photos as well! You're just so cute! How you mark students work or cook yourself meals! It's bizarre, she sees you make cooking errors and she just wants to cook for you. She's never had that before not even with her son. (Och)

🥀Yandere Ex Wife calls you crying on a few occasions. Feeling isolated or judged by her neighbours and whaw whaw. She did not care. I mean she's not lying, just lying about it upset her because she knows you'd care. She was even surprised herself when you came over her to comfort her.

🥀She's definitely buying you gifts allll the time! Which she never does! That's not her love language till she sees how your face heats up and you get all shy about it.

🥀Yandere Ex Wife who noticed you being around her is ruining your reputation. She hears how the other mums talk about you. How you're probably sleeping with her (she wishes) like she slept with that author.

Specifically this stupid little librarian! They've been gossiping so much it just grinds her gears! So she dealt with the problem! She's no fool, She knows Isaiah did it. She remembers how possessive he got, how he tried to hide it. So she grabbed one of those heavy little books and bashed this librarian head in and tried framing her ex husband for It!It was easy to burn the book and dumb the body near the butchers. And where was she? Getting some in another town! She has a friend with similar "love language" to her.

🥀You were shaking up...your school worked with that library frequently. You had just finished a call with Isaiah when Alice pulls you into her chest.

"Aw Sweetheart I hear you're upset about what happened! Let me take cook you dinner tonight, you can just rest!"

[bluelizard100]

Here’s a WIP I had sitting in my notes app for forever that I finally got around to finishing

Study abroad reader x Soap (my beloved) !!!

Warnings: kidnapping, non-con, bondage with a belt, post TBI Soap, very little editing, obsessive & unstable Soap, poorly written Scottish accent lmao

4.1k word count

Studying abroad seemed like the best opportunity you ever could’ve gotten. You were ecstatic, packed up and ready to fly over to Scotland, knowing there was a room at the university of Edinburgh waiting for you. 

It all seemed so perfect. You got to travel without having to worry about missing your studies, and this was a wonderful opportunity to meet new people and make connections.

Just as you had wanted, everything was perfect. It would’ve stayed perfect if you hadn’t met Johnny.

“John MacTavish, but a bonnie thing like you can call me Johnny,” he’d said to you.

He was a flirt, and to you it was harmless, temporary fun. The two of you grew close fast. You ate lunch with him, hung out with him during your breaks, and you even spent the night at his place a couple times. You’d spend evenings texting or calling, unloading your stresses onto him while he cracked jokes to make you feel better.

He never talked much about his own problems with work— you understood, though. How much can he really talk about his problems with the military? He was special forces, after all— SAS. He never even told you how he got the gnarly scar on his temple. He talked about his team sometimes, but rarely ever a few words. He always just seemed happier to listen to you.

It was a wonderful thing, your friendship with him. There was an obvious connection between you two, an unspoken chemistry. You entertained the idea of something more with him, but you never brought it up; how could you? You had to leave eventually, so what was the point? What if he didn’t feel the same way, and you were just reading too far into things? He seemed like the type to flirt with his friends. If you went for it and asked him out, and he said no, you’d ruin the entire friendship. He probably wasn’t interested— you’re just a friend to him. Right?

After an entire year in Scotland, it was finally time to pack up and fly back home. You didn’t want to leave, but you missed home. It’d been a whole 365 days since you had seen your friends and family back home, and you longed to sleep in your own bed again.

When you told Johnny it was time for you to go back home, his eyes flashed with a dark intensity. You should’ve acknowledged the subtle shift, should’ve known something was wrong. You shouldn’t have ignored the unease building in your gut, but you didn’t.

He’s probably just pushing down his emotions. He’s a soldier; I bet he’s not even allowed to have feelings. You rationalized your disquiet away as you shoved haphazardly folded clothes into a stuffed suitcase.

It was the night before your flight that he finally showed you how he felt. You don’t remember much other than a prick to your neck, and then darkness.

—

You wake up in what you think is Johnny’s sitting room, sat on the couch with your wrists tied behind your back and your ankles bound together. Your head is pounding, your eyes burn, and your mouth and throat are dry. It’s too painful to think. Your tongue feels like sandpaper in your mouth, desiccated by whatever concoction was injected into your veins.

It takes you a moment to realize that you are, in fact, in Johnny’s sitting room, and not some random person’s house. It’s both relieving and terrifying to wake up in your friend’s home; you know where you are, you know you’re with someone who’s supposed to be safe… but you’re tied up and you were very obviously drugged.

Thoughts race through your head. Why am I here? And where is Johnny? What did he give me? Is Johnny okay? Did a terrorist capture him? Am I being used as a hostage?

Your thoughts spiral out of control with each scenario you came up with. Each new hypothetical has your blood pressure spiking and your heart fluttering. Just before you can open your mouth to scream, you hear footsteps.

Johnny emerges from the kitchen, stepping through the doorway lightly and almost calmly. You melt with relief, so glad to see that he’s okay that you don’t even notice his lack of panic.

“Johnny!” You nearly weep. He walks towards the couch, giving you a warm, loving smile. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he kneels down in front of you and wipes a tear from your cheek.

“Oh, baby, ye dinnae need tae cry,” he coos.

You squirm on the couch, tugging against the ropes that keep you immobile. “J-Johnny,” you stammer, “you gotta untie me.”

His expression darkens, the warmth fading away.

You’re still panicked, though. You haven’t realized yet that there isn’t any danger except for the man in front of you.

“Johnny, we have to hurry.”

The danger in Johnny’s expression fizzles, replaced by confusion. “What?”

“Before they come back,” you sniffle. “The men who took me— they’re terrorists, right? We have to leave!”

Again, Johnny smiled at you. Poor thing. So naive.

“No terrorist, baby. We’re safe, aye?”

You break down again, crying with relief. Johnny sits himself on the couch and pulls you up into his lap, gingerly untying your wrists and ankles.

“Just you an’ me. It’s okay, ye dinnae need to cry.”

You babble into his neck, blaming your tears on whatever drugs you were given. He only shushes you, rocking you gently in his arms.

You cry for what feels like an eternity, but Johnny holds you tight. To you, he’s comforting you, offering himself as an anchor to your out of control emotions.

To him, he’s holding you tight so you can’t run away. He’s the anchor that’s going to keep you here, with him.

Where you belong.

—

You wake again, this time in Johnny’s room. In his bed. Wrapped in his arms.

He’s already awake, staring at you with unnerving intensity. It disappears as soon as he catches your eye, replaced with another one of his warm smiles.

It takes a moment for you to remember what happened, and even then, your brain decides to focus on your flight.

“Holy fuck!”

You spring out of Johnny’s bed so quickly that you stumble, the too-sudden postural change making your vision spot. Johnny hurries after you, wrapping an arm around your waist when you wobble.

Then his grip tightens. You’re being dragged back to the bed.

“Johnny,” you gasp, “I gotta- I gotta go. I missed my flight!” He pushes you back into the bed, grumbling when you slap at his arms.

“I need to go now!” You shout. You’ll have people waiting for you, school expecting you. You have to at least call.

You don’t get a chance to explain any of it. Johnny pushes you down onto your back and clamps his big hand over your mouth.

“Stop fuckin’ moving,” he demands, frustration turning his tone rough and mean. He stares into your wide eyes, his face inches from yours. You freeze out of pure shock, and when Johnny’s sure you’ll listen, he pulls his hand from your mouth.

“There we go,” he hums. “You’ve got nowhere ta be, baby. Ah took care o’ everythin’ for ya.”

The fuck does that mean?

“You… what? No, Johnny, I have to—“

You’re cut off again by him clamping his hand over your mouth.

“I said nae. Yer’ stayin’ here.”

You push at his shoulders, trying to get him off you, but he collects both your wrists in his free hand and pins them to your chest.

“I cannae let ye leave.” Johnny’s voice is thick with emotion, so intense that it scares you. You’ve never heard him like this. He’s always so lighthearted and unserious, turning everything into a joke. Now here he is, so genuine that his voice is unsteady.

“I need ya. I need ye here with me, by my side. They dinnae need ye; I do. They don’t deserve ye. They— they abandoned you, let ye come to a strange country all by yerself. Who fuckin’ knows what could’ve happened if I hadnae found ye so early on?”

He’s rambling, almost like he’s speaking to you and to himself. Like he’s trying to rationalize this, forcing it to make rational sense to you and ease his own guilt.

“I’d never leave ye. I’d never let ye get yerself in danger like they did. I’ll protect ye, keep ye safe and sound right here wi’ me.”

Johnny grew more and more distraught as he rambled, spilling his delusions while you tried to keep your tears at bay.

Finally, it all clicks.

Johnny— your friend Johnny, who was warm and kind and funny, had kidnapped you.

He drugged you, tied you up, and dragged you back to his house. He made you miss your flight back home. And now, apparently he’s holding you hostage.

Amidst his breakdown, Johnny notices the tears welling up in your eyes. “No, baby, no, no tears,” he coos, uncovering your mouth to cup your cheek instead. “It’s okay. Ah ken it’s a lot of feelings right now— love is a lot tae feel.”

For a moment you just stare at him. You just have to stare. Dumbfounded.

He thinks these tears are because I love him? He think I’m, what, overwhelmed with joy?

“…Johnny,” you say, voice shaky yet full of conviction, “you need to let me go.”

You watch Johnny’s face fall, see tears turn his eyes glassy. You almost feel bad.

Then he snarls, his expression turning vicious.

“Fuck no,” he growls, slamming your wrists above your head. He presses down until his nose presses against yours, until the breath he exhales is the breath you take in.

“I already said I’m not fuckin’ losing ye. I’ll no’ let ye go back to another—“

His voice cracks, and you feel hot tears drip onto your cheeks.

“…another man. I’m cannae let ye go back home. I cannae let some other lad sweep ye off yer feet and take ye from me, while I’m an entire fuckin’ country away from ye, helpless tae stop it.”

He takes a ragged breath and buries his face into your neck. “You’re mine. I said willnae lose ye.”

You don’t get a chance to even utter a response before Johnny snaps again, pressing you down harder against his mattress.

“If ye don’t want tae stay, I’ll make ye,” he snarls.

His free hand goes to his belt, and your cry of protest does nothing to deter him.

“I’ll show ye,” he mutters. “I’ll show ye how good I’ll be to ya.”

While you thrash and scream underneath him, Johnny loops his belt around your wrists and secures them to the headboard.

“Johnny stop! Stop it! Fucking let me go!”

Your shouting again does nothing. Johnny’s in some crazed state, not hearing anything— and if he is hearing it, it’s not affecting him.

Fabric tears, the sound drowned out by your screaming. Cool air hits your belly, and Johnny stuffs a ripped half of your shirt into your mouth.

He undresses you wordlessly, tearing the rest of your shirt off and then your bra. Your pants don’t get torn— simply yanked off your legs, your panties dragged along with them.

When you’re fully naked, tears streaming down your cheeks, is when Johnny finally stops. He pauses, sucks in a full breath, and stares.

God, he fucking stares. If you could, you’d curl in on yourself, hide from his burning gaze.

When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle. It almost startles you, the contrast between his earlier snarling and his current loving rumbling making your hair stand on end.

“Oh, baby,” he breathes. “My sweet, beautiful wee bride.”

A shocked cry escapes you, the sound muffled by the scrap of shirt he shoved between your lips.

“Shh shh shh,” Johnny shushes you gently. “No cryin’ now. No more cryin’.”

His hands, rough with callouses, roam over your body. He starts at your hips, sliding up over your waist, feeling each individual rib, tracing the sides of your breasts, up your chest, gentle at your neck, until he finally cups your face in both hands.

“I’ll be the best husband ye could ever ask for, bonnie.”

You whimper, shake your head no, and he frowns.

“No?” He asks incredulously. “I ken what the problem is. Ye cannae turn that big brain o’ yers off. Are ye thinking too much again, baby?”

He uses his hold on your face to nod your head yes.

“Aw, I ken, baby. Ye’re always so nervous’, lettin’ that anxiety ruin everything.”

Johnny presses his lips to your forehead before he descends, making his way down your body. When he settles between your thighs, wrapping his arms around them to keep you still, he meets your teary eyes with his own intense, piercing blue stare.

“Let yer husband make it all better.”

He licks a long stripe up your cunt, from slit to clit, eliciting a sharp squeal that stays trapped behind your gag.

He’s gentle about it, laving his tongue against you in slow, gentle strokes. He’s making out with your pussy, kissing at your clit and sucking on your lips while you wail into your gag.

He pushes his tongue inside you, tasting you with an appreciative groan that vibrates around your pussy. You squeal again, and you swear he puffs out an amused breath through his nose.

Johnny alternates between those gentle licks and experimental plunges until your breath turns shallow. Your body succumbs, giving in to the desire you’ve harbored for so long even while your mind screams that this is wrong.

Against all your inner turmoil, your efforts to control your body’s responses fail. Your hips twitch and a tiny moan sounds from your lips, nearly imperceptible with the cloth muffling your voice.

But Johnny caught it.

And the air shifts.

He pauses, and you look down to see him staring up at you with a devious, excited glint in his eyes.

“There we go,” he growls, satisfaction spilling from his tone. “All warmed up.”

Your brow furrows with confusion, but Johnny answers your wordless question so quickly it gives you whiplash.

In what feels like a mere second, Johnny reaches up and rips the cloth from your mouth and returns to his spot between your thighs, latching onto your clit and sucking hard.

Intense, overwhelming pleasure shoots through your belly like electricity, ripping a startled scream from you.

He latched on tight, refusing to let go even as you buck your hips and cry out into the room, begging for a break.

Johnny releases your clit with a pop and looks up at you with a proud grin. “Told ye, baby, I’m gonna make it better— gonna take care of those racin’ thoughts. I’ll make sure ye cannae think about anythin’ at all.”

It should be a threat, but he said it so sweetly; It was like a loving promise.

Johnny dips back down, only this time he starts flicking his tongue over your poor clit, tormenting your swollen nub.

Again you cry out, unable to keep quiet. Johnny’s attacking your most sensitive spot, tormenting you with your own body. While you squirm and cry, your hips buck and roll in time with his tongue, searching for more.

Your efforts are rewarded with a satisfied grunt from Johnny, and he doubled his own. You didn’t think it was possible, but he proves you wrong— his tongue moves faster, harder, and he tightens his grip on your thighs to keep you from wiggling too much.

Your wails turn to moans, each sound that leaves you more desperate than the last. Tantalizing warmth floods your belly, along with a pressure that keeps building and building.

Each sound Johnny forces from you is taken as encouragement. Although your logical mind hates every aspect of this, you know that if he stopped now you wouldn’t be able to keep from begging. You’re too close for him to stop; the want has reached the tipping point to a primal need. Luckily for you, Johnny wants to deliver.

If you were paying more attention (read: if you were capable of paying attention), you’d have noticed that Johnny was losing himself, too. He’s rutting his hips against the mattress like an animal, matching the beastly way he devours your cunt.

Your abdomen tightens and your thighs fight to squeeze shut, cueing the band in your core to snap.

In a panic, still conscious enough to realize that you’re about to come on your friend-turned-kidnapper’s tongue, you glance down between your thighs.

Johnny had looked up at your face as soon as he felt your thighs squeeze. When you met his eyes, glazed over with need, that torturous band snapped.

Head thrown back in a strangled moan, molten pleasure rolling through your body like magma forcing its way to the surface, your body surrendering itself to Johnny.

Johnny refused to let up, lapping at your entrance to get every last taste of your release. You feared he wasn’t going to stop, uttering a breathless “please” with the last of your energy. Your plea was like music, the sweetest melody he’d ever heard, and he finally pulled away.

You let your head flop back against your pillow, muscles finally going lax. Johnny crawled back up your body, caging you in with his arms, elbows propped on either side of your head.

“There ye are,” he hums, looking down at you with nothing short of adoration. “Not thinkin’ so much now, huh?”

You don’t answer— can’t answer, really— but Johnny doesn’t mind. He smiles and cups your cheek again. Then, he’s leaning down and kissing you. Kissing you for the first time.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about this before; what it would be like if you took the chance and told Johnny you had feelings for him.

You’d thought about how it would feel to kiss him. Would he be gentle, play it safe for the first time? Or would he be rough and passionate? Would his lips be soft, or would you have to tease him into using chapstick?

Every scenario you’d come up with had been domestic. Nothing like what you’re experiencing now, trapped underneath him with your wrists secured to the headboard. The taste of your own arousal lingering on his lips.

Johnny is gentle as he kisses you. He takes his time, savoring the feel of your lips against his, the way you go slack and just accept it.

Accept his affections.

Accept him.

He nips at your bottom lip before pulling away and strokes his thumb over your cheek.

“The sweetest bride I could ever ask for,” he whispers.

Bride. The title has you squirming again, tugging against the belt at your wrists and using your legs to try and buck him off.

“Och—“ he huffs, pressing his hips down against yours. “Quit that.”

You stiffen. His hard-on presses down against you through his pants, which shouldn’t be surprising, but actually feeling it is enough to make you go still.

He grins at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Now he looks like the Johnny you know. The Johnny you befriended. His expression is incongruous— he shouldn’t be looking so playful right now, so unserious. But here he is, looking like this is all some practical joke.

The worst part? It makes you feel better.

His playfulness is familiar. It offers you the comfort that you so desperately need right now, acting as a subtle reassurance that— despite all of this— everything’s going to be okay.

“That’s a good girl,” Johnny murmurs, giving you a little peck on the lips.

“You’re thinkin’ again, though. Gotta do something about that before ye work yerself up again.”

He pulls his shirt off, throwing it down to the floor. His pants and boxers follow. He doesn’t take his time undressing, stripping himself down just as quickly as he did you.

Your breath hitches when you catch sight of his hard cock. It looks almost painful, ruddy at and around the tip and leaking.

He wraps his big hand around it and strokes it a few times, pumping up and down his length with a groan.

“Gonna make it official, baby,” he groans, lining himself up with your cunt. “Gonna make ye my wife.”

With that, he pushes in, groaning again as your warmth envelops him. He moves slowly, again savoring the feel of your bodies joining.

Your earlier orgasm prepped you enough to take the edge off, but the stretch of his cock was still enough to burn.

A whine sounds from your throat and your eyes squeeze shut, an instinctive reaction to the sudden burst of pain.

Johnny coos, but he doesn’t stop. “Poor thing. Ah ken it’s big, but Ah also ken ye can take it.”

He keeps pushing in, in, in, until he finally bottoms out and his hips meet yours. Johnny finally pauses, then, giving you a moment to get used to him.

You’re so full, stuffed so tight with him that he’s almost all you can think about.

Johnny practically trembles, his restraint hair-thin. “Ye feel so good, so warm,” he rasps, dipping down to nip at your neck. “My wife. Mine. Gonna treat ye right, better than anyone else ever could.”

He reaches up and, to your surprise, unbuckles the belt and frees your wrists.

“C’mon, baby, touch me. I know ye want to.”

You don’t move, your arms just laying above your head where he’d let them flop. Johnny sighs and grabs ahold of your thighs, hiking them up and wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Stop thinkin’,” he huffs, grabbing your wrists next. He brings them up to his shoulders, holding them there until you finally touch, grasping his firm muscles.

“Good girl.”

You get another quick kiss before Johnny starts to move, and you feel your belly muscles flutter. That weird rippling sensation, like butterflies but better, and a moan catches you by surprise.

Just like before, Johnny takes it as encouragement. He moves a bit faster, changes the angle of his hips until you squeal. He growls like an animal, feral for your pleasure.

His big hands cup your tits, squeezing and kneading before he switches to rolling his thumbs over your pebbled nipples.

“Such a good girl,” he growls, getting lost in you for the second time tonight. “So perfect. M’ sweet wee baby, my bonnie wife.”

He zeroes in on that spot, the spot that makes you squeal, and targets it over and over. It’s too much, worse than when he went down on you. The sensitivity from then spills over to now, heightening everything he makes you feel.

The wiry hair at his pelvis tickles to your clit each time he fucks into you.

Too much.

He nails that perfect spot deep inside you over and over.

Too much.

His pinches and teases your sensitive nipples until they’re puffy.

Too fucking much.

Your jaw goes slack and sounds leave you freely, moaning and wailing without restraint.

You dig your fingernails into Johnny’s back, clawing him up like a scratching post, and he fucking loves it.

He fucks you faster, harder, twists your nipples almost meanly and bites down on your neck.

That bit of pain sends you hurtling over the edge, coming so hard it feels like the air is punched from your lungs.

Your pussy clamps tight around Johnny, gripping him tight like you never want him to leave. His hips stutter and he curses, nearing his own end.

“Oh- fuck-!”

He slams into you one last time before spilling his hot load deep inside you, filling you up.

He collapses on top of you, squishing you with his weight just long enough to catch his breath before shifting to let you breathe better.

The two of you lay quiet for a moment, too busy panting to try and speak.

Johnny gets his breath back first, propping himself back up on his elbows. He pulls out slowly, hissing when your cunt squeezes him again.

He looks down at you, spent and sleepy, and smiles again.

“Got yer head nice an’ empty now,” he says, his voice full of mirth.

Johnny slips out of the room, returning with some ice water and a damp washcloth.

He cleans you up, gives you sips of the cold water, and then crawls into bed with you.

“See?” He murmurs, his own voice turning rough with sleepiness.

“Ye belong with me.”

[rubyuji]

In Every Frame, You (Jeon Wonwoo) ˙✧˖📷⋆

“You know he looks at you different, right?” 🎞˙✧˖°⋆｡˚

Genre: Slowburn, Open ending

AU: Highschool!au

Pairing: Photographer!Wonwoo x Afab!Photographer!Reader

Warnings: None

Synopsis: Some love stories don’t need big moments—just the right ones, quietly captured. Tender slow-burn buzzing beneath the surface told in glances, near touches, and moments that almost pass unnoticed. In the quiet rhythm of working behind the scenes and shared silences, two souls begin to orbit each other—capturing something real before either of them fully realize it’s happening.

Notes: This is based on a true story, probably because it reflects my current situation with my crush. It feels like standard cliché fanfic with how this connection is developing, so I thought why not write one about Wonwoo since I miss him but also because my crush had always reminded me of Wonwoo. (This fic is open ended because I will base it off what happens in my real life so there will be a follow up fic in the next few months or so, depending on my situation lmao ;;)

W.C: 7.9k

It started at a school sports event practice. Late afternoon, golden light. The kind of hour that makes the world feel softer, like everything’s been dipped in honey.

You hadn’t planned to stay long. You weren’t even taking photos—your camera was still at home, resting on your desk like it knew this wasn’t a moment to capture through a lens.

This was one of those rare afternoons where you just… observed. No role to play. No one to impress. Just you, the sun, the quiet hum of sneakers on asphalt, and a crowd that blurred at the edges.

That’s when you noticed him.

He wasn’t on the field. He wasn’t cheering. He was just… watching, the same way you were—seated a few rows down the bleachers, back straight, eyes sharp behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses. There was something still about him like he knew how to hold space without needing to fill it.

And then, he looked up. Right at you.

The moment stretched—just long enough to feel like a flicker in time, not long enough to be certain it happened.

You looked away first. Or maybe he did. You’re not sure. But what you are sure of is this: something in you clicked.

Not in a thunderbolt way. Not loud, not sudden. Just… a quiet spark. A thud in your chest that didn’t hurt. A softness that settled in your lungs.

You didn’t know his name. You’d never seen him around before, or at least, you thought you hadn’t.

But from that day on, you kept running into him.

In hallways. In the cafeteria. At the back of the media lab when you went in to borrow a mic. He never said much. Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all. But he always looked.

Not in a lingering, obvious way. In a curious, caught-off-guard kind of way. Like he was surprised to see you again, every time.

And yet, it didn’t feel new. That was the strange part.

Even on that first day, you didn’t feel like you were seeing him for the first time—you felt like you were remembering him.

You never believed in fate. Still don’t. But after a while, it started to feel like the universe had quietly decided to fold him into your day-to-day life. Like he belonged there.

Not as a plot twist, not as a lead character, but as a presence—steady, quiet, watching you the way he watched the field that day. Like he sees things other people miss.

Like he sees you.

The thing about seeing him often—but never close enough to talk—was that it created a rhythm. Like a song you couldn’t name, but kept humming anyway.

In the weeks that followed that first glance at the bleachers, it was all so unspoken.

Passing each other in the hall. Brief eye contact in the cafeteria when neither of you meant to look up. Standing near each other in the media room while someone else talked too much. You never exchanged more than a nod, a blink, a silence.

And yet—he stayed with you. Quietly. On the way, you started noticing things you wouldn’t have before.

How he stood with his hands tucked into his sleeves. How he always carried his camera in one hand, never both. How he rarely laughed, but when he did, it was the kind that lit up just his eyes.

You told your friends, of course. Or tried to.

“Wait, who?” Haein had asked, squinting at the crowd from across the lunch table.

“The one with the black hoodie?” Areum guessed. “Isn’t he in the media club or something?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. I don’t know. He’s just… he’s got this quiet thing. Like, background music energy.”

“Are you even sure you like him?”

That was the thing. You weren’t.

Some days you swore your chest fluttered when he was nearby. Other days, you forgot he existed—until you saw him again, and it hit you all at once.

It wasn’t a crush in the way you were used to. No butterflies, no burning need to impress. Just this subtle pull. A strange calm. Like he was a place your mind returned to without realizing it.

But summer came. And with it, distractions.

You threw yourself into life—loud, fast, sun-drenched life. Football games with your cousins. Late-night drives with your friends. Dancing in small towns, letting the music fill the spaces where thoughts of him might’ve lived.

You took so many photos that your gallery blurred together: neon lights, rooftops, coffee foam, beaches, and back seats of cars.

You forgot the way his eyes softened when he looked at you. Forgot the way you once held your breath near him. Forgot to even look for him in crowds.

You were over it. Or at least, you told yourself that.

And it worked. For a while.

But hearts don’t always listen to logic. And feelings—especially the quiet ones—don’t leave. They wait. They change shape, hide in small moments, then resurface when you least expect them.

When school started again, you hadn’t thought of him in weeks.

So when you saw him again—standing by the doorway of your media arts classroom, flipping through the back of a camera—something clicked in your chest.

It was back.

Maybe it never left.

The start of the semester always had a way of hitting you harder than you expected. You were still catching up from the summer’s distractions, settling back into the rhythm of early mornings, late nights, and the low hum of the school routine.

One morning, as you shuffled into class, your mind still caught up in lingering thoughts of football games and beach trips, Mrs. Lee caught your eye from across the room.

Her gaze was sharp, but there was something unusually warm in the way she looked at you. It didn’t take long for her to wave you over.

"Y/N," she called, her tone light yet purposeful.

You paused for a second, unsure if you’d missed something. You’d been in her class long enough to know her to be stern, but this felt… different. You pushed through the small crowd of students, making your way to her desk.

When you reached her side, she gave you a nod toward the back of the room, where Wonwoo was sitting, lost in his own world as he fiddled with his laptop.

He hadn’t noticed you yet.

"I’ve been discussing the media team for the school play with Mr. Kim," she began, her voice low, as though sharing a piece of news that needed careful delivery.

“And I think you’d be perfect for it. You’ve shown such a strong eye for capturing moments, Y/N. The way you approach your photos—thoughtful, intentional—it’s exactly what we need for this project.”

You blinked, surprised. A part of you had always loved capturing moments, but you didn’t think your school’s play would be the place to showcase it. The logistics of it all felt like another world entirely.

“Wait, the play? You want me to work on that?”

She smiled, the lines of her face softening.

“Yes. And I was also thinking of pairing you with someone who has a similar passion for visual storytelling. Someone who could complement your style. I’ve spoken with Wonwoo about it, and he’d be a great fit. He’s quiet, yes—but he’s incredibly detail-oriented. I think you two would work well together.”

You followed her gaze, and for the first time, you really looked at Wonwoo. He was at the back, one arm resting casually on the table, his camera in hand as he adjusted the lens, all while listening intently to whatever the class was discussing.

The way he observed things, always present but never intrusive, always focused but never rushing—it was like he was born to capture the world as it was.

“Wonwoo?” you repeated, unsure if you’d heard her right. “I mean, I guess I can see that. We both like photography, I suppose…”

“Yes,” Mrs. Lee agreed, almost like she’d been expecting this reaction.

“That’s the idea. I think you two balance each other well. You’re both meticulous in your own way but in different ways. It’ll give the media coverage a dynamic that’s just right for the play.”

The thought of working with him—a person you’d barely spoken to outside of shared class projects—made something stir in your chest. Was this a chance to finally get to know him more? Or just another task to complete?

Before you could answer, Mrs. Lee was already scribbling something down in her planner.

“I think you two will get along just fine. Work out the details later. I’ll let Mr. Kim know you’re both on board.”

You nodded, trying to hide the slight discomfort of the situation. The pressure of collaboration was one thing, but the thought of being forced into proximity with Wonwoo, of working alongside him for hours, was… another thing entirely.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. It was just that the idea of feeling too close made your pulse race, even if you hadn’t spoken much at all.

As you looked back toward the back of the room, your eyes briefly met his. That familiar flicker of recognition passed between you two, the same silent exchange that had been happening since that first, accidental moment on the bleachers.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. There was no tension. Just something quiet—like an understanding of the moment.

You looked away first, but that didn’t make the sudden weight in your chest go away. Working with him was one thing; figuring out how you felt about him was entirely different.

“Alright,” you muttered to yourself. “I guess we’ll see how this goes.”

And just like that, everything began to shift again. The subtle pull you’d tried to ignore, the fleeting moments of connection that always seemed to happen just outside the realm of real conversation, were about to become something you couldn’t avoid anymore.

The next few weeks would make everything clearer. Or maybe they’d just complicate things more.

But you couldn’t help but wonder: Was it possible to work alongside him without letting your feelings turn this into something more?

The media team meeting for the school play was nothing like what you’d expected. It wasn’t just about setting up cameras or organizing photo ops; it was about collaboration, ideas being thrown around in every direction, each person’s voice adding something to the whole picture.

You had never been part of a team like this before, but the second you walked into the room, you felt an unexpected sense of belonging.

The group, though diverse, was passionate. They all had their own creative energy, and as soon as Mrs. Lee introduced you as the newest member, you were met with nods and genuine smiles.

"Welcome to the team," one of them, Jiwoo, said as she gave you a reassuring smile. "Excited to work with you."

Another student, Emma, asked if you had any experience with lighting setups for photos, and you nodded, eager to share some of the tricks you’d learned.

It felt good to speak with them. You’d spent most of the summer isolated with your camera, but this was different. There was a kind of warmth to the way they included you, and before long, you were chatting comfortably with everyone.

But through it all, there was Wonwoo. He was still sitting quietly at the far end of the room, absorbed in his own thoughts, taking in everything that was said, his fingers casually flipping through his notebook.

It wasn’t like he was ignoring you—far from it. His gaze would drift over every now and then, always calculating, always observing, but never saying a word.

You could feel his presence even when he wasn’t actively engaged in the conversation.

The contrast between him and the rest of the group—their loud, vibrant energy against his calm, reserved nature—was striking.

You found yourself drawn to him again, but now there was a layer of professionalism between you. You were both part of something bigger, something that didn’t leave much room for personal matters. Or did it?

As the meeting moved forward, ideas were exchanged for how to capture the essence of the play, how to set the right tone.

One person suggested a more dramatic style, using shadows to create tension in the photos. Another wanted to use a more candid approach, showcasing the natural emotions of the cast.

You sat back, quietly listening, when an idea began to form in your mind. The play wasn’t just about the performances; it was about the atmosphere—the raw, fleeting moments of connection between the actors, the way the audience could feel the emotion rather than just see it.

You raised your hand, slightly hesitating before you spoke.

“What if we captured the moments before the curtain rises? Like, the behind-the-scenes interactions, the actors getting into character, those quiet moments of focus? I think it would create a really intimate, personal narrative about the play.”

The room fell quiet for a moment as everyone considered your idea. Jiwoo’s eyebrows lifted, impressed.

“That’s actually a great idea,” she said, her voice warm.

“We’ve never really thought about showing the process behind the scenes. It could bring a new dimension to the whole production.”

The conversation began to pick up again, but then, unexpectedly, a voice broke through, low but certain.

“I agree,” Wonwoo said, his voice almost surprising even to himself. He rarely spoke in group settings, preferring to observe. But the way you spoke about the play, the way you saw it—it resonated with him.

It was the kind of idea he would’ve suggested himself if only he’d been quicker to speak up. He paused and then met your eyes for the briefest of moments, his gaze steady but not unkind.

The air between you two shifted, just a fraction. It was subtle, but you felt it—the connection that had been hovering, just out of reach, suddenly felt tangible.

The moment lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough. Enough for the weight of his words to hang in the air and for you to feel that strange pull, the magnetic force that seemed to always bring you and him together in quiet, unnoticed ways.

You quickly looked away, unsure how to process what had just happened. Everyone else continued discussing the logistics of the project, but at that moment, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he had agreed with you, and how easily the words had come from him, as though he’d been waiting to speak all along.

It wasn’t just the idea he had agreed with—it was the subtle way he had acknowledged you. A quiet recognition, like the two of you had just bridged a gap that neither of you could fully explain. And the way he’d looked at you, just for those few seconds, was enough to set something in motion.

Your heart quickened, and you could feel the familiar nerves crawling back to the surface.

Was it possible that this collaboration would bring you closer to him in a way you hadn’t expected?

The rest of the meeting passed by in a blur. You made mental notes of everyone’s ideas, but your mind kept returning to that moment. To Wonwoo’s quiet agreement, and the way his gaze had lingered just a little longer than necessary

The sound of footsteps echoed through the rehearsal hall as you stepped in, your camera bag slung over your shoulder, the weight of it grounding you in this familiar space.

Today’s rehearsal wasn’t for the cast—it was for the media team.

The focus wasn’t on the performers; it was about capturing the essence of their work, the backstage energy, the tension, the raw moments before the spotlight hit.

The team was already gathered in the corner of the hall, talking about shot lists and the schedule for the week. But as soon as you walked in, you felt the familiar weight of eyes on her.

You didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

Wonwoo was there, as usual, positioned on the edge of the group. His posture was relaxed but attentive, his focus sharp as he listened to Jiwoo speak about the lighting setup for the scene.

But it wasn’t just that. Your heart skipped a beat as your eyes locked—just for a second, but long enough for the quiet intensity between you to resurface.

He didn’t speak, but his gaze didn’t waver.

It wasn’t the usual casual look of someone who was just glancing over at a teammate. No, this felt different.

His eyes were searching, almost as if he was taking in every detail of you. And for that moment, it was just the two of you in the room, the buzz of the team’s conversation fading into the background.

You felt the familiar flutter in your chest, a mix of warmth and anxiety. Your feelings for him had come back full force, flooding you in a rush.

You quickly glanced away, pretending to check the time on your phone to avoid his gaze. But the image of him—the way he was always so observant, so still, so effortlessly in control—lingered in your mind.

It was strange, how easily he managed to capture your attention, even when he wasn’t trying. He was quiet, not in an awkward way, but in a way that made you want to know more.

It made you curious, made you wonder what was happening behind his calm exterior. And you were starting to fall for that calmness again.

"Okay, Y/N, what do you think about the positioning for the close-up shots in the next scene?" Jiwoo’s voice snapped you back to reality.

You took a breath and stepped forward, trying to push the distracting thoughts about Wonwoo aside.

"I think the close-up should emphasize the intensity of the moment. Maybe have the light come from the side—play with the shadows, highlight the faces," You suggested, voice steady.

Jiwoo nodded, taking notes, but you could feel the weight of Wonwoo’s gaze again like it was pulling you in.

He hadn’t spoken yet, but you noticed how he had leaned slightly forward, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he watched you. It wasn’t just about the idea—it was about you.

The conversation continued around you, but all you could focus on was that quiet energy.

How easily it took over the room when he was present. How, despite his silence, his presence felt like a magnet pulling you in, bit by bit.

And then, when Jiwoo asked about something else, you caught him glancing at you again. This time, his gaze lingered even longer.

There was something in his eyes, something that made your pulse quicken. It wasn’t just the familiar intensity—it was the subtle way he looked at you, like he was waiting for you to speak, to open up.

It was a silent invitation, and for the first time, you felt the weight of it.

Your heart raced as she realized that he was still here, in your orbit, and that the feelings you thought you had left behind had only been dormant. But now, they were back—stronger than before. And what was even more confusing was that you weren’t sure if you were ready to face them, or if you even wanted to.

You had told yourself, time and time again, that you were over him. That he was just another passing moment. But the truth was, you couldn’t forget him.

The meeting ended soon after, and as the team began to pack up, you gathered your things slowly.

You didn’t know if it was because of the lingering tension or something else, but you couldn’t seem to leave without one more glance at him.

Wonwoo was still standing there, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those eyes—followed you as you moved.

Your gazes met again. This time, it wasn’t just a fleeting moment. It was a silent acknowledgment, a quiet understanding.

You weren’t sure what it meant, but you felt like something had shifted. You had always believed that, given enough time, the feelings would fade.

But here, at this moment, in the space between you, you realize that maybe some connections weren’t meant to be forgotten. And that, maybe, this was the start of something you hadn’t planned for.

Rehearsals start to settle into a rhythm—a blur of movement, dialogue, lighting tests, and whispered cues.

You find yourself growing more comfortable around the media team, slowly blending into the background yet always present, your suggestions more frequent, and your laughter more at ease. They’ve become familiar. Safe.

But him? Wonwoo still feels like a question mark.

He’s always nearby—never quite in the center of things, but never far either. He watches, listens, says little. But when he does speak, it lands.

You notice that. And you notice how you’ve started watching for it too.

One afternoon, the team meets to finalize the mock-up of the playbill, flipping through title fonts and cast photos.

You joke offhandedly about the title—The Road Less Traveled—making a snarky comment about how dramatic it sounds.

“Sounds like one of those plays where someone stares into the void for ten minutes and calls it art,” you murmur, half-smirking.

Out of nowhere, you hear him—his voice low and quiet but clear. “A little drama never hurt anyone.”

Your gaze snaps to him. Wonwoo doesn’t look away. A flicker of amusement in his eyes, a shared grin tucked beneath the surface. You quirk an eyebrow, playing along.

“Oh, so you’re the dramatic type?”

He shrugs lightly. “I can brood if I have to.”

You laugh—surprised by how easily it bubbles out of you. That’s new.

The tension between you both shifts after that—no longer just glances and proximity. There’s something being built now, one exchange at a time.

You begin talking more during rehearsals, always about the play, the concept, and the logistics of lighting. But between the lines, there’s a softness. Teasing. Shared humor. A glance held a second too long. The way he leans in slightly when you speak like he doesn’t want to miss anything.

Then comes the teaser shoot.

You’re both involved from the start—scheduling, setting up, and talking through the concept.

The air is thick with excitement and low-key chaos, but even through the noise, you’re aware of him.

The way he listens when you pitch ideas. The way his gaze lingers when you’re focused on your camera.

You tease him about posing too stiffly. He throws a quip back about your “artistic vision.” It’s all playful. But underneath it… something warmer simmers.

You’re careful not to treat him differently, not really. You laugh just as easily with the others. But with him, the spark feels different. Sharper. Quieter.

It’s in the way your shoulders brush as you pass equipment. In how your conversations never have clean endings—they just pause, like they’ll pick back up when you least expect.

Dinner sneaks up on all of you after hours of filming, and you somehow end up next to him again. You don’t even question it this time. It just happens.

The chatter around the table is loud, but it feels like a bubble forms around just the two of you—soft laughter, quiet jokes, the kind of comfort that settles in slowly, like dusk.

“You think Jiwoo’s gonna go full-throttle drama with the trailer?” you ask, tearing into a slice of pizza.

Wonwoo grins, his usual reserved edge softened.

“She’ll probably write a voice-over about chasing destiny or something.”

You laugh, nudging his arm gently. “Over a high school play. Classic.”

There’s a stillness after that. Not awkward. Just… calm. It feels like the eye of a storm—the part where things are quiet enough to notice how close you’ve gotten.

When the night winds down and people start filtering out to cars and carpools, you gather your bag and begin heading to the exit. You're halfway down the steps when you hear his voice again.

“Y/N, wait.”

You stop and glance over your shoulder. He’s already moving toward you, hands in his pockets, that unreadable look on his face.

“We live in the same direction, right?” he asks, gaze steady. “I could drive you home.”

There’s a moment—a single heartbeat—where you feel everything sharpen. Not dramatic. Not sweeping. Just quiet and real. You offer him a smile, one that feels instinctive.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Sure.”

The walk to his car is quiet. But not in the way silence usually is. This one hums with something new. A shared rhythm, an unspoken familiarity that has slowly crept in-between moments.

You glance over once as he drives, watching the streetlights flicker against his profile. He doesn’t say much, but you can feel him listening—feel him aware of you, the way you’ve always been of him.

And somehow, just sitting there beside him, the air between you charged but calm, it feels like the beginning of something.

Even if you don't name it yet.

Finals week is a haze of over-caffeinated nights, too-loud study sessions, and the growing ache of everything winding down. Rehearsals blur together.

Some days people show up; some days, they don’t. Everyone’s just barely hanging on. So when a last-minute promotional shoot for the play is scheduled, and only you and Wonwoo reply with a green checkmark, you already know how it’s going to go before you even show up.

You arrive at the theater first. The space is quieter than usual, sunlight bleeding through the high windows in golden streaks.

You walk the perimeter slowly, your sneakers quiet on the wooden floor, eyes adjusting to the dim warmth of late afternoon. There’s a calmness in the air, the kind that only exists when everyone else is too busy to be present.

You begin setting up—softboxes, reflectors, your camera slung over your shoulder. You hum a little under your breath, not expecting to be heard.

But then he enters.

Wonwoo.

No loud entrance, no announcement. Just the sound of the door creaking and his soft footsteps as he approaches.

“Hey,” he says, and it lands softly between you, almost like a question.

You glance over your shoulder and smile, just a little. “Hey.”

He sets his gear down beside yours like it’s second nature. Like this is something you do—work quietly, side by side, no instructions needed.

The silence is comfortable. You both know what has to get done. You both know how the other works.

For a while, it’s just technical stuff. You check the lighting. He angles the background. You test the shutter. He adjusts a reflector. You barely speak—but then, you never really had to.

It’s only when you take a moment to scroll through your camera settings that he speaks again.

“You color graded the teaser, right?”

You blink, glancing up. “Yeah. Why?”

“It looked… good. Felt intentional.”

Your mouth quirks. “It was. I was chasing that kind of nostalgic but grounded vibe. The way the story feels more in the pauses than the plot.”

He nods. “You pulled that off.”

There’s a beat.

“I picked that up from Dan Winters,” he adds. “His stuff’s all about the in-between.”

“Dan Winters?” you echo.

“Yeah. Photographer. Shoots like… the moments just before someone speaks. Or right after they stop crying. Like he’s not just capturing faces, but everything unsaid.”

You turn your body to face him, curiosity bubbling in your chest. “Is he your favorite?”

“Top three,” he admits. “Also Saul Leiter, for color and distance. And Annie Leibovitz—obviously.”

You chuckle. “Classic.”

He glances sideways at you, a small smile teasing the edge of his lips. “What about you?”

You think for a moment. “Nan Goldin. Her work feels lived in. It’s not beautiful in a posed way, but it lingers. Makes you feel like you accidentally stepped into someone else’s memory.”

He looks at you then. Not a glance—a look. Full, focused, still.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can see that in your work.”

You stare at him for a second too long, and it startles you when the door opens again.

Your friend walks in—one of the actresses, always a little too observant for her own good. She greets you both casually, rummages through a drawer, but her eyes flit between you and Wonwoo more than necessary.

She doesn’t say much. But the smirk on her face speaks volumes.

Later, as the shoot wraps and you both begin packing up, she comes over under the pretense of grabbing her makeup bag from you. Her voice drops just enough to make it personal.

“You know he looks at you different, right?”

You freeze mid-zip. “What?”

“He doesn’t look at anyone else like that. Not Jiwoo, not anyone. It’s… warmer. Like, soft. Which is gross. And kind of sweet.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart skips anyway. “You’re imagining things.”

She snorts. “Sure I am.”

She walks off without waiting for a response, and you try to focus on rolling up cords, sorting lenses. You’re almost done when Wonwoo finishes tucking away the last tripod and turns to you.

“Need help?”

“I’m good,” you say, but he walks over anyway.

You hand him his camera bag, fingers brushing his as you pass it along. You both freeze for just a second. There’s nothing overt—no gasp, no intense eye contact. But it feels different.

Natural. Like a rhythm you’d slipped into without even realizing. Like you’d done this before.

He meets your eyes. “Thanks.”

You nod, throat a little dry. “Of course.”

And just when you think the moment might end there, he glances down, then back up.

“By the way, that teaser day—Jiwoo and I switched SD cards. Just for the raw footage. Nothing else.”

You blink. You hadn’t asked. But something about him offering that—like he wanted to clarify, like he needed you to know—makes your stomach turn in a way you can’t explain.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Thanks for telling me.”

There’s a pause. Then a small, knowing smile. “Just wanted it to be clear.”

You don’t respond. Just look at him. And for a moment, you wonder how many more things he’s wanted to say but hasn’t.

When you leave that day, the theater is bathed in soft gold, and your friend lingers at the edge of the hallway, waiting to walk with you.

“You looked domestic,” she says as you fall into step.

You blink. “What?”

“When you handed him the bag. It was weird. Like... lived-in. Comfortable.”

You don’t know what to say. So you just look straight ahead, hands in your jacket pockets.

But later that night, as you edit the photos and see the ones he took—photos of you adjusting lighting, half-laughing, in motion—you realize something.

He wasn’t just documenting the play.

He was documenting you.

Rehearsal starts slow, as they usually do. People trickle in late, scripts half-crumpled in their bags, exhaustion hanging in the air like mist.

You settle into your usual spot—middle of the row, just behind the front of the house—with your camera bag beside you, legs crossed under the folds of your black maxi dress. Your white polo slips slightly off one shoulder, the fabric is oversized and familiar. You don’t think much of it.

Until he walks in.

Wonwoo.

And he heads straight for the row behind you—right behind you—and sets down his gear without a word. You can feel the air shift before you even turn around.

He’s wearing a crisp white top. White sneakers and black jeans. You blink.

You look down at your own outfit—white, black. Matching.

Unintentionally. Of course. And yet...

You don’t speak. But your bodies do. In small, quiet ways.

When you reach for your camera, he’s already leaning over, eyes focused on the buttons, adjusting the dial like he knows it better than you do. “Your shutter speed’s off,” he murmurs.

You move your hand to take it from him—brush.

His fingers graze yours. Light. Deliberate. A breath between touch and hold. You freeze for half a second, and so does he, but neither of you pulls away. Not immediately.

He forgot to charge his camera, you realize. But he says it like a confession, not an excuse. And for some reason, it makes your stomach flip.

He scrolls through your photos as you lean in to look—but he never hands you the camera. Not like he does with others. With them, you’ve seen him pass the camera without a second thought.

But with you, he keeps it close.

You catch your reflection on the dark screen of the monitor—your face right next to his. Leaning in, close enough that if you turned just slightly…

You swallow the thought.

Around you, people are noticing.

You catch your friend’s raised eyebrows across the row, a small smirk forming on her lips. You pretend not to see. Pretend not to notice how everything about him feels louder today—the way your arms brush when you both shift simultaneously, the way you both turn your heads in perfect sync.

A dance you didn’t rehearse.

At one point, you both end up standing in the same pose without realizing it—arms crossed, leaning back against the wall—and when your eyes meet, it’s like the room disappears.

The conversation stays light, but your heart feels anything but.

He gives you more tips, softer this time. His voice drops when it’s just for you. And you mirror him, effortlessly. Like you’ve found the same rhythm, the same lens to see things through.

Your friend says you don’t treat him differently.

And maybe you don’t—not on purpose.

But you know you do.

In the way, you tilt your head when he speaks. The way your eyes linger longer on him than anyone else. The way you memorize the cadence of his voice. The way you laugh—just a little more softly when it’s with him.

You’ve both been walking around this invisible thread for so long now. But here, under the harsh lights of rehearsal, between lens flares and whispered notes, you realize:

He sees you too.

Not just through the camera.

But like this.

Like whatever’s building between you exists even when no one’s looking.

Even when you're pretending it doesn’t.

The day feels off.

Maybe it’s the weight of deadlines. Maybe it’s the exhaustion in your shoulders from days of late-night edits and early call times. Or maybe—if you’re being honest with yourself—it’s that he’s not around.

Wonwoo didn’t show up to rehearsals today. You heard something about him helping with a different department—lighting, maybe, or editing final cuts for the teaser. Logical. Understandable. Still… noticeable.

Because you’ve gotten used to the way his presence anchors the room.

You don’t realize how often your eyes wander to where he usually sits until there’s nothing to find. And when the meeting ends, you find yourself walking slower. Lingering. Waiting for something—someone—to appear.

But he never does.

So you stay in your lane. You smile at your friends. You take a few photos. You play your part.

Still, you carry this restlessness home with you like static in your chest.

Later, while heading to the admin building to return a lens, your footsteps echo in the empty hallway. The golden hour sun spills through the windows, pooling onto the floors like spilled light. You don’t expect to see anyone.

And then—you do.

Wonwoo.

Just ahead, turning the corner at the far end of the hallway, walking toward you with quiet purpose. He’s alone. His hands are tucked into his jacket pockets. Earbuds hanging around his neck.

Time slows.

You notice the way his eyes find yours almost immediately. No hesitation. No looking away.

You don’t speak.

You just look at each other, and the silence becomes its own language—heavy with all the unspoken things, all the almosts.

There’s an ache behind your ribs that you can’t quite name. Because in this one moment, it feels like everything is balanced on a string—tight and fragile and impossibly close to snapping.

You think about saying hi.

You think about smiling, teasing him for disappearing all day. You think about asking what he was working on or if he needs help or if he missed being around the team today.

You even open your mouth slightly.

But then…

You look down.

You walk past.

And he does too.

Your shoulders brush as you pass. Not enough to be intentional—but not completely accidental, either. He smells faintly like cedar and something warm and familiar. You wonder if he turned his head to look back.

You don’t.

Not until it’s too late.

That night, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling.

You replay the moment like it’s a scene from a film you can’t stop watching. You remember the look in his eyes. How it held you in place. How you wanted to move—say something, anything—but your body refused to betray your heart’s urgency.

You think about how close you are to something that still doesn’t have a name.

And you promise yourself—next time.

Next time, you won’t let it pass.

Even if your voice shakes. Even if it’s just a smile.

Because you can’t afford too many more missed moments with him.

Not when every one of them stays with you like this.

It’s nearly midnight when you finally call her.

The moment replays in your head like a stuck record—those few seconds in the hallway where time stretched thin between you and Wonwoo, thick with everything unsaid. You’ve tossed and turned for hours, your phone screen lighting up the darkness as you scroll through nothing. So you do what any girl in emotional chaos does: you call your best friend.

She picks up on the second ring.

“You sound dramatic already,” she teases, voice groggy but amused.

“Because I am,” you sigh, flopping deeper into your pillow. “I saw him.”

She doesn’t even ask who. She knows.

“Did you talk?”

“No,” you groan, dragging the word out. “We just—looked at each other. Like full-on eye contact. And I was gonna say something, I swear. But I choked. I completely chickened out.”

There’s a pause before she laughs softly. “You’re so unserious. You’ve literally talked to him before.”

“Yeah, but not like that. This moment was different. It was… cinematic.”

“Everything’s cinematic to you.”

“You’re not helping.”

“No, but I am entertained,” she says, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “Also, not to add fuel to your lovesick fire, but have you seen yourself lately?”

You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… there’s a glow. You’ve been walking around like you’re in a perfume ad. All soft and floaty. It’s like—you’ve always been pretty, but now? It’s like your confidence is blooming out of your skin.”

You scoff. “That’s dramatic.”

“Is it though? You used to dodge the camera like it was cursed, and now you’re letting people take candids of you. You used to be all sharp edges and ‘don’t look at me,’ and now your smile literally reaches your eyes. You’re glowing, babe.”

You go quiet for a beat, biting back a shy grin. “Okay, but that’s not all because of him.”

“No, it’s not,” she agrees. “But don’t lie and say he didn’t help. We all see it—how you soften when he’s around. How you carry yourself differently. How… feminine you’ve become.”

That word hangs in the air like a ribbon. Feminine.

And you feel it. Not in the way you dress or speak—but in how you feel inside your body lately. Less guarded. More open. More you.

“I think… I feel safe with him,” you admit quietly. “Even when we’re not speaking. Even in silence. It’s like he sees me. And I see him.”

She exhales like she’s been waiting for you to say that.

“Then next time,” she says gently, “don’t look away.”

You see him the very next day.

He’s already there when you walk into the rehearsal room, hunched over his camera bag in the far corner, sleeves rolled up, fingers adjusting dials like second nature.

For a second, you hesitate. Not because anything is wrong, but because everything feels heightened after the hallway moment. The weight of the silence, the brush of something unspoken still hanging between you like fog.

People are everywhere—laughing, greeting each other, shifting through costumes and scripts—but your eyes land on him instantly.

You don’t make a move right away. You float. You hover. But eventually, your steps guide you to him naturally. Like you always knew you’d end up here.

“Hey,” you say softly, eyes flicking to the camera in his hands.

He looks up, smile flickering across his face like a secret sunrise. “Hey.”

There’s a pause. A comfortable one. You point toward the lens. “Can I try it?”

Without hesitation, he nods and passes it to you. “Yeah. Just—here, let me show you.”

His hands find yours briefly, not lingering too long, but long enough for your breath to catch. His fingers brush over your knuckles as he helps guide the settings. His voice is low and steady, explaining shutter speed, aperture, ISO. But you’re not sure you’re absorbing any of it.

You take a few photos—of props, people milling about, the dim lighting of the room—and hand it back to him.

He studies the shots, then glances sideways at you. “Your shutter speed’s a little slow,” he observes quietly, tapping the preview screen. “But… it kind of works. Gives it that blurred, dreamy feeling.”

You shrug, trying to hide your smile. “Maybe I like things dreamy.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Makes sense.”

You don’t expect it, but halfway through the run-through, as the actors block their scenes and your team quietly captures the process, Wonwoo steps up to you and leans in just slightly. “Hey—I’m stepping out for a bit. Just grabbing something. I’ll be back.”

You blink. He doesn’t owe you that information. You’re not his keeper.

But he told you anyway.

You nod. “Okay.”

And just like that, he’s out the door, leaving you blinking in his absence, heart skipping a little at the odd weight of his words.

When rehearsal ends, the atmosphere shifts—lighter, more playful. You chat with some of the cast, laugh at a misplaced prop, tease the director. Wonwoo returns not long after, slipping back into the room as quietly as he left. You find yourselves near each other again, your conversations casual, threaded with inside jokes and that familiar, teasing rhythm that only the two of you seem to fall into.

He’s packing up his things when you realize someone from the media team left her camera by your feet.

“Ugh,” you groan to your actor friends nearby. “I have to go all the way to the sixth floor just to give this back.”

They offer sympathy. One jokes about charging a delivery fee. You laugh, wave them off, and start to gather your things. But before you go, your eyes instinctively find Wonwoo’s.

“Bye,” you say to everyone—and then to him.

“Bye,” he murmurs back, smile soft but unreadable.

You step out of the theater and catch the media member just outside. She thanks you for the camera, and you’re about to head down the hall when—

“Y/N!”

You freeze.

It’s his voice—clear, loud, carrying through the corridor like a thread pulling tight. You turn around and see Wonwoo jogging a few steps in your direction.

“Did you get to give it back?” he asks, slightly breathless.

You nod, confused but flustered. “Yeah, I just did.”

“Okay,” he says. That’s all. Just… okay.

You smile again, heart buzzing. “Bye again,” you say with a playful edge.

“Bye,” he echoes, but this time there’s a hint of something warmer behind it.

You turn and walk away, the sound of your name still ringing in your ears. You try to play it cool, but your chest is blooming.

There was no reason for him to call after you.

And yet—he did.

You thought the last rehearsal would be the final thread holding the two of you together—at least officially. Summer was around the corner. 

Final projects, last-minute submissions, yearbooks being signed. You were preparing yourself to let it all go. Not in a dramatic way—just in that bittersweet, slow-sinking way of something beautiful coming to an end.

And then came the announcement.

A teacher from a different department—one who always had a knack for roping in the creative kids—stopped by the theater during cleanup. Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on you and Wonwoo, both crouched near the stage packing up cables.

“Ah, perfect,” she said. “You two. I’ve been meaning to catch you.”

You both looked up at the same time.

“There’s a school-wide exhibit coming up for the art and design program. We’re collaborating with a few other departments for a showcase… installations, student projects, performances. It’s a pretty big deal. And we need solid documentation and marketing this time around.”

You didn’t even have time to ask before she continued.

“I’ve already spoken to your teacher—he told me about the work you two did for the play. Said you were a good pair. So we want you two onboard.”

Wonwoo’s brows lifted slightly. He glanced at you. You blinked back, heart thudding.

“I’d like you, Y/N, to take on the Head of Marketing position for this,” she added, tapping the clipboard in her hand.

“You’ve got the eye and the leadership. Wonwoo, you’d be working with her closely on all things media—teasers, photo documentation, day-of coverage. You two work well together.”

You swallowed. “Okay… sure. That sounds great.”

Wonwoo simply nodded beside you. “I’m in.”

“Fantastic,” the teacher beamed. “We’ll send out the formal schedule and assignments by next week. But consider yourselves part of the core team. Oh—and this runs through early July.”

July.

You barely caught the rest of her words, your thoughts already drifting. This wasn’t just a post-grad event. This meant more late nights. More creative meetings. More hallway encounters and shared glances over camera screens.

You and Wonwoo were still going to be working together.

After she left, you sat back on your heels, pretending to tie your shoe while the theater buzzed around you.

Wonwoo shifted beside you. “Didn’t expect that,” he murmured.

You looked at him. “Nope. But… I’m not complaining.”

His lips twitched, a quiet smile tugging at the corner. “Me neither.”

And just like that, the next chapter started writing itself—quietly, naturally, as if the universe had decided your story wasn’t finished yet.

Not even close.

© rubyuji 2025’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

[onbearfeet]

In Which the Wizard School Books Are a Hammer

Okay. I'm gonna tell this story once, and only once, because I think it might help people who are struggling to finally, FINALLY boot J.K. Rowling from their lives.

I can't precisely say I sympathize, but I definitely know how you feel, because I have already had to do this dance with someone I guarantee you've never heard of. I've had all the feelings you've had. I had to find a way through all by myself, and now I'm going to help you so you have an easier time. Okay? Okay.

Content warning: discussion of child sexual abuse (mentioned but not described in detail).

So there's this writer. I refuse to speak or write his name these days, so we'll call him Evil Bob. ("Bob" is my default placeholder name, and this Bob is evil.) Evil Bob was a damn good writer and, frankly, an underappreciated one in his time. I picked up a few of his projects out of the bargain bin on impulse when I was about 12, and after that he was one of my names to conjure with. If Evil Bob had written it, I wanted to read it. He had a kind of perfect workman's style--he did a lot of things pretty well, and he did them in such a way that a bright 12-year-old could see how the trick was done. I learned a lot of basic writerly technique from Evil Bob--things about dialogue and pacing and how to convey character through action and lots of other stuff. Evil Bob unlocked something in my brain, and I really blossomed as a young writer by applying the lessons of his work.

Evil Bob's fiction started to fall off in popularity eventually, so he switched to nonfiction and wrote a damn good history book that won a lot of awards. I read it in college. The man could really interview, I tell you what.

I even got to interview Evil Bob myself, eventually. I was working for a small magazine that wanted to publish an article about a certain minority group's representation in a certain fiction genre, and Evil Bob had written one of the seminal works in that niche, so I tracked down his contact info, called him up, and we had a lovely hourlong chat. He was kind and gracious and funny and --

Yeah, this is where you learn why I named him Evil Bob.

A few years ago, people in Evil Bob's old fiction genre started circulating a list of, shall we say, disgraced writers in the field. Think of it like a MeToo list. The list got passed around every time a new name was added, and at a certain point, after a much more famous name had just been added to it, the list crossed my feed for the first time in a while. I dutifully scanned down it in case there was anyone on it I'd missed; after all, I attended conventions for this genre, and some of these fuckers were on the list for assaulting fans like me, so I wanted to know who to watch out for.

And there, in the middle of the list, was Evil Bob.

Weird, I thought. Evil Bob had seemed chill when I spoke to him, and usually, being 22 with big boobs (as I was when I interviewed him) brought out the perv in these guys if there was any perv to bring out. Well, maybe this was something else--maybe he used a slur on an old tape or something. I googled.

It was something else, all right.

As I sat there googling, Evil Bob was sitting in a federal prison a thousand miles away. He was there because, according to his Wikipedia page, he had been convicted of having so many CSA images on his hard drive that the judge in his case became physically ill. Honestly, I want to know where he got a hard drive that big in the year he was arrested, but I absolutely will not be asking him.

Evil Bob was EVIL. Fuck the carceral state, but also never let that particular dude near kids or a computer again.

So now I had a problem. I was going to stop buying Evil Bob's stuff, obviously--I would drop the man like a hot potato--but I couldn't so easily remove his influence on me. I'll never be 12 years old and digging through the quarter bin at the used bookshop again. There's no way to re-learn the foundations of my artform without Evil Bob. The bastard is part of me, whether I like it or not. He's left his fingerprints on my brain. And while I have negative interest in creating my own criminal hard drive, it's a little hard to shake the irrational guilt (especially since I had been raised in a high-control religious environment where any contact with sin could permanently stain one's soul, and Evil Bob's writing was part of how I escaped, and--you get the idea). I couldn't shed the stink of Evil Bob. I'd written that article. I was covered in the fuckin' ooze.

I'll spare you the six months of angst and self-flagellation. I've been to therapy since this happened. Here's what I eventually decided:

Evil Bob is like a hammer.

My dad gave me an old hammer when I moved out, along with some other miscellaneous hand tools in a paper bag. I bought a toolbox, I put the tools in it, and I use them when I need tools. My dad is an asshole who abused his children, but a hammer is a hammer. Scratch the previous owner's name off the handle, and you can build a pretty fine house with it.

What I learned from Evil Bob are the tools of a trade, and tools are not inherently evil. He taught me how to put sentences together--but I decide what my sentences say. He showed me how to convey character--but I choose what I'm conveying. He made me a writer--but I'm the one writing now.

So I still use Evil Bob's tools, with his name scoured off. I still teach some of those lessons, but he's the one source I don't cite. Oh, that dialogue hack? I picked it up in grad school, pinky swear. Here, let me share it with you for free, with no credit or compensation to the bastard who taught it to me.

I won't pretend Evil Bob wasn't an influence on my younger self, but you'll never hear me speak his legal name. I was one of the few people who really counted themselves fans of his work ... and he'll never get a whisper of a hint of that support from me again. I guarantee you won't be able to track him down from this post, and that's just the way I like it. There's a reason I haven't identified what genre he wrote in, or what his seminal fiction work was about, or whom he interviewed for that prizewinning book.

Damnatio memoriae, motherfucker. This is my hammer now, and it always has been.

So how do we give JKR the Evil Bob treatment?

Unfortunately, the Terf Queen has a larger media presence than Evil Bob ever did. One sad ex-Potterhead won't be able to erase her from culture. But there's a lot more than one of you, isn't there?

The thing is, cultural trends fade faster than you expect. Plenty of celebrities and famous artists of your parents' generation are nobodies now, and it's usually because their work spoke to your parents but not to you. I once witnessed my brother trying to read his sons a 1912 book about Spanish naval history as a bedtime story, and let me tell you, it did not go over well. Some art burns hot and bright and then it burns OUT.

The Potterheads are the parents now. Imagine how easy it would be to just ... stop talking about her. Stop buying the merch. Don't watch the new TV show or play the new game. Don't tell people you used to be a fan--not because you ought to be ashamed, but because you're not going to give her the satisfaction of saying her name. And when your kids ask about your tattoo, just tell them not to get blackout drunk in college.

Damnatio memoriae, motherfucker.

And if you feel the need to explain where you learned your kindness and courage, your unshakable loyalty to your friends (especially the trans ones), your hope in the face of overwhelming darkness ...

... why, that's your hammer. And it always has been.

[witchygagirlwrites]

Rogue-Part 9

Jay Halstead x Reader (nicknamed Rogue)

You show up to work despite a broken heart and Jay has to face that he’s lost your trust. Can he win it back and make you believe nothing more happened?!?

Warnings: mentions of sex, depression, people’s murders…I think thats it

The moment Jay’s lips met Erin’s they both fell back from each other like they’d been struck. “Woah. I think we had too much to drink” Erin whispered and Jay nodded “I don’t know what the fuck that was” she put a hand on his chest “You should go, call Rogue. I can’t lose another best friend. I don’t even see you like that” 

He nodded “You know I love her Erin, she’s the love of my life it’s just everything has been so insane since Ryatt’s death” she nodded “I know, I get it. Let’s just take a breath, forget about this,ok?” “What, don’t tell her?” he asked and she shrugged “I don’t want one best friend to be dead and the other to hate me. It’s not like it went beyond a kiss”

“I cheated on her” Jay whispered, the horror of what he’d just done sitting in. “Jay, don’t spiral. We drank too much, we weren’t thinking clearly. We stopped it as soon as it happened because we both love her” he shook his head “I gotta go” she nodded “Ok” and he turned, damn near stumbling away from her door and not from the alcohol either, from the weight of his near action.

When he got downstairs he saw a cab turning around the corner from Erin’s building and cursed under his breath. He’d have to wait for the next one because they’d walked from Mollys. He dug for his phone and hit Mouse’s number. It rang a few times before Mouse answered voice heavy with sleep “Hey man, what’s up?” “Can you come pick me up? I’m a little drunk and I fucked up Greg. I fucked up big time”

He heard Mouse curse under his breath then the rustle of him pulling jeans on “Yeah, where are you at?” “Erin’s” Mouse let out a breath before asking “Jay, before I come did you just cheat on the woman you’ve told me yourself that you can’t imagine a future without?” “I don’t know, I fucked up so bad. I kissed Erin, she kissed me.. We kissed each other..we stopped it time it happened but it still happened”

“God dammit Halstead. Yeah, I’m on the way” Mouse hung up and Jay sat down on the curb and it was then he noticed the missed call from you. It was while he was out drinking with Erin. You were calling him. There were texts from you too reading Just wanted to say I love you and another one that read Call me when you can. I love you

He could fix this. It hadn’t gone beyond a kiss. They hit the brakes. They both hit the brakes. He would be honest and beg you to forgive him when you got home. He hit your number to try to call you to see if Palladino had arranged for you to be able to make it stateside but it just rang and rang and rang. Your voicemail didn’t even pick up. Had you deleted your voicemail? He tried to text you and he got a message back saying unable to deliver “FUCK” he yelled and a woman across the street looked at him. He stuck up his hand “I’m sorry!”

Maybe Mouse could figure it out? He had to talk to you. Had to hear your voice. It was just so much loss, so much everything had spilled out. He didn’t want Erin, not like that. He loved you, you were the love of his life. FUCK, why had he taken even one fucking drink?

You sat in the middle of the bed staring at the wall. You’d turned your phone off as soon as you’d gotten to the Hampton inn. You didn’t want Jay calling and feeding you lies. You couldn’t stand to hear him telling you he loved you with the same mouth that kissed Erin, that probably tasted her, the phone being held with the same hands that touched her. The body that you knew the weight of so well being on top of her, her feeling him moving inside of her.

You stumbled off the bed and barely made it to the bathroom before you emptied everything in your stomach. You leaned back against the counter, the last few months crashing down on you. You slipped a hand under your shirt, fingers finding the still raised lines of the tattoo you’d gotten for Ryatt. You laid down on the cool tile floor and cried. You cried for Ryatt, for Nadia..for the life you’d had not too long ago..you cried for Jay..hell you cried for Erin..everyone you loved…everyone you held close…what more could you lose?

__________________

You must have dozed off at some point because when you woke up the sun was just starting to peek in the windows. You pushed yourself off the floor and looked at your watch. It was five in the morning. You’d gotten about four hours of sleep, on a bathroom floor at that. You’d managed a shift on worst. 

You weren’t going to hide. You knew what Ryatt would tell you, fuck what Nadia would tell you. Make em own it. You were going to get a shower, get changed, get food and coffee down your throat and walk your ass into the twenty first precinct like you owned that bitch. You had faced your brother dying in your arms, knowing one of your best friends was brutally murdered and the other betrayed you along with the love of your life. You could face anything at this damn point and stay standing.

Jay slowly walked up the stairs leading to intelligence. He’d ended up sleeping on Mouse’s couch the night before so Mouse had run him home to get a change of clothes then to Mollys to get his truck. Your phone still wasn’t on, Mouse couldn’t get an accurate ping on it either. It was like it was jammed. 

He kept replaying the night before in his head, wishing he’d done something different. Anything different. He got to the top of the stairs and sat down at his desk, running his hand down his face. He was dog tired. Guilt and worry was eating at him along with Nadia’s death and the still underlying aftermath of Ryatt’s. 

He glanced around the room, Mouse cut his eyes up from his computer and he ducked his eyes away from his friend. He’d gotten cussed out on top of his own guilt. Something along the lines of “Are you just trying to fuck up things on purpose man?” He knew Mouse was trying to look out for him, just like when he drug his ass home but damn how did he always manage to put words to exactly what Jay was thinking?

Erin was at her desk, eyes cast down at the files across it. Kim was out on patrol today with Roman. Adam and Kevin were working, Antonio was talking to Al and Hank. Everyone was going along with their day to day. The overhanging grief was thick enough to cut with a knife.

When the sound of the gate popping echoed up the stairs every pair of eyes flew to the stairs. Trudy hadn’t called up. Kim nor Roman had their prints in. Jay’s eyes stayed glued to the top of the stairs and his heart nearly lept out of his chest when you appeared at the top of them.

Your hair was tied back in a braid, you were wearing your usual outfit of jeans, a long sleeve tee and a jacket over it. You looked so damn beautiful he couldn’t pull air into his lungs. Damn he’d missed you even more than he realized and that was saying a lot. You barely looked his way, hell you barely looked anyone’s way. You walked straight to Hank who greeted you “I was wondering about you. Palladino called me first thing” you nodded “Well I’m back” 

______________________

You could feel Jay’s eyes on you as you walked through the bullpen but you couldn’t. Nope, you had to maintain for as long as possible. You walked over to Hank who held his hand out so you shook it as he said “I was wondering about you. Palladino called me first thing” you nodded “Well I’m back. The task force was successful” he half smiled “Good to hear. I’m glad to have you back Rogue. Have you met Mouse officially yet?” 

You cut your eyes over to the guy who you’d passed first when you made it to the top of the stairs and shook your head “Can’t say I have” he stood and walked over, a small smile on his face as he offered his hand “Greg Gerwitz ma’am. Everyone calls me Mouse. I’ll answer to either” you smiled softly “So I could just yell Gerwitz?” he laughed lightly “Remember I was army too so I may flinch first” you smirked “I’ll try not to call you that then” Mouse was about five nine, five ten. Brownish hair, bright blue eyes and a nice smile. He seemed like a sweetheart. 

“I heard a lot about you” you admitted and saw the way his eyes flickered over towards Jay who was watching your interaction closely “Good I hope?” you nodded “Very, look forward to working with you and hopefully being friends” he smiled “Yes ma’am” “Rogue” he nodded “Rogue” then turned to head back to his desk. Hank nodded “Well jump back in wherever. Isn’t like you don’t know what to do” you turned and headed for your desk, trying to avoid Jay’s eyes as much as possible along with Erin’s. You could feel Kevin and Adam watching you too and knew even Antonio and Al were probably curious to the fact that you’d yet to greet Jay.

The moment you sat down you heard the squeak of Jay’s chair and his boots. You looked up and he was already standing over your desk, a small smile on his face “Hey baby, welcome home” you forced a small smile onto your face just to not start a scene at work. You promised Hank back when you and Jay first outed yourselves as a couple that you could keep personal and professional separate. “Hey” his eyebrows furrowed “Can we talk?” “About?” you asked and he waved a hand towards you “Like when did you get home? I got in like twenty minutes ago. Unless you moved really fast you couldn’t have had time to go home and get changed and if you came straight from the airport looking like that damn”

You could feel the fact that everyone had their attention on you so you stood “I need coffee” and headed for the breakroom with him hot on your heels. 

You walked into the breakroom and let him walk in before stepping around him to close the door. He watched your every move and when you closed the door and pulled the blind down he took a step towards you but his face quickly fell when you crossed your arms. “Baby?” “I got in last night. I stayed at the Hampton inn” you were trying to keep your voice as neutral as possible, as if your heart wasn’t shattering in your chest.

“What’s going on Rogue? I want to talk to you” he took a step towards you and you took a step back “I don’t necessarily want to talk to you” the pain in his eyes made you want to rip your own heart out. You loved him so much it fucking hurt but all you had to do was think about what you saw and you could reel that in. “We need to talk” he tried and you shook your head “No, we don’t”

He reached for your hand and when you took another step back you saw tears in his eyes “Did something happen?” “Go talk to Erin” the moment you said those words his shoulders fell and the horror in his eyes was a bit rewarding. “Yeah, I came home last night. I didn’t go to our place when I got off the plane because I knew Erin needed me after Nadia and to my surprise she was already getting all the fucking comfort she needed wasn’t she?”

__________________

Jay could feel his entire world crashing to his feet. You weren’t supposed to have walked up on that. Fuck you had to see him kiss her? Did you think something else happened? “Baby, just listen..” he tried and you held up a hand, unshed tears shining in your eyes “If you don’t want me calling Palladino or another contact I’ve made for a permanent position internationally you’ll give me breathing room. I want to be home, I want to be in intelligence. I stayed at the Hampton last night. I will continue to stay there until I find somewhere else to go”

“Rogue, you have a home” he tried and you shook your head, tears finally breaking free “I don’t. Do you know how it felt to finally close Ryatt’s murder case? To be the one to put the cuffs on that bastard? I wanted to come home and celebrate with you” 

“We still can” he tried and you shook your head again “Looking at you right now? All I can see is you and her. I had to go from the joy of closing my brother’s murder case to finding out one of my best friends was murdered then? then I rush home to comfort the other best friend only to find her in the arms of the love of my life? Jay I’m barely standing. I slept four hours last night on the floor of the fucking bathroom. I can not do this right now. I came to work because if I wouldn’t have faced you? Wouldn’t have faced her? I couldn’t have faced myself in the mirror for being such a fucking coward” 

“Baby, what do you think happened?” he asked and you shrugged “You cheated on me with Erin. The worst part is I don’t even know if that’s the first time so I’ll find somewhere else to go I guess so you can have your life back” then you turned and walked out of the break room.

He stood there as you walked back to your desk, wiped your face and acted like you weren’t falling apart like he was. How the hell had his life just got turned around this damn much? He wanted to propose to you, he had a ring. He planned to propose when you got home, did you just leave him?

Everyone looked from you to the open breakroom door. Jay cleared his throat and walked out to his desk. He sat down, opening up the first file his hands landed on. He had no clue what it was, what was in it. He just had to have his eyes on something, anything. Tears in your eyes and you walking away from him was the last thing on earth he’d ever wanted. Fuck, how could he have fucked up this bad?

When the day finally ended you slipped your jacket on, grabbed your phone and headed for the stairs. You were halfway down by the time Kevin caught up with you “Woah there speedy. Where are you headed? What’s up?” you knew Kev, he wasn’t being nosey. He just clocked the fact that you were in pain and was trying to check in without making it weird. “There’s just a lot going on right now Kev” you replied as the two of you continued down the stairs to the parking lot.

You could hear everyone else trailing out behind the two of you. You saw Erin and focused on Kevin instead “Um you have a few empty rooms since the kids moved with your aunt right?” he nodded “Yeah?” you rubbed a hand along the back of your neck “Could you keep it quiet if I may need to rent one of those rooms from you for a little while?” he looked back towards the building then back to you “What happened? Jay aint shut up about getting you home” 

You weren’t going to badmouth Jay or Erin to the unit. All three of you belonged to it, they were all your friends. “Just some stuff that needs to be sorted out” he nodded slowly “Well I’ll keep it quiet but you don’t gotta rent anything. Just grab your stuff and come over. I got you” you pulled him down into a hug “Thanks Kev” he patted your back “Always. And I heard you got the bastard that shot Ryatt” you half smiled “Put the cuffs on him myself and shattered his damn nose”

“That’s what's up” he laughed and bumped his fist against yours. He nodded towards his car “I gotta go but if you decide you want a room it’s yours. Call me. Any time. Day or night” you nodded “Thanks man”

Kevin headed for his car so you headed for your jeep but froze when Erin called your name when your hand was on the handle of your door. “Fuck” you muttered under your breath. “What do you want Lindsay?” you asked, not turning to face her. “Can we talk please?” you shook your head “I’d rather not. Shit’s a little too fresh, I say a lot when I’m angry. I do a lot when I’m angry. I told Jay I need breathing room or do you two not communicate beyond your tongues being shoved down each other’s throats?”

“Rogue..” she tried and you cut her off “See? That’s the type of shit I say when you make me talk when I’m pissed off” you spun around to face her, knowing you had tears in your eyes “I didn’t even rush home for him Erin. I rushed home for you. My only thought when Hank told me about Nadia was what it would do to you. I got off the plane and came straight to your apartment. Call me crazy but I feel like I have the right to be in pain here”

“What you think happened didn’t” she whispered and you laughed humorlessly “Oh so you didn’t kiss the love of my life? I didn’t see with my own two eyes my best fucking friend kiss the man I love?” she ducked her head and you nodded “What I thought. I turned and ran after that because I really didn’t need to see Jay go into your apartment or anything” “He didn’t..” you held up a hand “I gotta go. I just I’ve got to go” 

She took a step back so you climbed into your jeep, slammed the key in the ignition and pulled away. 

You had to wipe your eyes twice as you pulled out of the parking lot to be able to see through the tears. What more could you fucking take?

Erin watched you pull away and damn near hit her knees then and there. Nadia was dead, you thought she had fucked the love of your life. She had lost both of her best friends. You rushed home from Paris to her, not Jay. You came home for her, only to walk up to that. She closed her eyes, tears flowing down her face. It was a stupid kiss. A maybe ten second kiss. It meant nothing. Had it cost her everything?

You were laying across the bed in your hotel room watching the texts from Jay light up your screen. Once it finally became apparent to him you weren’t answering the damn phone he’d taken to that instead:

Rogue, baby please call me

What you think happened didn’t

I love you

I have missed you so much

Princess please come home

Baby, answer the phone

Talk to me

C’mon baby. Cuss me out, anything but silence

I love you with everything

Please

You finally just tossed it on the nightstand and listened to it vibrate every now and then when a new message would come through. You honestly couldn’t talk to him because you didn’t know what to say. When you’d left Chicago for the task force you were so numb you could barely function. Now? It was like everything  you’d buried was back in overdrive. You were up to taking lukewarm showers and up until last night had been sleeping a few hours decently a night. Maybe it was from being worn out chasing down the members of the Gada organization but hey whatever works right?

You’d gone from feeling not a lot of anything to feeling too much and now to face this? You didn’t know what to say to Jay. Did you still love him? Of course. You would always love that man, until the day they laid you in the damn ground but he fucked Erin. He fucked your best friend. How could you move on from that?

You picked up your phone and stared at it before opening up the messages and typing one out. You deleted it then retyped it twice before finally hitting send. You laid your phone down then rolled over to try to get some sleep in an actual bed.

_____________________

When Jay’s phone buzzed he damn near knocked the coffee table upside down grabbing it. Had you finally responded? He swiped the screen and saw he had a text from you. He opened it up and read it: Jay, you’re the love of my life. You will always be the love of my life. I will love you until the day they put me in the ground, just know that. I just can’t talk about things right now. I am just getting my footing from losing Ryatt. Give me a few days then maybe I can face it. 

He read it twice. You still loved him. That was something right? That was something he could hold onto. You still loved him. He had to hold onto that. He would make you see that he didn’t sleep with Erin. Yeah, they kissed. Yeah that never should have happened but he hadn’t crossed that line. He hadn’t gone that far. He found himself praying to whatever higher power was listening, found himself talking to Ryatt “Please let her believe me. I can’t lose her over one stupid fucking decision. We stopped it time it happened. No it shouldn’t have happened but god I can not lose her over it”

Part 10

@desimarie12

@allisonargent144

@nevaehstreater18

@elvenpirate51

@voidvinyls

@bonnyclydecat

[lucid-loves]

First Light ~ Simon "Ghost" Riley Part 9

Pairing: bodyguard!Ghost x princess!reader (fem!reader)

Word Count: 3.3k

CW: angst, violence, blood, strong language, scars, physical abuse by parents, opposites attract, forbidden love, slow burn, fluff, attraction and sexual tension, reader POV and ghost POV, minors DNI

Let me know if I missed any CWs.

Story Synopsis: After receiving death threats from a mysterious terrorist organization, your royal parents make a decision to reach out to the United States for help. Specifically, they want the US to send a bodyguard to protect their precious princess. When the 141 is called upon to investigate, Ghost is the one assigned to protect you. With your lack of experiences outside of your royal life and his experience with nothing but deadly, worldly affairs, opposites attract.

Chapter Synopsis: You were plunged into a deep sleep. When you woke up, things changed for the better and for the worst. 

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6 ~ Part 7 ~ Part 8 ~ Part 9

Darkness. All you could see and feel around you was darkness. Time didn’t seem to exist here as you floated around. For a while, there was only silence. A deafening silence that made you believe that this is what death was. Yet, your heart still beats. You could feel it. Death wasn’t this warm. 

Another sound came soon enough. Beeping. A steady beep that resembled your own heart. Then, voices. People passing by. Passing conversation. And then silence again save for the steady beep of your heart. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear birds singing. 

And then, him.

“My princess. . .” 

You would know that voice anywhere. You fell in love with that voice long ago. It seemed like years ago. 

His voice was everywhere. You couldn’t follow it and run into his arms. All you could do was listen.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can, I don’t want you to bare that loneliness. I’m here. And I’m also hoping that hearing my voice will bring you back to me.”

Simon looked up at your sleeping face. Your eyes were still closed and your breathing was still steady. Your skin didn’t glow like it usually did, but it wasn’t pale either. You were caught in a limbo that he could do nothing about. All he could do was talk to you.

He took your hand in his, hoping that you could feel it. The I.V. drip kept your hands soft. Cold. He could call for a maid to deliver a blanket for you. He didn’t want his girl feeling chilly. After pressing a call button to summon a maid with a blanket, he resumed the one-sided conversation. 

“You’re a real life Sleeping Beauty right now, you know that? The prettiest princess in the world, even when asleep.”

A blanket came quickly and it was tucked around you. He did his best to warm your hands up in his. “I want you to be prepared for what’s out there when you wake up. The world has its eyes on you. Press out the ass. Kept bothering hospital staff. It’s why you were moved back into the palace. You would probably feel better if you woke up here anyway.”

You appreciated the thought internally.

“Negotiations are postponed for when you wake, though you’re on a clock. They give you six months before they proceed with negotiations themselves. Your father and the resistance, that is. They see you as a leader, but they can’t wait forever.” Simon divulged, holding your hands slightly tighter. 

He paused, looking over at your large window that overlooked a beautiful tree. A dogwood. The few white blossoms that were left reminded him of your hair clip. It was a miracle that it wasn’t lost among all the chaos. It helped that Simon took it from your hair before you were whisked away in an ambulance. 

Simon reached into his jacket pocket, pulling the clip out to put in your hair. Gently and tenderly, he pulled your hair up and fastened it. It was a little sloppy, but that was okay. As long as you were wearing it, it didn’t matter. “There you go, Princess. Your good luck charm.”

A sad, lonely pit got caught in his throat as he looked at you. It made him choke and hurt and fear. He cupped your cheek. His voice cracked for the first time since puberty. “I should’ve protected you better. If I had, then the queen wouldn’t have been able to hurt you. I had promised you that I wouldn’t lose you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Y/n.”

“Despite that, though, I will make a million more promises to protect you. I will do my damn best to get you back each and every time. I. . .”

“I’m in love with you, Princess Y/n. I should have made it clear before this happened. So please, wake up so I could say it to you properly.”

No response. Not that you wanted it this way. Your heart ached for him as he said the words you wished to hear. You were going to say it first before you got shot. You desperately wanted to say it back. 

Simon gave a short, fake chuckle to mask his hurt and pulled his hand away from your face, taking up your hands again. “It’s alright if you need to think about it. It’s not easy committing to a military man. You are a world leader now too. You’re going to be awfully busy when you wake up. The last thing I want is to put you in a cage again.”

A moment of silence passed once more. Your hands felt a little warmer to the touch which pleased him. The back of your hand was pressed against his stubbled cheek. “I suppose that you are probably aching for some entertainment, yeah? I brought a book. I don’t know if you have read this one, but it’s a personal favorite of mine when I got the time. I’ll read it to you.”

With that, he pulled out his book and began narrating from the first chapter. He wasn’t used to talking so much like this, so his voice steadily began to grow hoarse over time. Not that you minded the way it sounded, but you did wish that he would let himself take a break. To share a cup of tea to let his voice recover from the effort. 

Why can’t you wake up?

~

It took a month before you finally opened your eyes. It was the dead of night when you did, stars dancing across the sky as the world kept spinning. Feeling slowly made its way through your limbs. A familiar warmth trapped your hand down in place on your side. You knew who it was before you even looked. 

He was asleep. You’ve never seen him sleep before, now that you think about it. Good. He needed as much rest as possible. As gently as you could, you stroked his hair with your free hand. But military instincts couldn’t be tricked so easily. Within a second, he woke up, ready to attack anyone that would dare lay their hands on you or him. 

As soon as his eyes met yours, his fight response disappeared into ashes. His dark eyes became glassy under the moonlight. “Y/n? Are. . . This isn’t a dream?”

“No, I’m awake. I’m finally awake.” You cried, relishing the reality that was before you. You missed the feeling of his rough yet comforting skin. His wonderfully honey hair. Simon’s look of complete love and relief. He stood from his chair and wrapped you in his arms tight. Your body was slightly sore, but you didn’t mind. His shirt caught the tears you shed as you were just grateful to be with him again.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling you as if it would be his last breath. “My princess. . . I’m in love with you.”

“I know, Simon. I am hopelessly in love with you as well.” You finally confessed, choking on your words through the tears. He was warm and real and here. You were too. You were his.

“I should get the doctor to-”

“No. Please, can we just stay like this until morning?” You cut him off, gripping his shirt to will him to stay. He looked into your eyes, deciphering your reasoning without words. Right, they would make him leave to check on you. Maybe not for long, but long enough. 

“Alright. Just me and you until morning.” He reassured, lifting you cautiously like fine china in the bed to make room for himself. Holding you in his arms, the world was back in place. Simon kissed your head as you snuggled against his chest. 

You sighed deeply, catching his natural scent that you missed. “I missed you. . .”

He felt his heart skip a beat. He soothed it out by rubbing your back. “You have no clue how much I missed you too. Before I knew it, you have become everything to me.”

“. . . Will this work between us? Can we make it work?” You gathered your courage to ask. If it was true that he wanted to be with you just as much as you wanted to be with him, then something had to give.

“I don’t think I can promise anything. That doesn’t mean I won’t try, though. We will figure it out. Together. I sure as hell will never let you go easily.” He decided, giving you a light squeeze. It pained him that you were anxious about the future. He wished he could take it all away.

Your eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion weighing on your body despite the coma. Your energy hasn’t fully recovered yet. Not that you wanted to sleep. You tried your best to fight it. “I understand.”

“That’s my good girl.” He praised, sending your heart sky high. You pulled back some to look up at him, your eyes naturally falling on his lips. Was it too soon to want a kiss? 

Apparently not since Simon zeroed in on your lips as well. He couldn’t help himself as he connected your lips to his, the world fading away in an instant. The beep on the heart monitor picked up pace, making your cheeks burn red in embarrassment. He chuckled at the sound.

“Someone getting a little excited?” He teased, his fingers playing with the blushing tips of your ears. 

“And you aren’t?” You attempted to retort back, looking back at his chest to hide your flustered face.

“Who said I wasn’t?” He took one of your hands and placed it over his chest where his heart was. You could feel it thumping proudly. Quickly. His was beating just as hard as yours was from the proximity. It was undeniable. Neither was yours with the quickening beats from the machine.

Simon laughed once again, taking your chin to angle for another kiss, this one deeper than before. You shivered as he caressed your waist, making slow circles with his thumb. The monitor only encouraged him as he could hear just how crazy he made you. He loved how you kissed him so sweetly back despite feeling embarrassed. 

Not wanting to overwhelm you, he pulled back and brought you close into his chest again. For once, he unfastened the hair claw you wore so he could brush through your hair with his fingers. It soothed you, the monitor soon slowing as you relaxed. 

“I love you, Simon Riley.” You confessed in a sleepy slur, eyes feeling heavy once again. 

“I love you as well, my princess. It’s okay for you to sleep again, you know? I’ll still be here. Always.”

~

You awoke with Simon right by your side, holding you tight as he still snoozed. His fingers were still in your hair, having lulled himself to sleep with the motions. You felt more energized waking up this time. Happier. More hopeful. 

Though, that would soon no longer be a private moment when the palace doctor came in for a morning check up. They had expected a still sleeping princess and a dutiful bodyguard up and awake only to find the roles have reversed. The doctor, being a courteous professional, came over calmly and began to check your vitals. 

Simon sat up from the commotion, now fully awake. “Not to worry, Lieutenant. Princess. I won’t broadcast the recovery just yet. She would do well with a quiet breakfast and working on walking some small steps about the room. Later this afternoon, she may meet with her father. As long as she’s feeling up to it, of course.”

The doctor finished the checkup and ordered for a maid to discreetly bring in two breakfasts. Your maid smiled cheerfully as she set the small table in the room. “Good morning, Princess. Just give me a ring when you are ready for your tea.”

Simon got out of bed first in order to help you up. Your legs were weak, but not completely unusable. You just needed to get the blood pumping through them again. Your bodyguard was there every step of the way to the chair. Finally, you could enjoy breakfast as if everything was perfectly normal.

“Any ideas on what you are going to do first then?” He suddenly asked, curious on what will happen next. 

You hummed while you nibbled on one of the fresh-cut apple slices decorating your plate. A few ideas floated around in your head, connecting with each other at a time that foresaw a plan of action. “I’ll talk to my father. We will handle negotiations internally, nothing out to the press. If this is going to be a smooth transition of powers, then the last thing we need is the public spreading misinformation. After the negotiations are set and the necessary branches are ready to be made, then we will approach the public with the shift.”

“Couldn’t have planned it better myself.” A voice sounded from across the room. The both of you turned to see your father standing at the door, his face looking much older than usual. He swiftly walked over and hugged you tight, your own arms going around him. You could feel wetness begin to sweep into the fabric on your shoulder. 

“Apologies. The doctor told me that you were awake and needed time, but I just needed to see my baby girl.” He beamed brightly before taking a spare chair at the table. While both you and Simon wished for a little time more alone, the presence of your father wasn’t unwelcomed. 

You offered to pour him a glass of juice, yet he declined. “My sweetest, I should be the one pouring you more juice. Anywho, you don’t need me to plan negotiations with you. You can do that all on your own.”

Your eyes widened at the statement. Your brows furrowed in confusion as well. “Father?”

“The queen is dead and your father is yearning for retirement. I would be a fool not to trust my own daughter to take over all royal duties. Though, I supposed we won’t be royal much anymore.” He laughed warmly, a sound you haven’t heard in years. The last time your father gave a genuine laugh like this was when you were a child. 

You have never seen your father look so free before. Like a weight that has always loomed over him was finally gone. Tears of happiness threatened to spill down your cheeks. “Dad, are you saying that I am to be the queen of Stuoca until then?”

“Of course, my princess. You are more than capable of the job. You have the hunger to learn, to think, to plan. You care about people and listen to their problems instead of making accusations based on assumptions. I don’t know how you did it, but you managed to become a lovely young woman despite how sheltered you were.” The king declared, topping off your glass of juice.

“I. . . don’t know what to say. . .” You laughed in disbelief. For some reason, you never grew up with the thought that you were someday going to take part in determining the future for your country. It always felt like your father and mother would be there to do it. To still have control. Or rather, it was always your mother in that particular picture.

The king looked sheepish as he realized that this was a lot to take in. So much responsibility and you weren’t even a day out of your coma. “Ah, not immediately, of course. You are more than welcome to take the time you need before we schedule these negotiations. The people we thought to be the enemy are rather reasonable and a pleasure to deal with.”

He stood up and patted your head as if you were still the small girl he was just teaching how to walk again. He radiated nothing but love and affection, now able to express his hopes for you without the weight. “Enjoy your breakfast, sweet. Call me if you need anything.”

Once the door closed, you looked back to your bodyguard, a proud smirk playing on his lips. “I supposed I should start calling you ‘my queen’ instead of ‘my princess’ now?”

You suppressed a few giggles, each one slipping loose from your lips before you couldn’t hold back anymore. Giggles soon turned into full laughter as you felt your moment of joy in full. Those happy tears you held back flowed freely as you looked at the man across from you. “I can finally do it, Simon. I can make my country a better place!”

~

“Will it really be that long?” You sadly looked down, your heart feeling like it was being crushed by the universe. It was a beautiful day with fair weather and a bright sun. Yet, this was the saddest day of your life. You really didn’t want to cry. You promised yourself that you wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry, my princess. I can’t give you false hope. I will fight to make sure it doesn’t take that long, but it can be unpredictable out there.” Simon comforted you in his arms, not caring of his teammates that patiently waited by the car just down the palace steps.

With your country stabilized and diplomatic decisions in the works, there was no real reason for Simon to keep being your personal bodyguard. The military gave him an extra month with you, which was generous for them. Time was up, though. It was time for the next deployment.

It was not like he wanted to say goodbye to you either.

“What if you get hurt out there, Simon? What would I do?” You bit your lip hard, fighting back the storm that brewed inside you. 

“I told you that it wasn’t easy being with a military man. You’re not getting rid of me that easily though.” He half-joked, using humor to cope with his own heartbreak. 

At that, you giggled. “Will you write?”

“Of course. I’ll write, call, morse code, fax, whatever I can to still talk to you.” He kissed your hair, willing to give you a million reassurances in order to get you to wait for him. 

You’ll wait. Someone like Simon Riley only came around once in a lifetime. You weren’t the type to miss your opportunities. “Just come back to me safely, okay?”

“Always, my princess.” He took your chin and kissed you deep. Without missing a beat, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him deeper for a kiss that he would never forget. A magnetic attraction held strong, not wanting to let each other go. Just one last kiss. One last hug. Anything to prolong the inevitable.

When a shout from the captain gave him a time warning, both of you pulled back. It was like he was taking a piece of your heart with him. One that he could keep as long as he brought it back. “I love you, Simon.”

“I love you too, Y/n.”

Time slowed as he made his way down the steps, opened the passenger door, and got in the car. Your feet were stuck in place as the car began to drive off, the vision of him getting further and further. 

Only a year and a half of this. You only had to last a year and a half.

***

I know I haven't pinged my tag list for a while, but I'm trying to do better! Forgive me if you have already lost interest in this series!

@elodiebeau @angel-anna @ghostlythots @maiyatheprettiestprincess @cum-tea-and-towels @littleghostbride @meowzerzstuff @izziyuwh @literaturewh0r3things @bi-witch-bxtch @victoriareadsbooks

[songofthepines]

DESPITE EVERYTHING PT I : JAYCE X VIKTOR X FTM!READER

— despite everything. . . it's still you. —

It's you! At the very beginning of Jayce and Viktor’s Hextech journey, they had recruited you to help them out. You were an art student at the academy, so you didn’t have any experience in the field. They just hired you to help with their branding and visual components, but eventually, you all got closer. A lot closer than you all expected, that ended up with a few “meetings” outside of work hours, then dinners, then movie nights, then sleeping over, then…You get it. 

Everything was fine and dandy for about 8 months, until they both started coming home later and later. And eventually, most days, they wouldn’t come home at all. They had been neglecting you, and your relationship, you didn’t feel like they loved you anymore. They’d always say it was because of work, or Hextech is finally taking off, all excuses and never making it up to you, or admitting to their negligence. And even when they did come home, they started bringing their work home. 

You dipped into a darker headspace, razors, used needles, and pills scattering the floor of your shared bathroom. But it wasn’t even shared anymore. You stared into the mirror for hours at a time, trying to recognize yourself under the baggy eyes and stress. Is it you anymore? A few attempts even landed you in the hospital, but you always refused for the doctors to call your boyfriends. Could you even have called them that anymore..? The few times you did see them without notes and blueprints in hand, they were almost always talking about work. Never noticing the scars littering your body, never asking how you were, never asking, checking that you hadn’t tried to kill yourself, never letting you cry into their shoulders and cuddle you to sleep.

For a few weeks, pillows covered in their shirts and cologne were enough to get you to sleep, but at some point, you just… snapped. You left a note on the kitchen table, packed your things, and left. You went to the Undercity– you knew it was dangerous, but it was a better scene for you. You met Ekko and Scar one day, and suddenly, you were a Firelight. They took care of you like you should have been all along; you felt like you belonged. You all ate, played, and sparred together. No one was ever neglected, and even Ekko immediately noticed the scars. He watched you like a hawk for the first few weeks and didn’t let you touch anything sharp. He helped clean the scars, and you grew closer with a lot of kids. 

And eventually, you finally found yourself. You cut your hair, started dressing more masculine, and you gave a bunch of your skirts and feminine clothes to the younger girls. The other Firelights taught you how to ride the hoverboards, and it felt like you’d finally found yourself. And despite everything, it's still you.

It’s been six years since you last saw Jayce and Viktor. Well, not necessarily. You’ve been able to get into Piltover a few times, but have only been able to snag random knick-knacks and food from street vendors. You barely had the chance to wander around before being spotted by enforcers, but you got a few glimpses of the huge banners of Jayce’s face plastered on the sides of buildings. They’re fine without you, right? Do they miss you? 

— despite everything. . . it's still you. —

Then, it all goes to shit during the riots, you were able to sneak through the bridges into Piltover. You keep walking straight, as if you forgot you weren’t in Zaun and people didn’t scram like you were parting the Red Sea. You nudge shoulders with a few of them, resulting in a few annoyed grumbles, but near the end of the group, you shove someone a little harder than you meant to. As the pack passes, the two men at the back stop, watching you as you continue walking.

— Hey, what’s your problem?!

You freeze in your tracks, and you’re tempted to turn around, but you don’t need to turn to know who it is. His voice is like earrape to you. You know that voice all too well. The raised ennunciation, laced with venom, is only ever directed at you. The hollow clack of the other’s cane, the hushed creak of his braces. 

Where do you want me to start, alphabetically or chronologically?

— What? Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?

He always was so stuck up.

No one important. Not to the almighty Jayce Talis.

You start to walk away, your back still turned to them, but he grabs your arm, turning you back towards him. Your head snaps back towards him, and he falters, his grip on your arm loosening a bit before you throw his hand off you. 

Don’t touch me.

— Excuse me, do we know each other?

You stiffen at Viktor’s voice, taking you off guard despite knowing full well he was there. You almost stumble when you finally see them. Jayce is taller, and he looks so much more… mature. And Viktor… Oh, what happened to you, Viktor?

Not anymore.

He whispers your deadname, and you visibly tense. Both their eyebrows knit together in confusion. 

I don’t know who that is. 

Jayce turned to Viktor, and his eyes widened, realizing the same thing Viktor had just done. Both of their gazes turned to you at your reaction, confirming it for Viktor. His heart drops into his stomach, and he looks paralyzed in place. There was silence between the three of you for a few seconds until Jayce broke it.

— Wait… You don’t think..?

You don’t think..?

You mock him– just like you always used to– and despite everything, they still recognize you. It all flashes before their eyes. All the nights on the couch, in the lab. The subtle touches, the teasing, the taunting, the late nights, the dinner dates, the kisses. They remember it all. They remember you. All of you.

— despite everything. . . it's still you. —

© — 2025 @songofthepines - created and written by sen - do NOT steal, translate, repost, or plagiarize my work on any platform.

[apollabarnes]

part one // part two // part three // part four // part five // part six // part seven // part eight // part nine

"what happened to 'using our flight time to get a little me time'?" tommy asks, looking over at lucy. "aren't you normally back there?"

"first of all, as your copilot i'm always near the controls," lucy mock gasps, clasping a hand over her heart, "second of all, if athena grant called you there's a chance that…"

tommy nods in agreement. there is a chance that.

"it's actually higher since she called you off official channels," lucy continues, "they're more alike than anyone wants to consider."

"seems like you've considered it," tommy jokes. he doesn't tell her about athena kissing bobby in the loft and evan kissing him at the hospital. it had nearly knocked tommy on his ass when athena told him. then she'd followed it up with the one-two punch of her 'move in with me/let's get married' story. happier ending than his, at least.

"had to entertain myself somehow when i broke my leg," lucy shrugs, checking the instruments. "so why did athena call you? and not…"

he's going to have to remind her to actually say evan's name if he's actually with athena and gets in the helicopter.

"you know that standing dinner date i've had for the last few months that i refuse to tell you about?"

"holy shit, kinard. that's…" the surprise in lucy's voice is genuine. if they were on the ground, she'd swoon dramatically onto the nearest piece of furniture.

"weird?" tommy offers wryly.

"that's one way of putting it. how did that even happen?" lucy laughs, the sound carried away by the rotors.

"long story."

"i'll need something to entertain myself with in the unemployment line. get ready to share."

tommy snorts. "that's why she was the one that called me." he very firmly doesn't consider the other reason that she was the one calling, instead of evan — because he's the one in trouble.

"i gotta know, does she pick up the bill or do you?"

"why does that matter?"

"i'm trying to gauge just how weird—" lucy cuts herself off as they start descending, peering out the windshield. "feeling pretty good about sitting up front right now."

tommy can feel his tension headache start to disappear. evan's not — but someone is. if evan and athena are both here, then that means — "bobby." he glances at the travel mug he's got stashed in the seat pocket.

lucy swears under her breath. she opens the rear door as soon as they land, sticking her head out. "all aboard dk airlines! we take you where you need to go and then straight to the unemployment office!"

"that's not funnier the third time," tommy huffs, looking into the backseat, "grab a headset, everyone. we're on a closed channel."

"we've got until," lucy checks her watch, "four before anyone knows the bird is missing. let's hope this can get done in thirty minutes or less?"

"not a pizza delivery, donato. thanks for the ride, tommy."

"any time, athena."

he catches evan's gaze in the rear view, sees him mouth 'athena?' to himself. in any other situation — okay, if they were still dating — tommy would be tempted to crack a joke about a support group for people involved with members of the 118. he should start it. and invite karen.

"what's going on?" evan asks, looking between them.

"tommy and sergeant grant have super secret dinner plans almost every week. he told me on the way over," lucy tells evan gleefully.

athena sighs heavily, speaking over lucy. "we need to get to socal tech as soon as possible. you know where that is?"

"we're familiar." tommy tacks left, heading east. he tries not to think about the fact that the few times they've been there, it's with a biohazard sample. he eyes the cooler at athena's feet.

"go back to this dinner thing," evan demands, leaning forward between the seats. athena yanks him back.

"sometimes it's breakfast," tommy says before he can stop himself.

evan makes a disgruntled noise. it's his way of calling tommy an idiot. fair enough.

"oh my god, tommy, how long?"

"we ran into each other a few months ago and i invited him out for coffee," athena answers for him. "and then we decided to keep meeting for dinner."

"why?"

"because he's cool," athena says.