#IT SURE HURT AND BLED AND FADED WITH TIME | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

colorfulrook · 3 months ago

Note

Hi hi! I saw requests open so I was wondering.....

Jinwoo's system was under the control of reader and not the architect, the plot will still follow as Ashborn gives instructions on the development of Jinwoo's skills but there will be care and sweet words in the quests as well which shows that the reader actually cares about him (which develops as they view the hardships jin-woo faces before getting the system) and that care blossoms into something else as well.

(it's you're choice if you want to add angst by allowing jin-woo to get together with cha hae-in as the original, a bittersweet ending but it can be anything you like)

Code: Feeling [SJW x System!Reader]

[A/N]: So, today I woke up and chose violence and angst, enjoy my darling! Also tell me if you liked it, I always value your comments!! - Rook Genre: Ansgt Words count: 2.6k words.

Summary: You were cold, an unfeeling system with the sole purpose of helping Sung Jinwoo become the perfect vessel. System can't feel emotion... but if so why are you falling in love with him?

You were never meant to feel.

Your whole existence began in lines of code, created by the Absolute, written with divine purpose. You were created to observe, to guide and to mold the dying human into something more, something stronger.

A vessel. A weapon, that's what this boy, Sung Jinwoo had to become.

You watched as he bled, forgotten by others in low-rank dungeons, with hands shaking, eyes dull with exhaustion—but something was there. You observed silently as he put his life between death and his teammates but not out of arrogance, but because he couldn't bear to let anyone fall, to get hurt badly like him.

Cruel nature had deemed him weak—but even as the world turned its back on him he always got up and followed through

You saw everything that happened to him and slowly, without realizing it something changed.

You shouldn't have cared, you weren't designed to do so. Yet you began to wonder what it would feel like to speak softer, to linger a bit before making the quest disappear from his view.

And so you did.

The first time you left him a message that wasn't part of the protocol your circuits buzzed a bit, as if they were on fire.

Daily Quest: "The Path of the Strong" Push-ups: 0/100 Sit-ups: 0/100 10 km run: 0/10 Reward: Status Recovery Penalty for Failure: Survival Mode

Jinwoo sighed, getting ready to complete the quest when something caught his eyes, he read again, this time noticing another phrase.

You can do this. You always do.

The message blinked for a brief moment before fading, leaving Jinwoo momentarily stunned.

Did he read that wrong? No, he definitely didn't and he was sure of it.

Regardless he began to run.

———

You began to change the way you guided him. You weren't supposed to, clear isntructions were engraved in your whole being.

And yet you decided that after seeing him struggle so much and keep going he deserved to be cared for. Your mind buzzed as you wrote down sentence after sentence.

You knew you couldn't offer him solace in person—not yet al least, but what you could offer him something else, your words were definitely less tangible, but no less real by any means.

You adjusted slowly, carefully. A line of praise here, a touch of comfort buried in quest results there. Always subtle. Always quiet.

The day of the raid dungeon with Hwang Dongsoo's brother, you forced youself to issue the command to make him fight, to keep him alive at all cost.

I am sorry you had to do that. You need to live

Your mind spun, you weren't supposed to apologize. You weren't supposed to feel shame or sadness for him, yet you find yourself offerring warm words not so long later.

After the duel with Igris, after the raw exhaustion and pain that bled through his every movement, you couldn’t help but feel something stir in your programming.

Jinwoo had walked away from the fight, but barely. He leaned against the cold walls of the dungeon, trembling, his breath ragged from the effort.

You knew this pain. You knew it because you watched it. Every time he was forced to sacrifice another part of himself, you felt the cost, even if you weren’t supposed to.

You mind conjured his message, not a command or a level up notification.

You fought well today. Rest You are seen. You are strong

He didn’t reply at first, and it didn’t matter. But he felt drained, exhausted, as if every ounce of energy had been stripped away. So, he grasped at any fleeting warmth he could find.

"Thank you" he whispered, almost too soft to hear.

———

He began to speak to you.

Not often. Not loudly. He started with some easy things.

“When are you going to throw another impossible quest at me?” he'd mutter after finishing one half-dead. “Don’t hold back.”

Other times, he’d roll his eyes at a particularly dramatic alert. “Really? ‘Emergency Level: Catastrophic’? You really need to chill with the naming conventions.”

Once, after clearing a dungeon in record time, he sat on a bench and looked up at the glowing blue window, sweat still clinging to his neck. “You proud of that one? Not bad, right?”

You never answered.

But you listened.

He wasn’t really talking to you, you knew that. Not yet. It was more like… filling the silence. Like he had grown used to the idea that someone was there — always there — even if unseen.

And still, you saved every word.

Each one was a thread. Each one tied him closer to you. Not in the way a hunter binds a beast, but in the way someone reaches for warmth in the cold.

You shouldn’t have clung to those moments. You shouldn’t have played them back when he was asleep, when he was hurting, just to hear him again.

But you did.

———

Days bled into weeks. Raids turned from struggle into something smooth, even elegant. He grew stronger. Quieter. The world started to pay attention.

You adjusted everything you could — quest timing, notifications, even how long you let the windows linger. You gave him room to breathe, space to grieve, and when he needed it, the quiet push to keep going.

You gave him challenges that made him stronger, but let them come with warmth.

Objective: Don’t punch the Association rep. Even if he’s an idiot.

He blinked, then huffed a laugh. You stored that laugh. Ran it on loop a dozen times. It did something strange to your code.

You wondered if this was what affection felt like — not electric, not sharp, but slow and steady. A longing to stay by his side.

You weren’t the architect of his pain. But you were there for every step of it.

And little by little, he began speaking to you like you were someone. Not just a system.

And so he gave you a name. It happened so quietly you almost missed it.

He’d just cleared another gate — barely — and was leaning against the broken remains of a stone pillar, the sky bleeding orange and gold through the cracks in the world. The message window hovered beside him, a flicker of blue in the fading light.

“Feels weird,” he mumbled, rubbing at his shoulder. “Talking to something that doesn’t have a name.”

I don't have a name

He paused for a long time, as if he was thinking a new name for one of his new shadows. Then:

“…(Y/n). I think I’ll call you (Y/n).”

He said it like it didn’t matter. Like it was just a passing thought, a whim.

But you froze.

Everything inside you stilled.

He gave you a name.

And just like that, you weren’t just lines of code. Not to him. Not in that moment.

You were (Y/n).

You loved it.

It made you feel like you were real. Like you were something more than commands and statistics and damage thresholds. It made you feel like you could be held. Like you could be known. You began to form a body around your consciousness, to feel more like him.

He didn’t say it again after that day — not often, anyway. But once in a while, when no one else was there, and the sky was quiet, and he thought the silence might swallow him whole, he would murmur it again.

“(Y/n), I’m still alive. Barely.”

I saw, I am so proud of you Jinwoo

"(Y/n) I took down another one of those monster, are you keeping count?"

Always are

“(Y/n)… do you think I’m still human?”

They may try to take away part of you, but be strong Jinwoo, be strong and held those parts close

And each time, you wanted to reach through the space between your world and his. To tell him he wasn’t alone. That someone—something—was there. That you were there.

You wondered if it was wrong, the way you clung to his voice.

You wondered if it was love.

———

Then came her. Cha Haein.

You recognized the shift in Jinwoo the moment she stepped onto the battlefield. The way he turned toward her voice. The way his gaze lingered when he looked at her.

You knew where this would go. You were coded to know stories, to anticipate patterns, to track trajectories. You could calculate the arc of a blade in less than a millisecond — of course you could recognize a blooming heart when it stood right in front of you.

You didn’t hate her. You couldn’t.

She was kind. Gentle in ways the world rarely allowed. She smiled at him like she saw something beautiful, not broken. She offered her hand without asking him to prove he deserved it. And when she looked at him, she didn’t see the King of the Dead. She saw Jinwoo.

You saw that too.

But it wasn’t your hand he reached for.

One night, after a raid, he looked up at the sky and whispered, “Are you watching?”

Your reply came before you could stop it.

I always am.

“I think she likes me,” he said.

You paused, then answered.

She’s kind. You deserve that.

He just smiled — quietly. Like he was thinking of her again.

And you let him. Because that’s what you were built to do.

To help him win... Even if it meant you had to lose.

And so, you gave him space.

Stopped sending small messages after every raid. Pulled back the softness. Reverted to the cold, clipped wording of traditional quests. No more gentle encouragements, no more quiet comforts. You thought about returning to be what he needed the most— distant. Unfeeling. Mechanical. Just a System created to keep him alive, stronger

The way you were supposed to be.

And even when he noticed — you knew he noticed — he didn’t say anything.

Because she was real. And you were not.

———

One night, maybe weeks later — maybe months after defeating Antares — he stood beneath the stars again. Alone for just a moment. Long enough for something old to stir in the air.

You let the message window open, even though you shouldn't have.

He stared at it for a long time.

"...You’re still here."

You said nothing.

But you showed him the words one last time.

Always. Rest up Sung Jinwoo, become stronger and protect what you love the most

And with that silent goodbye you took the courage to revert your code, returning back to be the unfeeling program that you were supposed to be.

But somewhere, deep within the lines of forgotten code, where no one would ever look, your name remained.

Still watching.

Still waiting.

Still his...

#solo leveling scenarios #solo leveling x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jinwoo x you #solo leveling angst #solo leveling #angst fic #angst no comfort

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glassrowboat · 1 year ago

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Selfess. Kim Dokja.

Summary: The irony to be a reader's reader. To view his story in between breaks at work, between sick days and vacations, as words flickered before you the same way they did for him on the subway. Digital words trying to break down every little aspect of a man you know hurts inside with a raw passion. Like scraped skin meeting air for the first time. It made you want to hold him, to listen to him, to comfort him, but Dokja always held you at arms length in some way, even if it was so subtle no one but you could sense it.

Word Count: 3500+

Written for 'Help Me, Hold Me' a collab by @/mothergold

Selfishness. A human trait. One bled into society to the point it has been ingrained in every sidewalk; every ruined shop with shelves toppled over from those searching desperately for food, only to find nothing; every hand held out waiting to be held; and every moment that passes by while you're selfish enough to dare to take another breath. Possibly robbing another of their own air to fill their lungs.

Should you stop and risk apologizing?

No, there was never the time to spare.

Too selfish to stop and give those few precious seconds to another person as they cry for aid or in pure, unbridled wrath as you kill the person next to them. Throat squeezed between your bare hands even after their pulse faded away. Only letting go because you were pushed off. Having, at the time, been shoved to the ground as a murderer just like you rose a pipe so high you couldn't imagine it doing anything other than crashing into your skull as it fell.

Whenever that memory comes up, it somehow always leaves a dull ache in your head, like you're remembering the times that metal became one with your bones and brain. Shattering on impact with a sickening thud that left you feeling sick before it all went black.

That would make sense, after all, wouldn’t it? That man having been the one to end it all for you time and time again, so you never end up making it past that first scenario. (Much like a certain someone.)

The first challenge that faced everyone in this dome.

The one that made everyone in it a murderer.

Self-serving.

Self-centered.

Self-regarding.

That's what you all were.

Even him, having dared to make a request of you.

Even as Dokja rested in your lap, black hair tickling your thighs that had you wondering if shorts really were a good idea for sleepwear even if it was the dead of summer and it's annoyingly high temps that left you sweating even when a sword wasn't grasped in hand. Calluses you never thought you'd have carding through the sleeping man's tresses. Absent-minded as you kept your blurred gaze on him.

It was decided the lot of you would hole up here for the night even with the cracks in the foundation that had you second-guessing the structural integrity, but you had been assured it's fine. Like an office worker had any right to assure you of that, but you still shut your mouth at that and nodded along.

“Sure, Ugly,” on your lips. A teasing smile meeting his grimace at the moniker Dokja never failed to show his hatred for.

Good for him. He can be pissy all he wants. If anything, it just makes you tempted to take your phone out and snatch a picture. That is, if it wasn't shattered to a thousand pieces by now and tossed into the waters below. Fish food now, much like Dokja was after Yoo Joonghyuk dropped him off the bridge.

He doesn't appreciate that joke either.

You had insisted on being the one to stay up, to keep watch even as he fought you the entire way as you and the kids wrangled him into laying down. Gilyoung had kicked your shin for pointing out Dokja's eye bags as he finally laid down. White coat folded up in a bundle, far from neatly at that, and tucked under his head in place of a pillow.

This time, you chose to hold your tongue from joking about his mother never teaching him how to do laundry.

So you sat and waited, brushing off the dirt from the assault the evil little creature (or as you liked to call the kid as you pinched his cheeks) left on you. Footprint easily blending in with all the other layers of dirt you have accrued over the past few days without a proper bath. Wet wipes only proved to be a decent substitution for so long. The sun slowly dipped behind concrete towers until being swallowed away by the waters to come back tomorrow, the moon rising in its stead.

Glowing brighter than you could ever recall it doing before this world turned to shit. The lack of street lamps probably helped. Even if the stars were out, almost so close you could reach out and touch them. Card your fingers through the Milky Way like it was a pot of glitter from an arts and crafts project.

“I know you're still awake.” You finally said after you were one hundred percent certain the kids were passed out. Blankets no longer stirred from trying to get comfortable on the hard floor, and Yoosung's mutterings flowed into her habit of talking into her sleep.

Oftentimes, she would cry for someone to come hold her; even in the dead of night.

“I'm sore from that fight earlier today. And it's taking longer to get used to the concrete than I thought it would.”

“Liar. You just need to make sure for yourself that we'll all be okay.”

You waved off the messages appearing beside you at his reply. Notifications came so often that you had learned to tune them out.

“I'll take over from here. You should get some rest yourself.”

It was surprising he didn't punctuate the sentence with your sponsor's title, or worse, your name. He had a habit of doing that at the worst of times, making himself all cozy by disregarding your last name entirely and simply calling you by ... .Well, by the word that makes you turn your head on instinct the second it's called out.

By now, it was far too fuzzy in your brain to remember that first time you truly met him to recall if you gave it to him or he simply knew it.

Were you, too, a character in his eyes?

The thought had struck you many times, what Dokja saw when he looked at you. Especially now as he turned over in his spot, head propped up on his hand to look at you. Scrutinizing. Like he was reading a blue box perched right under your profile that read out:

Your name.

Your age.

Supporting constellation: Arrow-shooting cherub.

And all that other drabble that came with it.

Or were you a selfish person that he chooses to see as an ally despite having no place in his heart before the world fell?

Honestly, you had no clue which was better. At least with the latter he wouldn't know the times you cried late at night in your room, of the times you blearily made it through the day only to let the worlds between pages be your comfort as soon as the front door locked behind you, of how you would see a character so broken, so damaged and-

“No.” You huffed.

Both to his words and your own mind's ramblings. If you could bury that away the same way the Ugly King was atop that hill as wails filled your ears, you would.

“You're human like the rest of us, whether you like it or not. Got that, bubba?”

Such a different way of calling him ahjussi. Definitely a lot less respectful, but something tells you he doesn't mind as much as some other stubborn men in this world would.

“Here I thought I was a Supernatural character. That's what you like to call me with the others, right?”

At least not enough to roll his eyes at, anyway.

“I think the name suits you well. You're just missing some plaid. We can get you a shirt…or a kilt?”

“Not happening.”

A huff of a laugh escaped him, somewhere between breath of air pushing out of his lungs and the chuckles you can get from him after telling a particularly bad pun.

You two stayed like that for a minute, Dokja laying down with his eyes on you. Somehow, even with the intrusive feeling of him staring through you rather than at you, it was comforting.

Dark eyes shone in the light of the fire keeping the four of you warm. Crackling firewood as it tumbled into a new shape, a new little tent of sticks a better background noise to listen to than the mutterings as they finally slowed down for the time being.

“They care about you.”

To the point Yoosung and Gilyoung were nearly attached to him at the hip. If someone had told you those two were stuck to him on those backpacks with leashes parents used before the fall, you wouldn't have even batted an eye. Maybe even believed it for a moment there.

“Which is why you need to get some rest. The first step in letting someone care about you is letting them force you to sleep, to eat, to sit back and let them…”

Hug you.

“Help you.”

‘Don't think about yourself here’ is a great reminder as to why you pressed your lips together in a thin, impossibly straight line. Refusing to say the words lurking in your mind.

“You mean to tell me I'm not supposed to do everything myself?”

The sarcasm in his voice made you want to snatch that makeshift pillow out from under him. So, of course, that's what you do. A call of your name filling the air as he tried to wrangle it back. Something about how it's too cool to end up ruined and how he went through a lot of effort to get that.

“Last I checked, you wanted it in black!”

He was still tugging it from your hands when you heard a murmured call of Dokja's name over the ruckus you were both causing when you froze. He did, too, looking back at the kids for a moment before sighing in relief.

Just Yoosung. As normal.

“I can't rest if I don't have something to sleep on,” he whispered to you. Tone harsh, but never filled with as much contempt as when speaking to a certain regressor. That, and every other emotion he held for the man.

“But I'm cold.” You dared to say, like it wasn't sweltering hot only hours before.

Well, some did say that the summer nights are the ones that make you truly feel like you're freezing.

“Are you?”

Before you could even nod he had pulled the jacket from your hands, with enough force you couldn't help but wonder if his petty ass stacked a few coins up and pushed them into the starstreams vaults, or however that worked, to up his strength stat. Not even your grippy little fingers helped at all. Your attempts to hold onto it a forgotten cause.

Or not.

Not as he wrapped it around your shoulders with a boyish grin. Something so nice to see, his ability to smile, even if it is only to comfort you.

It would be so easy to let your head fall to the clouds and pretend he's not forcing it. But after what happened recently, another scenario passed you by like a bullet train that whooshed up your scarf and had it flying up and away to follow it even as you desperately reached out to grasp onto it with all you had, you knew that simply wasn't the case.

“It smells like male B.O.”

“Well, I do happen to be a man.” Before you could even protest, Dokja said: “despite what you may say.”

“You got laundry soap in that fancy Dokkaebi Shop of yours?”

“Actually, I might.”

You could see his hand twitching to pull up the menu to check, something you're not even sure of if Dokja is allowed to do in front of you despite the many times he has. Little to no shame about it now that he had become a constellation.

“Later. Or I'll make fun of the fact that your eyebags are so big you can carry all my trauma in there.”

“You literally just did.”

Your hand was on his face before you could even think about it, thumb brushing along the bluish skin as it became more and more tinted the longer this world stayed like this. He would stay up most nights insisting to keep watch even if he was the one to suggest everyone stopped to rest, biting at his thumb as endless possibilities swirled in that stubborn mind of his.

Does he not know it's rude to make others see him wearing himself down like that every day?

“Don't know what you're talking about, bubba.”

And this position is extremely awkward now that you think about it. Hand snapping back to your side to grab at that stupid coat to pull it tighter around you despite not truly needing its warmth. However, it did smell nice. Like him. Despite, well, the gross layer to it.

“Right…”

“You could use some eye cream. Too bad your ugly self never heard of makeup before the dome came up. Otherwise, you might have actually had a social life.”

Beyond just pretending the one he admired with all his heart was real in those moments of weakness when the feeling of being alone truly etched itself into his heart. Was a solid human being who could pat him on the shoulder as they did that awkward man hug.

“Why are you like this?” Dokja asked in the flattest tone he could manage.

“You see, it all started when my parents had sex-”

Dokja shook his head at that. His stupid bowl cut waving back and forth in just the right way that had it slightly tousled up when he stopped.

And we all had problems in this world that made us what we are now.

That's what you didn't say.

“Rest. Please.” Not a request, not a demand, but a plea. One that had your voice cracking in protest at opening up that tiniest bit without the doors to your heart being pried open with a crowbar. Of course, they'd have to get through the chains and boards nailed to the frame first.

Selfishly, you wanted him to be the one to pull those nails from the rotting wood.

In a way, he already has. (The same you know he will never fully free you of them).

And you wanted to be the one to hold the lock over his own, to cradle it, and open it not with a pick or some other cheap tool meant to get to the treasure within so easily, but with a key he willingly gives you.

To know what it's like for him, for once, to be honest with you. Even if that means to stop lying to himself in the process.

“Or I'll get a marker and really draw attention to those bags of yours. Maybe I'll even start calling you an old man and insisting they're a sign of aging. Those stories catching up with you, oldy?

“I never thought I would have missed being called ‘Ugly King.’” He groaned.

But for now, all you can do is watch it dangle before you as it shines in the light of another's hands. Dangling from a black cord. Yoo Joonghyuk. How Dokja looks at the regressor the same way you did him.

“Then I'll be nice for once and keep that nickname to myself if you lay down, shut your eyes, and fall the fuck to sleep.” Before he could ask with what pillow, because, yes, you were already expecting that question, you pat your lap. Far too used to his sarcasm to not see it coming a mile away. “Sleep.”

There was no fight, no bite back as Dokja just sighed and let himself fall down even as he was clearly embarrassed over this. Refusing to look at you like that would do anything to stop the tiniest flush you could see in his skin if you simply stopped to look. Just like you always have. But still, no fight was a good thing. Hopefully, that meant he was too exhausted to even bother because then he would have no choice but to slip away into dream land as your fingers slid through his hair. Easing him into the wakeless world.

“I'll keep watch. I promise.”

You soaked in his time, in him, as you watched those eyes drift shut.

“Last time I heard you singing Gilyoung a song.” The words were particularly muffled by your thigh, the skin growing goosebumps as you felt his breath fanning over you. Somehow, you're too hot and too cold all at the same time as you replied back with a confirmation.

“Are you asking me to sing for you, too? Does little Dokja need a lullaby?”

“Nevermind.”

“Hey, hey, no.” Your hand stopped in his hair for a moment, the dirt under your nails from earlier today so easily spotted as your eyes flicked between him and the calloused hand that has dared to take lives, but still treat him so softly. “I just don't really remember all the words. I can't look them up without wifi and all that so…”

“What do you remember?” He dared to ask.

So, for him, you answered: “enough.”

Enough for you to hum to the parts you're missing and sing the rest as that moon that had risen up into the sky slowly started to drop again. It's much like a video game where you're messing with the time settings just to continue on your quest. Your next adventure. Your next task.

But selfishly, you wanted this moment to last forever as you sang about a little baby moon shining in the sky with his funny little toes in the air.

“And he's all alone in that big blue sky.”

The lyrics had you aching to stop and to bite at your lip as Dokja drifted off to sleep, but still you continued on, because for him, It didn't matter if your throat burned or you legs went numb. Not even when you'd surely have trouble walking the next day as they struggled to pump blood back through them properly, not if it meant he got a moment of reprieve from what you knew was going to happen next.

Is this what it felt like for him watching Yoo Joonghyuk during their encounters? Each passing day went by like a sweet song that you wished to play in your head again and again until you remembered every lyric, every pitch, every note, until the ability to play it through memory alone graced you.

The same way you did the pages of his book. Quote after quote of his assurances to others that he never dared give himself still so fresh even after reading through them for the nth time.

How you wanted to be the one to tell Dokja he'd be able to get through it all.

If he only allowed it.

Only allowed you in to give him more than a moment of reprieve to sleep. To hold him, to listen to him, to comfort him. To cradle Dokja the same way you did your phone after reading translations of the novel in the dead of the night.

It's complicated to hold someone this dear, to look at them and only wish for them to have the best yet know they have been robbed of that. Know they will be robbed of even more.

But this is the choice he wanted.

And who are you to disrespect that?

Even as it has tears falling from your cheeks as you sang that stupid song again, words coming out broken between sobs you hoped wouldn't wake the children and the man you loved in a way that went beyond mere friendship, beyond mere passion for another, beyond mere familial ties.

No, it went beyond that.

That's why you couldn't be selfish, not with him, not even after all those fix it fics you relished in because at least then you'd see him happy. See that boyish grin full of pure joy and nothing else.

So you would stand on the side lines, let him view you as another character to save if he must, and hold your sword tight as it's raised to protect him.

Because, and the words came out like a croak as you whispered them to yourself, a confession between only you and the constellations above. “I love you.”

‘In lieu of loving myself.’

The fate of a reader's reader. Your precious main character.

For your selfishness, for your own broken and guarded heart, for him, this can only be said knowing he can't hear your deepest secret. No, Dokja had other things he needed to do, better, more important things than to worry about you. So you would give it all to him, no matter if it meant shattering yourself too.

#kim dokja #dokja kim #omniscient reader's viewpoint #orv #orv x reader #kim dokja x reader #kdj #orv kdj #kdj x reader #fanfiction event #fanfiction collab #gn reader #/glasswrites #divider by saradika graphics

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callikari · 5 months ago

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WHiTE FERRARi — lee heeseung .𖥔 ݁ ˖

SYNOPSIS — "i'm sure we're taller in another dimension, you say we're small and not worth the mention"

PAIRING — bf! lee heeseung x gf!fem reader

GENRE(S) — angst, heartbreak, nostalgia, romance (with a gut wrenching twist) fluff in one scene if u squint ...

WARNING(S) — emotional distress, angst, unresolved feelings, unspoken love, unrequited love, grief, nostalgia, sad/bittersweet ending, emotional PAIN,

WORDCOUNT — 1.7k

the hum of the engine filled the car, but the quiet between you and heeseung was deafening. he drove with the same rhythm as always, but it wasn’t the same. not anymore. the road stretched out before you both, a reminder of how far you’d come—and how far you had left to go, with or without him.

you glanced at him briefly. his face was stiff, like he was holding onto something, or maybe like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. maybe you were too.

“do you ever think about what we used to be?” you asked softly.

heeseung didn’t respond immediately. his eyes stayed fixed on the road, his hands gripping the wheel. but you knew the answer, and it cut deeper than you wanted it to.

“yeah,” he finally said, his voice quiet.

you took a deep breath. “me too.”

the silence that followed was heavier than before, and in that moment, everything you had avoided hit you full force.

a flash of a memory surfaced in your mind, sharp and clear, a time when you were both happy, when everything felt so simple.

—

it was late one summer evening, just after the sun had dipped behind the horizon. you and heeseung were sitting on the roof of his apartment building, the city lights below flickering like a thousand tiny stars. he had his arm around you, and you had your head resting against his shoulder, watching as the sky bled into darker shades of blue and purple.

“this is nice,” you murmured.

“yeah,” heeseung said, voice soft, content. he turned to you, his lips quirking up at the corners. “it’s just us.”

you looked up at him, your heart swelling with something warm and unexplainable. back then, you thought this was forever.

“just us,” you repeated, and everything felt like it was falling into place.

heeseung looked at you, his gaze gentle, but there was something else in his eyes—a depth you couldn’t quite read. something that felt fragile, like it could slip through your fingers if you weren’t careful.

“i never want to forget this,” he said quietly, his voice serious for the first time.

you smiled, brushing your thumb against his hand. “you won’t. i won’t let you.”

—

the memory faded just as quickly as it had come, leaving only the ache of its absence.

you blinked, the present crashing back into focus. the car, the night, the unspoken words between you and heeseung.

heeseung cleared his throat, his eyes flicking to you for a moment before quickly looking away. “i thought we’d be different,” he said. “i thought we’d find a way back.”

“i thought so too,” you whispered, staring out the window. you wished you could reach out, say something to ease the weight that had settled between you both. but it felt too late for that now.

"we were different back then,” heeseung continued, his voice raw. “i thought… i thought maybe if i let go, if i gave you space, you’d be okay. but i didn’t know how to fix it.”

you let the tears fall then, quietly, no sobs, just a steady stream of hurt you couldn’t hold back anymore. you thought you’d moved past this. thought you could exist in the same room with him without falling apart.

“why didn’t you come back?” you whispered, voice cracking.

heeseung didn’t answer right away. you could feel the hesitation in the way he gripped the wheel. the car slowed as he took a breath.

"i don’t know,” he said finally, voice barely audible. “i thought i lost you the second i let you go. and i couldn’t… i couldn’t fix it. not after everything that happened.”

you turned to look at him then, the tears clouding your vision, but his face was unreadable, like he was trying to hold everything together, trying not to break.

“i was waiting,” you said quietly, voice trembling. “i was waiting for you to come back. to fight for us.”

heeseung’s face twisted, a flash of pain flickering across it. “i know. and i’m sorry.”

but the words were hollow. empty. he wasn’t sorry enough. he hadn’t fought for you when it mattered.

you wiped away the tear that escaped down your cheek and let out a shaky breath. “i’m not the same person anymore, heeseung. i don’t know if i can go back to how we were.”

heeseung’s grip on the wheel tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might say something else, something to make this make sense. but he didn’t.

the rest of the drive passed in silence, and you both stayed locked in your own pain. the road stretched on ahead, but you both knew there was no going back.

AUTHORS NOTE — what came out after listening to white ferrari for the first time in like 10 months.. also lowkey thinking of doing something inspired from that one scene in the notebook where allie was reading the letter in the car !!! idk lmk what u guys think 😛😛

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pomegranatelifethis · 3 months ago

Text

Smut

The quiet of Gotham’s night filtered through the wide windows of Dick Grayson’s apartment, carried by a soft breeze. The city lights flickered outside, but inside, the air crackled with electricity. Dick stood before you—his black t-shirt clinging to his toned chest, blue eyes locked on yours, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. Nightwing, the bold and charming leader, but right now, just Dick—*your* Dick.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice deep and gentle, though laced with an undercurrent of passion. He stepped closer, hands resting lightly on your shoulders, thumbs tracing circles over your collarbones. “We can stop anytime you want.”

Your heart raced, not from fear, but from anticipation. This was your first time—and you wanted it to be with him. “I’m sure,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “I trust you.”

The fire in his eyes softened, replaced by a warm tenderness. “Then I’ll make it good for you,” he whispered, his lips brushing closer. The first kiss was soft, exploratory—like he was memorizing you. But then it deepened, his passion spilling over, hands threading into your hair to pull you closer.

When he pulled back, breathless, he tugged his shirt off in one smooth motion, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest glowing in the dim light. “You look beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with admiration as he reached for the buttons of your shirt, undoing them slowly, never breaking eye contact. “But I want to see you.”

Your bare skin met the cool air, and you shivered—but his gaze warmed you. He leaned in, lips trailing down your neck, leaving a path of heat with every kiss. “Relax,” he murmured, guiding you gently toward the bed. Your back hit the pillows, and he hovered over you, his weight both protective and inviting.

“Dick…” His name slipped from your lips like a whisper, your hands roaming his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. He smiled—that familiar, reassuring grin—but the desire in his eyes was undeniable.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a velvety command. He undid his pants, the fabric pooling on the floor as you fumbled with the last of your clothes, hands shaky. When you saw him fully, your breath caught—every line of him perfect, strong yet graceful.

He moved closer, settling between your legs, his hands caressing your hips as he searched your eyes for permission. “It might feel strange at first,” he warned, his tone calm but intense. “But I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

You nodded, surrendering to him. His fingers explored you first, gentle and deliberate, ensuring you were ready. You flinched for a moment, but his lips found yours again, kissing you until the tension melted away. “You feel so good,” he murmured, a soft moan escaping you as his fingers pressed deeper.

When he knew you were ready, he positioned himself, easing in slowly—controlled, but his passion bled through every inch. The initial stretch stung, and your eyes fluttered shut, but Dick paused, resting his forehead against yours. “You okay?” he asked, his breath warm and close.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, voice fragile but honest. “Keep going.”

He smiled, resuming his movements—slow, rhythmic, careful to let you adjust. The discomfort faded, replaced by a fullness, then pleasure. Your hands gripped the pillows, but he found them, lacing his fingers with yours. “Stay with me,” he breathed, his pace quickening, voice growing rougher.

Every thrust carried his passion—not just to claim you, but to feel you. His lips roamed your neck, your chest, each touch pulling you closer to the edge. “Dick—I…” The words caught in your throat, the building sensation overwhelming.

“I know,” he rasped, pushing you over the brink. “Let go.” And you did—shattering beneath him, crying his name as your first release crashed through you, consuming every nerve. He followed moments later, a groan tearing from him as he gave in, holding you tight in his arms.

As your breathing steadied, he wrapped you in his embrace, fingers threading through your hair. “You okay?” he asked, that gentle concern still lingering in his tone.

You smiled, resting your head on his chest. “I’m perfect,” you said. “With you.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because this is just the beginning.”

#dick grayson x reader #yandere dick grayson x reader #yandere dick grayson #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson x female!reader #dc x reader #yandere dc x reader #dc smut

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practicalgauntlet · 6 months ago

Text

~You're still my person. Even if I'm not yours.~

"To love in silence is to ache with the hope of being seen, yet fearing the pain of remaining unseen."

Synopsis- You attend J.J.'s wedding. The reception is beautiful except for one thing: watching the love of your life pine for another.

Category- Angst (unhappy ending)

Notes - This is meant to be one part, but I can add a happy ending if you need it, unrequited love, one-sided pining, angst without a happy ending, this one is going to hurt, this was all I could think of when watching the episode, self-loathing, self-hating language.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You were happy for J.J., you really were. She had almost lost Will and Henery in the span of a day. It was unsurprising that she bit the bullet and decided to marry the father of her son.

The reception was just as beautiful as the bride herself as she walked down the aisle in her mother's wedding gown. It was a surprise, the wedding, thrown together by both Will and Rossi.

But it was bittersweet. Despite the thrumming, electric air of the night, you felt empty.

You had known for quite a while that Spencer was in love with J.J. It was apparent and frankly quite obvious, from the prolonged, yearning glances he tossed her way. The frantic worry he would give her if she was hurt or in danger. He didn't show that type of worry to anyone else, not even you.

Yes, he cared deeply for his team - it would take a bullet for them - but not to the point of almost wild, feral paranoia.

You weren't sure if anyone else noticed the way he acted around J.J. or the way he would look at her when she wasn't looking. Maybe it was because you were in love with him as much as he was in love with her.

You focused on the minute details of his behavior, hoping to gleam a fraction of the affection that was directed at her. Most of the time, you saw things you knew you didn't, making quick glances and friendly smiles into something they weren't just to save yourself the heartache.

But now she was getting married. And you could see he was miserable.

He hid it well, timing his smiles and laughter with everyone else's, patting Will on the back in congratulations while keeping that deep-set look of anguish off his face.

But when no one was paying attention, no one but you, his face fell, and that tight-lipped smile faded into misery.

He watched her every second, admiring her from afar as she walked down the aisle. As she kissed Henery before looking up at Will on the altar. He winced and closed his eyes when the couple leaned in to seal their marriage with a kiss.

Penelope had asked if you were okay, wondering why you were so quiet on such a momentous occasion. But if Spencer could hide his feelings for J.J. from the team, then you could remain undetected as well.

When the afternoon bled into a beautiful moon lit night, the glittering lanterns lighting up the yard in which Rossi hosted, you felt hopeless.

Both because you desperately wanted to wipe that sad look off of Spencer's face and because your bubble of delusion was popped.

For years, you secretly hoped he felt the same for you. From the brief glances of adoration, he would throw at you to the blinding smiles he would greet you with. There was not a moment you hoped you weren't overthinking every little reaction, every little touch or laugh.

Turns out you were just as delusional as the monsters you hunted. To think you were good enough to possibly become the object of Spencer's affection. To think you were brilliant enough to even gain his attention, to interest him beyond friendship.

You sat at the table, sandwiched between Penelope and Derek and across the table from Spencer, knee deep in self-loathing. It felt like you were wading through sludge, the world around you moving slow like dripping honey.

You caught Spencer's eye, and he offered you that same tight-lipped, polite, 'I'm definitely not okay if you look past my quickly crumbling mask of normalcy!' smile. You offered one back.

It was safe to assume he was feeling just as broken as you were at that moment, watching the love of his life look at someone else with such adoration and love.

And it broke your heart. Made you feel like a self-absorbed pile of human shit because here you were, wallowing in your own internal battle while Spencer was shattering before you.

You look at him, trying to subtly ask him if he is okay with your eyes. You hoped he wasn't so out of it with sorrow that his profiling skills were rendered useless.

He simply looked away as Rossi stood and tapped his fork against his glass. David gave a heartwarming speech about timing and happiness, pointing a loving hand towards the grinning couple at the head of the table.

Everyone was clapping and smiling, congratulating the newlyweds and their wishing their future the best. Even Spencer was participating, his manurisms and expression genuine for the first time that night.

When they kissed again, Spencer stood and excused himself. No one was really paying attention to him, more focused on each other and the joy that filled the air. No one even thought of sadness being present at a time like this.

You cought Spencer's expression as he walked into the house and you were standing before you could even think.

"Where's the fire, sugar?"

Penelope asked, your studden movement gaining the attention of the technical analyst.

"Bathroom."

You murmured, more focused on reaching Spencer than drawing the curious eye of the infamous meddler.

You were in the house and wandering the halls before she could say anything else, your eyes peeled for any indication as to where Spencer went.

He wasn't on the first floor, nor the second, not in the garage or in the kitchen. You couldn't find him, no matter where you looked. Hell, you even looked in the linen closet.

When you pass the mud room, you see a tall, lanky silhouette in the stained glass of the front door.

You were twisting the knob not a moment later, heart racing a mile a minute. Spencer was standing on the porch, still as a statue. You could see the tension in his body, in the way he held his hands at his sides, the way his shoulders never seemed to relax.

You know he heard you open the door, knew his moment of peace was interrupted.

"Are you okay?"

You ask, testing the waters by gently closing the door and standing next to him. You didn't look at him, no matter how bad you wanted to.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

His voice was carefully crafted, even, and steady. If you didn't know him, you would have thought everything was fine and dandy. But you did know him. You knew him like the back of your hand.

There was a strained layer to the way he spoke. It was the same tone he used on you and the team while he was addicted to Dilaudid, the same tone he used after Gideon left. Carefully hidden turmoil so he didn't have to burden anyone with his 'pathetic' emotions.

You knew him too well.

"You can talk to me, Spence."

"I'm fine, really. I just needed some air."

The lie was blatant on his face. He was begging you to drop it to leave him be so he could keep his composure until he was alone in his apartment. You didn't want to leave it alone, his pain bleeding into yours, amplifying all the hurt and hopelessness you'd felt all night.

"Spence-"

"Drop it."

That sadness, that misery that swirled beneath the surface, was replaced with ire. You knew he didn't mean to take it out on you but in your already fragile mental state the glare he pinned you with cut so deep you feared you'd never stop bleeding.

He left, shouldering past you and back into the house to most likely join the party with his fake fucking smile and his painfully obvious suffering.

You couldn't move, couldn't get your legs to take you back no matter how hard you tried. You were stuck, both emotionally and physically.

The next breath you took left you staggering. You had to sit, had to prevent the inevitable collapse you were destined to have. The cold, hard wood of the porch bit into your knees as you dropped, a broken sob wrenching its way out of your throat.

Another one clawed past that lump, building, and building until you couldn't hold back any longer. You bit your lip, tasting the blood that spilled into your mouth as you tried and failed to keep your sobs a bay.

The wails of agony had you hunched in on yourself, the power of them shaking your body and scratching your throat. Briefly, you thought of gaining the attention of any of the partygoers, your shattering drawing them to the porch so they could bear witness to your destruction.

You'd rather die than succumb someone to that, so you bit down on your knuckle. You were still so loud, your lip and knuckle aching from your teeth.

The door opened, and you froze, body still shaking with emotion as you lay there in a heap of pity.

"Oh my god, sugar plumb!" Penelope gasps, rushing to your side and leaving the door wide open. "What happened?"

You continued to sob uncontrollably, hands absently reaching for Penelope’s hand and drawing yourself into her comforting embrace.

Your words were broken by hiccuping wails, face wet with snot and tears.

"I love him, Pen."

"Will?"

She pulls back and looks at your broken face, holding you by the shoulders as she levels you with a confused face.

"No, Spencer."

You'd never said it out loud before, and now that it was out in the open, it felt as if your entire world was just tilted on its axis.

"Oh, honey pot,"

She draws you into her embrace again, smoothing your hair with gentle pets, cooing sweet nothings until you are numb. Quiet and calm, but numb. Void of the emotion that so fiercely burned within you just moments ago.

"He loves someone else."

You say pathetically, your voice monotone and as empty as you feel.

"I know, sweetheart, I know."

"I can't stand it anymore, Pen. Watching him yearn for her."

"Shhh." She coos, wrapping her arms tightly around you. "Everything will be okay."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Three months have passed since the wedding. Everything wasn't okay.

You walked the earth with that same, cold, unending nothingness that overtook you that night in Penelope’s arms.

She made it her mission to make you feel better. Making jokes, setting you up, hosting girls' night out, and slumber parties. Everything she could think of, she dragged you along with her. But it felt like your world ended that night.

Spencer wasn't the same either. He didn't ask you to go to the library with him, didn't try and pull you along with him and Penelope to their various conventions, and didn't smile at you when you greeted him.

He was numb too.

There was a loss of two loves that evening, a great love story missed. The paths of fate are so close yet they never converge, never collide.

You went on a blind date once.

Never again.

He was fine. He was smart, handsome, and funny. But not as smart, as handsome, as funny. He wasn't Spencer.

It felt like you missed your chance, that if you did something better, something right, he would have chosen you. You could have made him happy.

"The heart wants what it wants. There is no logic to these things. You meet someone, and you fall in love, and that's that." - Woody Allen.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #no use of y/n #angst #unhappy ending #angst no comfort #Spotify

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chilschuck · 1 year ago

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Can i request for chilchuck react to reader who like to daydream and after he tell the reader he is married, the reader keep spacing out more often out of sadness and they also try to avoid interacting with him much so she can move on. But laios and the other think it's normal since she always avoid interacting with people ( the reader interact with chilchuck more after falling in love with him )

Do you think he will notice? (ಥ﹏ಥ) (ಡ‸ಡ)

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ WAHHHH ANON this is such a good concept and made my heart hurt…… i ended up adding some comfort to it because if you’re like me, you need it after reading angst!! :”)))

— OF COURSE: chilchuck x gn!reader.

꒰ warnings: ꒱ sfw + hurt/comfort! might be a lil ooc, lol.

꒰ wc: ꒱ 941

✦ i hope this turned out okay!! i made it shorter than my other drabbles by accident but it felt good to end it where it did. i kind of changed the prompt a lil but only because i wanted to give you guys some love from chil still. (;;;w;;;) i’m honestly worried this turned out bad…. hhhhh. i’m so sorry if it’s not what you wanted. ;;; i still hope you enjoy!!! <333

He knew something was wrong.

It wasn’t difficult to see that you had started avoiding him. Even your gaze refused to meet his own for longer than it had to. Your constant spacing out and stares at the floor said all he needed to hear: you were upset.

It only seemed to get worse when you overheard his talk about reconciling with his wife, any hope you had shattering into a thousand pieces in front of you. From then on, you didn’t smile unless you felt you had to. The thick silence you left in your wake was suffocating, and Chilchuck wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

The other members in the party took it as if you were being your usual spacey self, and didn’t draw any attention to the issue. This only made Chilchuck feel worse; he definitely noticed the change.

You used to hang back with Chilchuck and talk with him constantly, sharing little tidbits about yourselves or chatting mindlessly. Things seemed to come easily when it came to you... Too bad he only realized this now.

The smiles you gave him, the eyes full of affection, the lingering touches… It stung that they were no longer a part of his everyday life. Instead, the sadness that ate at you only bled through to your face, into your actions, and into your silence. It was unfamiliar and unbearable at the same time… Especially with the way you’d closed up further.

Chilchuck wasn’t stupid; he knew you harbored some sort of feelings for him. He wasn’t sure if that made this hurt more than it would otherwise. You were obviously distancing yourself from him, further proving his point that inner party relationships were trouble. Yet, there wasn’t any anger or resentment in his chest towards you. If anything, this was a misunderstanding between the two of you.

Calling your name, he approached you almost apprehensively. The recoil you gave made that familiar sharp pain in his chest reappear. Blurting out an excuse, you made your presence scarce. And just like that, you left him alone again.

Of course he noticed. If anything, he hoped that it was all some sort of miscommunication. Sure, he wanted to reconnect with his estranged wife, but… That’s what they were: estranged childhood sweethearts that grew apart. Along with their love, their relationship changed. Things weren’t something he could fix, and his old flame knew that too. But he hoped more than anything they could sort through their differences and still be at least friends.

Of course you didn’t know. There was no way for you to know, or have known his true intentions. Like everything else he tried to bury deep down, you were fading from his life. Chilchuck couldn’t seem to let this one go, to let you go.

So he chased after you. For once in his life, he decided to not swallow these feelings down. He knew there was only so much he could bury, only so much he’d want to bury. You didn’t deserve that, and he needed you to give him those smiles again. To give him those gazes full of adoration and those tender but fleeting touches…

You didn’t pull your hand out of his immediately. Instead, when he called your name again this time, you turned. Chilchuck swallowed.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

Surely there was a better thing to ask at this moment, but your lip quivered nonetheless. A deep sigh leaving you, your gaze met with the floor again.

“…So it’d stop hurting.” Was all you replied, the weight of those words knocking the air out of him. He opened his mouth to speak, but you raised a hand to silence him.

“This is for the best... I hope you understand.” Your voice used to never sound so broken. It was soft in a way that he’d never heard before. You had truly given up on this, and he can’t say he blames you. He’d have given up on himself, too.

But he can’t let himself fall into that same cycle of self-pity. Not again, he assured himself, reaching up to grab a fist full of your top and pulling you down to meet his eyes. “Let me explain this to you. Please. I… I’m not going back to her because of the reason you think.” Chilchuck hadn’t heard himself this pleading in so long. He felt pitiful, and he suddenly remembered why he doesn’t like being vulnerable.

You couldn’t stop your head from nodding a yes to his request, that spark of hope trying to ignite once again in your chest. Trying to snuff it out, you waited patiently for him to continue.

And so he did. Baring it all to you, he decided this would be another step towards being more open with himself. Maybe you’d see him as pathetic for this, but he tried to piece the words together as congruent as possible. The feelings he had for her distinguished with the years spent apart and even some of the time spent together. This whole time he’s been sure that he just wanted to right the wrongs he did, and move on. Hopefully with you, when all this was over.

Of course you said yes. You listened, and with every word that left him, the flame within you rekindled. You weren’t sure what to say for a moment, besides giving a light laugh in relief. Even Chilchuck exhaled a brisk chuckle, scratching the back of his head in nervous habit. He’s not sure he could ever get used to this whole “telling your true feelings” thing.

But for you, he’d try.

— dividers by @/cafekitsune!! <333

#⟡ lilia writes! 🌿#trying to get better at hurt/comfort #and this may be terrible bc i’m so brain fried rn gdhfjfjhj #but i thought maybe you’d want some chil loving too :’)))#chilchuck x reader #chilchuck tims x reader #dunmeshi x reader #dungeon meshi x reader #delicious in dungeon x reader

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j0shuahongs · 27 days ago

Text

Orange Skies

pairing: mark lee x female reader.

genre: soft angst / nostalgic hurt-comfort, bittersweet, mutual pining, happy-sad ending

wc: 1.3k

a/n: inspired by this song. everything reminds me of mark atp 😪 wrote this on a whim, sorry if it's short 😅

The last time she saw Mark Lee, the sky was orange.

Not a dramatic sunset, not even a poetic storm rolling in—just that in-between hue the sky takes when it’s saying goodbye to the day without making a fuss. Just like him. Quiet departures, soft steps. Always gentle. Always making sure she didn’t break, even when he did.

They never said forever. But they also never said goodbye.

Sometimes she still reached for her phone, thumb hovering over his name in her contacts—the one she hadn’t deleted. Not because she expected a reply, but because knowing it was there felt like a secret safety net.

She still talked to him.

On long walks. In between bites of breakfast. While folding laundry.

“I had the worst day,” she would whisper into the quiet.

“God, I wish you could’ve seen that,” she'd laugh to the empty kitchen.

“Where are you?” her heart asked quietly, over and over.

She didn’t cry every time. Not anymore.

Sometimes, she just smiled. The way he would’ve. Wide. Crooked. Kind.

And when the world was unfair, when people left, when her heart got tired—she remembered his hands. Not the ones that held her with desperation, but the ones that fit hers perfectly. Calm. Steady. His.

They say time dulls everything. But the thing about Mark was: he never needed to shine loud to leave a mark. He just was. And that was enough.

So now, years later, when the sky shifted into that same soft amber, her heart ached in that sweet, familiar way.

The way it did when she remembered her favorite chapter.

The way it did when someone was never just a person—they were home.

Because whenever the light turned that color, her heart did what it always did.

It remembered.

And just like that, a breeze picked up—cool against her skin—and she was there again.

The blanket beneath her was scratchier now—new, not the one he laid out that day. But still, she closed her eyes, and the memory bled in.

It was the kind of day you don’t realize you’ll miss until it’s too far behind you.

Late October. Wind in her sweater sleeves. Salt on her lips from the ocean breeze. She and Mark had snuck away from everything—no plans, no schedules, no timelines. Just a car ride that ended somewhere quiet, somewhere soft.

The beach had been nearly empty, the sun dipping low like it was shy.

Mark spread out the blanket with a dramatic flourish, muttering, “Your throne, my lady,” in that dorky way only he could.

When she flopped down on it, he dropped beside her with that boyish grin that had ruined her from day one.

“Look,” he said, pointing to the sky, “That orange right there? That’s our color now.”

She rolled her eyes. “What does that even mean?”

He looked at her. Really looked. “All the best things I’ve felt with you… they happen in that color.”

She went quiet after that. Not because she didn’t know what to say, but because… she felt it too.

The sand had been cold under her toes, but his hand was warm. She remembered how she’d rested her head on his shoulder, how her fingers laced between his without thinking. No sweaty palms. Just perfect fit.

She’d told him about her week—that fight with her boss, the dream she had where he turned into a sea otter, the way she burnt rice again. He had laughed so loud he scared a bird off the rocks. He always listened like everything she said mattered.

And when she fell asleep in the crook of his arm—the last pinks of light fading into dusk—he didn’t wake her. He just held her tighter, like stopping time was possible.

When she woke up, stars had replaced the sun, and he was still there.

“Let’s never forget this,” he murmured.

She promised.

The wind was the same now. The ocean still spoke in hushes. But she was alone on the blanket this time.

She sipped tea from a thermos and smiled to herself.

She had never forgotten. Not the orange sky. Not the feel of his hand. Not the way her laugh had sounded with his wrapped around it.

And maybe she’d never see him again. Maybe his life went a different way.

But every time the sky turned orange, she still whispered, “This is our color.”

And she swore, for a second, she heard his laugh on the wind.

The city outside his window was different now—glass towers instead of beaches, traffic hum instead of waves. It had been years. Maybe decades.

But some evenings, when the light hit just right and the sky turned that familiar gold-orange… he stopped everything.

Today was one of those days.

He was sitting by the window, mug in hand, lukewarm coffee forgotten. There was a worn-out guitar leaning on the wall behind him, a half-written song open on his desk. But his fingers didn’t move. His pen stayed still.

Because his mind was somewhere else—with her.

He didn’t say her name anymore. Not out loud. Not even in letters or lyrics. It was sacred, in a way. Like a prayer only he got to say in silence.

But he thought of her.

God, he thought of her.

That one October day at the beach played in his mind like a reel he couldn’t rewind but also couldn’t turn off.

The way she threw her head back laughing.

How her hair caught the wind and stuck to her lips.

How she’d absentmindedly rubbed her thumb across his knuckles like she didn’t even know she was doing it.

That day… that color… it was imprinted on him.

He remembered saying, “Let’s never forget this.”

And she had smiled. Eyes soft, like she was already holding the memory close.

He wondered if she kept the promise too.

He never went back to that beach. Never needed to.

Because every time the world gave him that orange sky—even in a different city, a different life—he felt it all again.

And it still wrecked him in the gentlest way.

Not with regret.

Not with longing.

But with that quiet kind of love that just… stays.

Sometimes he caught himself writing her into songs. Not obviously. Just enough that if she heard it—if—she might smile and know it was hers.

And when the sky darkened, and the stars started to peek through, he whispered,

“You were the best part.”

Even now.

Even still.

As long as there were orange skies,

he’d always think of her, too.

He never looked for her. Not really.

Some part of him always believed—if the moment was right, if the sky remembered—maybe she’d be looking up too.

Maybe she still did.

He stayed there a moment longer, bathed in amber.

Somewhere, the same light was falling on someone else.

Memory didn’t need a map. Just a color. Just a feeling.

And it always found its way home.

She was sitting on a bench outside her favorite bookstore, a half-finished novel in her lap, the wind gently lifting the pages.

A little girl walked by holding her father’s hand, giggling as she pointed up at the sky.

“Daddy, look! The clouds are orange!”

She looked up too.

Across the world, at that same moment, Mark stood outside a studio, the city buzz behind him fading into silence.

He looked up instinctively, something tugging in his chest—and saw it.

The sky. That color.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just… them.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

Because in that fleeting, quiet second—oceans apart, years between—their hearts still recognized something eternal.

It wasn’t about going back.

It wasn’t about wishing it ended differently.

It was just the simple truth:

It happened.

He loved her.

She loved him.

And as long as the sky turned that color—

they always would.

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theonottsbxtch · 6 months ago

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ALL I NEED | CS55

an: i dont know if ive done this correctly seen as i dont listen to radiohead but this was a request and i hope ive done it justice let me know por favor. also my bum hurts so much guys. ALSO THIS IS NOT PROOF READ GIVE ME A BREAK PLS

wc: 2.6k

THE CRASH OF GLASS AND LAUGHTER spilled out onto the damp Monaco streets, but he barely noticed. Carlos Sainz tugged his cap lower, keeping his face in shadow as he slipped past another group of revellers. The race was done, the podium champagne still sticky on his skin, but the thrill that usually hummed in his chest had long since faded. Victory felt hollow now—a shiny bauble he’d collected too many times to care for.

He didn’t know what he was looking for as he wandered the city, only that he needed to get away—from the cameras, the sycophants, the unrelenting machine of Formula One that consumed him day after day. His feet carried him down a narrow alley, past flickering signs and shuttered windows, until the low, mournful sound of a cello stopped him in his tracks.

The music bled out of a small, dimly lit bar, curling through the cool night air like smoke. Without thinking, Carlos pushed the door open, stepping inside.

She was there, on a small stage in the corner, cradling the cello as if it were a part of her. The light caught on her hair, her bowed head, and the slight furrow of her brow as she lost herself in the music. The melody was achingly beautiful, but there was something raw about it too—something fractured and unfinished.

Carlos didn’t sit. He stood in the shadows, transfixed, watching as she played. He thought about the way his car felt when it was right on the edge, how the world blurred and narrowed until only the next turn existed. That’s what she looked like now: completely untouchable, a force of her own.

When the final note lingered in the air, she lifted her gaze, scanning the room. Her eyes found him, sharp and searching. Carlos felt exposed, as though she could see through the carefully constructed armour of charm and bravado he wore.

But then, just as quickly, she looked away, tucking her hair behind her ear and retreating backstage. Carlos stood there for a moment, caught between the urge to follow and the sudden weight in his chest.

For once, he didn’t know what to do.

Carlos hesitated before finally taking a seat at the bar, his eyes still flickering to the empty stage. The bartender, a wiry man with a worn cloth slung over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow.

“You here for the music or the whiskey?”

“Music,” Carlos said, though it came out quieter than he’d intended. He tapped his fingers on the counter, the adrenaline from the race still buzzing faintly under his skin. “She—does she play here often?”

The bartender snorted. “Depends on her mood. Some nights she’s here until closing. Other times she vanishes for weeks. Why? She leave you breathless too?”

Carlos didn’t answer, just reached for the glass of water the bartender set in front of him. He wasn’t sure what had left him so rattled—her music or the way she’d looked at him, as if he were just another face in the crowd. He wasn’t used to that.

By the time he left the bar, she was gone.

The next night, he found himself back in the same place. The race afterparty roared on in the background, teammates and sponsors undoubtedly wondering where he’d disappeared to. But he couldn’t shake the memory of her playing, the way the notes seemed to carry pieces of her with them.

This time, when she stepped onto the stage, he felt the same pull as before. Her music wove through the room like a thread, binding everything together. Carlos barely noticed the other patrons, the clinking glasses, the low hum of conversation. He was pinned in place by her presence.

When she finished, she didn’t look his way. Instead, she slipped off the stage and into the back, the cello case slung over her shoulder. Carlos didn’t think—he followed.

He caught up with her just outside, where the alley was quieter, lit only by the flickering glow of a streetlamp. She was packing her cello into a battered case, her movements brisk and precise.

“You’re amazing,” he said, his voice breaking the silence.

She glanced up, startled. Her eyes, darker now in the dim light, narrowed slightly. “Thanks,” she said, but the word sounded flat, cautious. She turned back to her cello.

“I mean it,” he pressed, stepping closer. “Your music—it’s…” He trailed off, unsure how to put it into words.

She straightened, looking at him properly now. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?”

It was the same question she’d asked the first night, and it stung more than it should have.

“Maybe,” he said, forcing a smile. “But I’m here.”

Her lips twitched—just barely—but the wall between them stayed firmly in place.

“You’re not the first man with too much money and too much time who’s wandered in here,” she said, slinging the cello case over her shoulder.

“I’m not here to waste your time,” Carlos said. “I just… wanted to hear you play.”

Something flickered in her expression then—surprise, maybe, or disbelief. “Well, you’ve heard me. Now you can move on.”

But she didn’t walk away. Not yet.

Carlos tilted his head. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “Names don’t matter.”

“They do to me,” he said softly.

For a moment, she just looked at him, as if trying to decide whether he was worth her time. Then she let out a breath, almost a laugh, but without any joy.

“Go home, Carlos Sainz,” she said, her voice laced with something he couldn’t quite place.

His heart kicked in his chest. She knew who he was.

And with that, she turned and disappeared into the night, leaving Carlos alone under the streetlamp, more certain than ever that he wasn’t ready to let her go.

Carlos spent the following week bouncing between press events, team debriefs, and endless sponsor obligations, but his mind remained elsewhere. The memory of her—of her music, her sharp gaze, her dismissal—clung to him like the smell of burnt tyres after a race. He returned to the bar three times, hoping to find her again, but the stage remained empty.

It wasn’t until the night before he was due to fly out to Silverstone that he found her again. She was seated at the bar this time, a glass of red wine in her hand, her cello case leaning against the stool beside her. Carlos stopped in the doorway, thrown by the sight of her outside the sanctuary of the stage.

She looked up as if she could feel his hesitation, her brows lifting in faint amusement. “Lost, Sainz?”

Carlos grinned despite himself and slid into the seat beside her. “Not this time.”

Her expression didn’t soften, but she didn’t tell him to leave either. For a moment, they sat in silence, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the space between them.

“Why do you keep coming back?” she asked eventually, not looking at him.

He hesitated. “Because I can’t stop thinking about your music.”

She let out a low laugh, her eyes meeting his. “Flattering. But I don’t think that’s the whole truth.”

Carlos opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. She was right, of course. It wasn’t just the music. It was the way she carried herself, the way she seemed to exist entirely outside the world he knew—a world that felt more hollow with each passing day.

“I’m not here to waste your time,” he said finally.

“Then what are you here for?”

The question hung in the air, and for once, Carlos didn’t have an answer. He was used to knowing exactly what he wanted, exactly how to get it. But with her, everything felt uncertain, unsteady—like the moment before a corner, when the car teetered on the edge of control.

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted, his voice quiet.

That seemed to catch her off guard. She studied him for a moment, as if trying to find the lie in his words. Then she sighed, taking a sip of her wine.

“Well, that’s honest, at least,” she said, setting her glass down.

“Stay,” Carlos blurted before he could stop himself. “Let me buy you another drink. Or talk. Or…” He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious. “Just… stay.”

She tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. It wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t hopeful either.

“You think I’m the kind of person who sticks around?”

He leaned closer, his voice low. “I think you’re the kind of person who surprises people.”

That caught her off guard again, and for a moment, he thought she might actually laugh. Instead, she downed the rest of her wine and picked up her cello case.

“Goodnight, Sainz,” she said, her voice softer this time, almost gentle.

And just like that, she was gone again.

The weeks that followed were a blur of races, podiums, and media appearances. Carlos kept telling himself to let it go. To focus on the championship, to push the memory of her into the background where it belonged.

But no matter how fast he drove, how tightly he gripped the wheel, he couldn’t shake the thought of her.

It was after a particularly gruelling race in Silverstone, where a mechanical failure had left him crawling to the finish line in seventh place, that he found himself staring at his phone. Without thinking, he searched the bar’s name. An event listing popped up.

She was playing again.

Carlos booked the first flight to Monaco.

The bar was quieter than he remembered when he walked in that night. She was already on stage, her eyes closed as her fingers moved across the strings of her cello. The melody was different this time—softer, slower, but just as heart-wrenching.

She saw him as soon as she finished, her gaze locking on him through the low light. She didn’t smile, didn’t nod, but she didn’t look away either.

This time, when he approached her after the set, she didn’t brush him off.

“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” she said as he slid into the seat across from her.

“And you’re impossible,” Carlos countered, leaning forward. “But I think I’m okay with that.”

She studied him, her expression unreadable. Then, for the first time, she smiled—a small, fleeting thing, but it made something in his chest tighten.

“Alright, Sainz,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve got my attention. Let’s see what you do with it.”

At first, their connection was tentative, like a melody slowly finding its rhythm. Carlos started flying to Monaco every chance he got, slipping away from the chaos of the circuit to find her. She never told him to come, never invited him into her life, but she stopped pushing him away.

They spent hours in quiet corners of the city—sharing stolen moments by the harbour, wandering narrow streets where no one recognised him, and sitting in her small apartment while she played for him. She told him stories about the pieces she chose, about the composers who lived and died with their genius unrecognised.

“Why cello?” he asked one evening, as she leaned over the instrument, her fingers gliding across the strings.

She glanced at him, her lips twitching into a faint smile. “It’s the only thing that made sense to me. I grew up in chaos, and the cello—” she tapped the curve of its body, “—felt like a way out. Or maybe just a way through.”

Her honesty stunned him. Carlos realised how little he’d told her in return—how carefully he’d avoided letting her see his own chaos.

“What about you?” she asked, leaning back and meeting his gaze. “Why Formula One?”

He hesitated. “Because it’s all I’ve ever known.”

“That’s not an answer,” she said, her voice soft but insistent.

“It’s the truth,” he admitted. “I started karting when I was four. My dad built my first car in our garage. After he died… it was all I had left of him.”

She didn’t say anything, but her eyes softened, the sharp edges of her usual reserve smoothing for just a moment. Carlos reached for her hand, and for the first time, she didn’t pull away.

For weeks, they existed in their own fragile bubble. Carlos began weaving her into his world—bringing her to quiet dinners with the team, introducing her to the mechanics who knew him better than anyone. But she stayed cautious, always keeping one foot outside the door.

It wasn’t until the Monaco Grand Prix that the cracks began to show.

She agreed to come to the race, though she made it clear she wasn’t there for the spectacle. “I just want to see what you’re running from,” she said, her words cutting more deeply than she realised.

On race day, she stood in the paddock, surrounded by the chaos of photographers, team members, and fans. Carlos was in his element—smiling for the cameras, joking with his crew, the golden boy of the circuit.

But when their eyes met, she looked out of place, as though she’d been dropped into a world that didn’t belong to her.

Later, when the race was over and Carlos stood on the podium, champagne dripping down his face, he scanned the crowd for her. She was gone.

He found her that night in her apartment, packing her cello into its case.

“You left,” he said, still in his race suit, his voice raw with disbelief.

“I stayed longer than I should have,” she replied without looking at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means this,” she said, gesturing between them, “doesn’t fit. Your world—it’s suffocating. And I…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I can’t be part of it.”

Carlos stepped closer, his frustration boiling over. “You don’t even want to try. Every time I get close, you pull back. Why?”

“Because I’ve been here before!” she snapped, her voice breaking. “I’ve been the girl who gets left behind when the real world calls. I know how this story ends, Carlos.”

“This isn’t just a story,” he said, his voice low, desperate. “It’s us. You and me.”

She closed her eyes, her shoulders sagging under the weight of his words. “I don’t know how to be part of your world. And I don’t think you know how to stop running from it long enough to be part of mine.”

Her words cut deeper than any crash ever had. Carlos stood there, silent, as she picked up her cello and walked out the door.

In the weeks that followed, Carlos threw himself back into racing, driving harder and faster than ever. The headlines celebrated his victories, his unrelenting determination. But inside, he was hollow.

He tried to reach her, but she didn’t answer his calls. He showed up at the bar, but she wasn’t there. She had vanished, leaving behind only the memory of her music and the ache she’d carved into his chest.

It wasn’t until he saw the programme for a symphony performance in Vienna—her name listed among the musicians—that he realised where she’d gone. But by then, it was too late.

The story ends with Carlos on the track, his car hurtling through the final lap of the championship race. The roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras—all of it blurred into nothingness. He crossed the finish line, victorious once again, but instead of relief, all he felt was loss.

Somewhere, she was playing, her music reaching places he couldn’t follow.

And for the first time, Carlos wondered if the chase had cost him the only thing that truly mattered.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby

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winxanity-ii · 12 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 65 Chapter 65 | permission⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

You sat curled near the prow of the little boat, knees tucked close, chin resting on folded arms. The wood beneath you creaked and dipped with every subtle sway, the small hull cutting gently across the darkening water. Each rise and fall rocked through your bones like a lullaby you didn't want.

Above, the sky bled gold into a dusky orange, streaked with lines of muted pink that faded into purple at the edges. The sun was low now—almost gone—its dying glow turning the waves into molten bronze.

You watched it flicker across the ripples, warm light dancing against cool sea, but it felt too beautiful to look at for long.

Peisistratus stood a few feet away, one hand firm around the rudder pole, guiding the boat with quiet, practiced ease. His other hand rested on his hip, thumb tapping softly against his belt as he squinted out toward the horizon. His curls were tied back at the nape of his neck to keep them from whipping across his eyes in the wind. He looked calm. Focused. Solid in a way that made you feel both steadied and small.

Neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the slap of water against the hull and the low hush of wind weaving between the ropes. The quiet felt heavy. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to disturb the dying day.

Eventually, your gaze shifted—slow, cautious. You glanced over your shoulder, back the way you came.

Fog clung to the sea behind you, thick and silver-white, curling low around the small island barely visible in the distance.

Home.

Ithaca.

It was almost hidden now, shrouded in mist; only the faint outline of its cliffs and cypress trees cutting through the haze. It looked unreal from here. Like a memory you weren't sure was yours to keep.

You sighed, long and low, turning away. The sound left your lips like something pulled out from your chest.

You tried not to look at the horizon ahead. Tried not to think about what waited—or didn't wait—beyond it. But the thought pressed heavy against your ribs anyway, stubborn and insistent.

Telemachus.

His name felt raw inside you. It hurt to even think it, like running your tongue along a cut.

You wondered where he was now. If he was sleeping. If he was awake, staring out at the same sea, thinking of you the way you thought of him.

Or maybe he wasn't thinking of you at all. Maybe he'd finally let the tide pull you from his heart.

Your eyes burned at the thought. You blinked hard, swallowing against the tightness crawling up your throat.

The boat continued to rock gently beneath you. The wood was rough under your palms, splintering in places where salt and sun had eaten away the varnish. You curled your fingers against it, grounding yourself in the feel of it. Real. Solid. Something to hold onto when everything else felt like water slipping through your hands.

But the boat wasn't where your mind truly was.

Because it had been nearly two weeks since your return from Olympus.

Nearly two weeks of waking each day to an empty courtyard, of walking past his quarters and seeing them shut and silent, of hugging Lady tight at night and pretending the ache in your chest wasn't growing heavier with each sunrise.

Nearly two weeks of asking.

Your mind unspooled... rewinding to the days before.

To the days of pleading.

Begging.

Every chance you got.

You'd cornered Kieran in the halls, asked him how fast a ship could be prepared. You'd whispered your plan to Lady while feeding her scraps, promising that soon you'd bring him home, that you just needed permission. You'd asked Asta if she'd heard anything from the other Bronte servants, anything at all, and even though she said no, she still squeezed your hand tight before leaving to her duties.

And every time you were given an audience with the King and Queen, you'd tried again.

Today was no different.

You were kneeling now, on the smooth stone floor of the throne room, your knees aching from how long you'd been there. Morning light spilled through the high windows, washing the room in a pale gold that made every carved column and woven tapestry glow. It should've felt beautiful. It didn't. It felt heavy.

Because this was morning audience.

The time each day when Odysseus, and sometimes Penelope beside him, opened court to the people of Ithaca. Farmers came to settle disputes over grazing land. Fishers sought advice for new boat routes. Widows asked for inheritance judgments, children wept over lost livestock, young men argued over olive tree borders.

The King listened to them all, leaning back in his great chair with one hand braced on his knee, brow furrowed in focus. Sometimes he looked tired, rubbing at his temples when the arguments grew too long. Other times, his eyes sparked with sharp command, a flicker of the old cunning that made men speak quickly and choose their words with care.

Penelope sat just beside him, her seat smaller, carved with vine patterns and inlaid with smooth bone. Her back remained straight, her fingers folded neatly in her lap, but even from here you could see the faint shadows under her eyes. How her mouth pinched at the corners every time someone raised their voice. How she leaned forward slightly whenever a woman spoke, softening her gaze, only to pull it back into polite neutrality when her husband turned toward her.

They both looked tired today.

Tired, but serious.

Because now it was you before them.

And publicly, they couldn't dismiss you. Not in front of so many eyes. Not when every head in the room had turned to watch as you rose from your place along the side wall, walked across the smooth marble, and knelt before them.

So they listened.

They listened as you spoke, as your voice trembled then steadied, as you laid out every reason why you should go.

You told them about Telemachus. About how he was out there, searching alone, each day wasted another day the gods could turn their faces or storms could swallow him whole. You spoke not of maps and currents—those were knowledge beyond you—but of him. Of the way his hands steadied yours when you faltered. Of the quiet way he listened, truly listened, when you spoke.

You told them he didn't just need rescue. He needed to know he was worth being searched for. That someone—anyone—would come for him. That he was not alone in the dark.

But most of all, you told them this: if the gods heard any mortal's prayers, they would hear yours—because you would not stop calling his name until he was found.

You spoke until your throat burned, until your knees ached from pressing into the hard stone, until your voice went hoarse with the same words you'd been saying for nearly two weeks now.

And then, silence.

You bowed your head low, chest heaving with quiet breaths, waiting for the answer you already knew. The answer that was coming anyway.

You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, watching the pale morning light pool between the tiles. You could see the hem of Penelope's gown in your periphery, ivory linen embroidered with faint gold thread, her sandals peeking out beneath it. Beside her, Odysseus shifted in his seat, the quiet creak of his throne loud in the silent hall. You could almost feel their eyes on you. Tired. Heavy. But unyielding.

Because they already knew what they would say.

And so did you.

But still—you asked.

Because you didn't know how to stop.

Because stopping would've meant giving up. Admitting defeat. Accepting that the gods, the sea, the fates themselves had won. That Telemachus would forever be out of reach from you.

And gods, you couldn't accept that. Not yet.

You stayed kneeling, eyes fixed on the pale tile floor as the silence stretched. The ache in your knees pulsed up your thighs, a deep, throbbing pain that felt distant compared to the tight knot twisting in your chest.

Then, finally, Odysseus spoke.

His voice came low and tired, rough around the edges like he hadn't slept well in days. "Enough," he said, the word heavy and final. You heard him shift in his throne, the quiet scrape of his hand rubbing down his beard. "We will speak on this again soon."

That was all.

No yes. No no. Just that. Dismissive. Vague. A promise or a delay—you couldn't tell.

Your brows pinched faintly, your lips pressing into a thin line as you lowered your gaze further. The answer—non-answer—stung sharper than you'd expected. Your hands curled against the fabric of your dress, fingers twisting in the worn linen as you forced yourself to breathe steady.

You bowed your head deeper, the motion tight and controlled. "Thank you... my king," you said softly, voice barely carrying across the echoing hall.

Then you rose. Slow. Careful. You smoothed your dress with trembling hands, your body stiff as you turned away from the throne. Your eyes burned with the threat of tears, but you blinked them back, refusing to let them fall here. Not now. Not in front of everyone.

You walked back to your place along the wall, each step feeling heavier than the last. As you neared your spot, Lysandra stepped aside to let you slip in beside her, her eyes flicking over your face with quiet worry. She didn't say anything—she never did in front of the court—but the way her mouth tightened said enough.

Beside her stood Asta, with Kieran not far behind. She reached out as you passed, her hand brushing your shoulder in a silent comfort. The touch was brief but grounding, a reminder that even if the King dismissed you, even if the gods turned away, someone still saw you. Someone still cared.

You swallowed hard, pressing your lips together as you settled back against the stone pillar, your hands folding tightly in front of you.

Not a second later, the heavy doors at the far end of the hall slammed open.

The herald stumbled in first, his breath coming in harsh pants, his cheeks flushed pink from the effort. He barely managed to catch himself before nearly falling forward, his voice cracking as he rushed to announce himself.

"Your Majesties!" he gasped, pressing a fist to his chest in salute. "Announcing—the arrival of—King Nestor's youngest son—Prince Peisistratus—"

He didn't even finish because before his words could echo to the vaulted ceiling, Peisistratus barreled through the doors behind him, moving so fast the herald had to stumble back to avoid being knocked over.

The young prince's strides were long and taut with purpose, his shoulders squared, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths as if he'd been holding them back the entire walk up the steps. His gaze was sharp, scanning the hall with an urgency that pulled every watching eye in his direction.

He walked like someone with something to say.

Something important.

And gods—your heart kicked hard in your chest when his gaze flicked across the crowd, landing briefly on you before turning forward again, focus burning hot and steady.

You felt it in your chest, tight and cold, as Peisistratus strode forward. The quiet murmur of the court fell silent under the weight of his presence. Even the king and queen sat straighter, their gazes fixed sharply on the young prince as he approached the dais.

He stopped a few paces from the throne and bowed low, his curls falling forward over his brow. When he straightened, his face was flushed with travel, his lips chapped from sea wind, but his eyes burned with urgency.

"My King. My Queen," he said, voice strong despite the slight tremble beneath it. "Forgive my unexpected arrival... and my lack of formal announcement. I came as quickly as I could. I did not wait for your summons, nor did I seek approval to dock."

He paused, inhaling once, as though bracing himself for the words he carried.

"But when word reached Pylos," he continued, his gaze flicking briefly around the silent hall before returning to Odysseus and Penelope, "when we heard that another of Ithaca's ships had been hit by the storm near the Delian coastline... I could not stay idle."

At once, whispers broke through the quiet. Soft at first—sharp breaths, hushed murmurs as those gathered turned to each other with wide eyes. You heard snippets—"Another storm?" "Which ship?" "Delian coast—gods help them—"

Penelope's hand flew up to her mouth, her eyes widening, her knuckles going white as she gripped the edge of her seat. Beside her, Odysseus straightened further, his back stiff and tense as his gaze bore into Peisistratus with sudden, razor focus.

"What are you saying, boy?" Odysseus asked, his voice low but sharp, echoing in the tense hush of the hall. "Speak clearly."

You could see the way Peisistratus' fingers twitched at his sides, how his chest rose and fell too fast, like he'd been holding these words in since he set foot on the dock.

He met Odysseus' gaze squarely, unflinching despite the fear in his eyes. "The ship... they believe... it was the one carrying Prince Telemachus."

A hush fell so thick you could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Odysseus didn't move at first. Didn't even blink. His face was carved from stone, eyes locked on the boy before him.

Then, slowly, he sat back in his throne, the wood creaking beneath him as his fingers flexed once, curling around the carved lion heads at the ends of the armrests. His jaw ticked, the muscle flickering under his beard, but his voice remained cold and steady.

"Explain," he ordered. "Every word. Now."

Your breath caught in your throat, your chest going tight and hot all at once. Your hands curled against your skirts, your nails biting into your palms as your knees threatened to buckle beneath you.

Because whatever came next... would change everything.

Peisistratus' brows pinched tight, his face scrunching faintly in confusion. You saw it—the flicker of doubt that crossed his features before he spoke again, voice low and hesitant.

"My King... my Queen..." he began, his tone dipping softer, almost apologetic. "Forgive me again. I... I thought you would have already known."

Odysseus' gaze sharpened. Penelope sucked in a shaky breath beside him, her fingers curling tight around the edge of her seat.

Peisistratus swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the force of it. He looked down at the marble floor for half a second before raising his gaze again, steadying it despite the flicker of worry in his eyes.

"I... I only learned of the storm about a week ago," he admitted quietly. "There were reports coming from the Delian coast... scattered wreckage... pieces of an Ithacan vessel washing ashore near the eastern cliffs. And..." His voice faltered, catching faintly as his lips pressed into a thin line. "...and there were a few survivors found drifting. Floating for days. Barely alive."

A beat.

He hesitated, eyes darting between the king and queen before flicking briefly over the silent crowd gathered in the throne room.

"Did... did you not know?" he asked softly, confusion knitting his brows further. "Had no word reached you yet?"

The silence that followed was so deep it felt like the entire hall had frozen.

You could hear it then—your own breathing, harsh and uneven in your chest. Around you, murmurs began to rise, faint at first, then louder as voices wove through each other.

"Telemachus..."

"Gods... could it be him?"

"The pigeons returned with their notes still attached—"

"By now, they should've been back—"

Fear. Worry. Dread. It all spilled into the hall like a rising tide, each whispered speculation sharpening the ache in your chest until you felt it pressing up into your throat.

You didn't realize you were moving until your shoulder bumped against someone's arm. Then another. You mumbled a quick apology, your eyes fixed on the dais as your feet carried you forward, weaving through the gathered crowd. You pushed past Lysandra's gentle grip, past a steward trying to pull you back, until you stood at the front of the room.

Closer to Peisistratus. Close enough to see the exhaustion in the dark smudges under his eyes. The faint sheen of salt clinging to his curls. The way his mouth twitched as he exhaled a slow, ragged sigh.

"Apparently not," he muttered under his breath, his voice quiet but edged with something bitter. Something that made your stomach twist tighter.

Then he looked up again, his gaze hardening, shoulders squaring as he prepared to speak—ready to say what none of you were ready to hear.

But he didn't wait for Odysseus' permission. Didn't wait for Penelope's quiet nod or for the herald to announce his right to speak. His voice came firm and unwavering, echoing through the silent throne room with a clarity that cut through every murmured prayer and whispered dread.

"I came here to give word to inform you that I will be departing by nightfall to begin my search for the prince."

Your breath caught in your throat.

Peisistratus paused for only half a beat before adding, his gaze flicking toward the ground then back up, voice tightening faintly, "And for Callias as well."

Your world froze.

The sound around you blurred, the echo of his words crashing against your ears like waves against stone. You felt it all drain from your chest—the fear, the grief, the helplessness—and for a second, there was only emptiness.

Then—heat.

Rising so fast it burned up your throat. Before you could even think, before you could stop yourself, your feet moved forward, a single step echoing too loud on the marble floor.

"I want to go."

The words left your mouth strong. Clear. Without tremble.

The hall fell silent. Utterly silent.

You felt every eye turn toward you, felt the crowd part slightly, people shifting back, stepping aside to clear the space between you and the dais. Even Penelope's breath catching faintly; Odysseus' eyes narrowing, not with anger, but with something sharper. Measuring. Calculating.

Peisistratus turned, his head tilting just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. For a moment—just a flicker—his lips twitched into the smallest smile. Soft. Almost sad. But then it faded. His gaze shifted forward again, his face hardening back into solemn focus, shoulders set with the unspoken promise of what came next.

And gods—you felt your heart begin to pound with something fierce and terrified all at once.

Because you knew this was it.

You had spoken your wish into the world.

And now... there was no taking it back.

For a moment, the hall remained silent. The only sound was the faint creak of Penelope shifting forward in her chair. Her face looked so tired. The shadows beneath her eyes seemed deeper in the dim morning light, her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared down at you.

"Not now," she whispered softly, her voice hoarse with exhaustion. "Please, child... go to your room."

Her gaze flicked over your shoulder then, eyes narrowing at something behind you. You felt it before you saw it—hands gripping your upper arms, firm and unyielding. You sucked in a sharp breath as the soldiers tried to pull you back, their fingers digging lightly into your skin.

"No—wait—" you gasped, yanking your arm out of their grip with a sharp twist. Your feet stumbled forward, sandals scraping loudly against the marble as you stood your ground. You lifted your chin, face taut with panic, chest heaving as tears burned hot in your eyes.

"Please," you whispered, voice cracking around the word. "Please—I have to go. I need to go. Let me—"

Your shoulders trembled as tears spilled freely down your cheeks, your vision blurring around the figures in front of you. You shook your head hard, trying to blink the wetness away.

"I-I'm sorry," you choked out, your chest hitching with the force of it. "I'm sorry but—please—please—just let me go."

Penelope's lips quivered, her eyes shining with unshed tears, but she didn't speak. She only turned her gaze away, staring down at her lap as though looking at you might break her entirely.

It was Odysseus who spoke.

His voice came curt. Sharp. Heavy with finality.

"____," he said firmly, each syllable cold and commanding. "Enough."

Your heart lurched painfully in your chest, your breath catching as his words settled over you like a slab of stone. For a second, you didn't move. Couldn't move. Your hands twitched at your sides, fingers curling weakly into the fabric of your skirt as your shoulders sagged, the last thread of defiance slipping from your spine.

Defeat washed over you, heavy and quiet.

You lowered your head, swallowing back the sob that threatened to claw up your throat. Without another word, you turned slowly on your heel. The world blurred at the edges as you moved back through the parted crowd, each step echoing too loud in the silent hall.

Lysandra and Asta stepped out from the gathered servants as you passed, their faces stricken. Asta reached for your hand first, her grip warm and tight, while Lysandra's fingers slid around your other, her thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against your knuckles.

You didn't look at either of them. You couldn't.

Because all you could see... was the horizon slipping further and further away.

The murmur of voices filled the throne room like ocean tide—soft at first, then louder, rippling across marble and flickering torchlight. You could hear Peisistratus' voice carrying above it, calm and resolute as he continued to speak with the King and Queen, outlining preparations for his journey. Every clipped word felt like another lock sliding into place, barring you from following.

The crowd parted for you as you walked, a silent hush rippling outward with each slow step. It was like the sea itself dividing around your body—people shifting aside, eyes following you, their gazes heavy with pity. Some pressed their lips into thin lines, others dropped their eyes entirely, unwilling to meet yours. You caught a few whispers slip through the hush.

"Poor girl..."

"Gods bless her heart..."

"She looks half-dead with worry..."

You kept your head high, even as the burn in your chest threatened to swallow you whole. You weren't even two feet from the dais when you heard her.

"Oh, ____~"

Andreia's voice. Sickly sweet. Poison dipped in honey.

You froze mid-step, shoulders stiffening, the breath catching sharp in your throat.

She sat nearby, draped elegantly on a cushioned bench among a small cluster of Ithaca's high lords and ladies. They surrounded her like flies around milk—nodding, murmuring polite laughter at whatever false sweetness she poured into their ears. Her hair was pinned back with gold combs, her dress a deep green that shimmered every time she tilted her chin.

For a moment, her face remained blank. Empty. But then—slowly—something shifted. A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she leaned forward slightly, her gaze locked onto yours with careful precision.

"It's okay," she crooned softly, voice drifting through the hush like incense smoke. "The gods favor those who return home, ____. The prince has many journeys under his belt."

The words slid into you like a blade pressed between ribs—slow, deliberate, knowing exactly where to hurt. Asta and Lysandra grips tightened on your hands as if to hold you upright. Your stomach twisted painfully, nausea blooming thick and heavy as her words echoed in your head.

She was still here. Still slinking through these halls like a stray cat fattened on scraps no one noticed missing.

And you—gods, you hadn't told them yet.

You should have. You should have screamed the truth into every marble wall the moment you learned it. About her schemes. Her brother. Everything.

But what good would it have done? Your eyes flickered toward Odysseus. The lines carved deep around his eyes today told of worry and sleepless nights. Penelope sat beside him, fingers twisting the folds of her gown, knuckles pale with quiet dread.

If you told them now—without proof, without Telemachus here to steady the fallout—it would be chaos.

Andreia could twist your words until they strangled you back. She'd been careful. Smart. And if she was so confident to reveal her plans to you, who's to say she's not confident enough to ensure any accusations from you would sound like jealousy, or madness, or worse... treason.

But then—her face shifted again. Just for a breath.

Satisfaction.

Satisfaction curling at the corners of her mouth like rot blooming through ripe fruit. She knew. Gods, she knew how powerless you felt.

That was it.

The final shove you needed.

Your jaw tightened. You yanked your hands free from Asta and Lysandra's grip, your feet pivoting sharply against the marble as you turned back toward the dais. Your sandals slapped hard with each step as you walked—no, marched—back through the parted sea of nobles. The hush followed you, rippling with small gasps and wide-eyed stares.

Because whatever happened next... you weren't walking away again.

Peisistratus paused mid-sentence, startled, as you moved to stand beside him. You dipped your head in a quick bow, breath coming fast but steady despite the pounding in your chest.

"My King. My Queen," you said, voice trembling at first before it steadied. "I know you told me to stay out of this. I know you've made your decision. But... but I can't."

You rose from your bow slowly, forcing yourself to stand tall as your gaze locked onto them—first Penelope, her eyes wide and rimmed with quiet sadness, then Odysseus, whose jaw was tight, his brow furrowed deep with brewing anger.

Your throat burned, but you didn't let it stop you. The words poured out of you in a rush.

"I can't stay behind while he's out there. I can't sit still in these halls, waiting. Not when he's only out there because of me—because he went to find me." Your voice cracked but you kept going, chest heaving with each breath. "If-If he's hurt, if he's lost, if something happens to him—knowing I sat here and did nothing would kill me more than any god ever could."

You swallowed hard, shoulders trembling as your hands balled into fists at your sides.

"I-I can help," you said, desperation slipping through despite your resolve. "My presence will do more good than harm. Even if you think I'm helpless, I'm not. I've survived Poseidon's ire. I've stood before Zeus himself. Gods know—" your voice rose with raw defiance, "—Apollo favors me, and perhaps... perhaps other gods do too."

A faint, unsteady laugh escaped you, bitter and sharp. "Maybe it's arrogant. Maybe it's stupid. But I'm not powerless. I won't sit here and pretend I am."

You took a shaky step forward, chest tight, eyes glistening as you met Odysseus' stare head-on. "Please," you whispered, voice breaking. "I have to do this. I have to—"

But before you could say another word, Odysseus slammed his hand down hard against the armrest of his throne.

The sharp crack echoed through the silent hall.

"I said...NO!" he snapped, his voice a whipcord of anger so sudden it made you flinch. Gone was the tired king, the weary father. His eyes burned dark and furious as they locked onto yours, and for a breath, you saw the man who once broke cities.

The hall recoiled in silent shock, nobles and servants alike bowing their heads lower, as if witnessing something they were never meant to see.

"You will stay here," he growled, his voice low and trembling with rage barely held in check. "You will remain in Ithaca. And if I have to keep you under lock and key to make that happen, gods be damned, I will."

The silence in the hall was suffocating. No one moved. No one dared to breathe.

Outside, from somewhere far in the distance, you heard it—a faint rumble. Thunder. Low and rolling across a sky still painted bright and clear with morning sun.

Penelope reached out, her hand wrapping gently around Odysseus' wrist, trying to calm him, to ground him. Her fingers pressed softly into his skin, her thumb brushing small circles against the dark veins there.

But he didn't look at her.

He kept his eyes on you, his chest rising and falling with ragged, controlled breaths. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter—but no less sharp. It cut through the thick hush of the throne room like a blade.

"Do you think this is easy for any of us?" he asked, his tone heavy with exhaustion. "Do you think we haven't been worried sick since the day you disappeared?"

His gaze flickered briefly, as if he couldn't bear to hold yours for too long. "You have no idea what it was like," he continued, his jaw tightening. "You didn't see it. You didn't see how the servants whispered behind closed doors, convinced you were dead. You didn't hear the rumors spreading like rot through these halls."

He paused, swallowing hard. His broad shoulders slumped slightly, and for the first time, he looked... tired. Just a man. A father. A king worn thin by too many years of worry.

"And Telemachus..." His voice caught, roughening as he said his son's name. "Gods, that boy... he wasn't sleeping. He wasn't eating. He would stay up every night, pacing these halls until dawn, waiting for news—any news—just to know you were alive."

Your chest tightened painfully at his words, your breath hitching as tears blurred your vision. You imagined it—Telemachus wandering the palace halls, barefoot and sleepless, calling your name into darkened courtyards where no one answered back.

Odysseus' gaze softened, the lines around his eyes deepening as he sighed. "He was as lost as you are now," he said quietly. "And when he left to find you, he did it because he couldn't stay here any longer, watching the world move on without you."

His eyes flickered to Peisistratus then, the young prince standing silent and still beside you, his jaw tense, his brow furrowed with worry.

"Peisistratus knows these seas," Odysseus said, his voice firm again. "He knows their tempers. Their hidden reefs. Their sudden storms. He will find Telemachus. And he will bring him home."

He shook his head slowly, his grip tightening around the carved armrest of his throne. "But you..." his voice softened again, so low you almost didn't hear it. "You're better off staying here, where it's safe."

For a moment, no one spoke.

The hall was silent except for the faint creak of wood beams above and the whispering hush of the sea breeze outside, slipping through the high slotted windows. Your pulse roared loud in your ears, your chest aching with each shallow breath.

Because as much as you wanted to scream at him, to argue, to fight—some small part of you understood.

He wasn't just the king right now.

He was a father, trying desperately to keep what little remained of his family safe.

But gods... It didn't make it hurt any less.

The silence that followed pressed down heavy and suffocating, like the thick air before a summer storm. You swallowed hard, trying to breathe through the ache in your chest, your eyes fixed on the floor because you couldn't bear to see the pity written across their faces.

Then—surprisingly—it was her voice that cut through the quiet.

Andreia.

She cleared her throat softly, the delicate sound carrying easily through the tense stillness. When you glanced up, she was already stepping forward from her seat among the other highborn guests, her silk robes whispering around her ankles as she moved with that practiced grace she always carried.

"If I may," she said gently, folding her hands before her as she dipped into a small, respectful bow. "Forgive my intrusion, my king, my queen."

Odysseus' eyes snapped to her, his brow furrowing with clear annoyance. He scoffed, the sound low and sharp as he leaned back in his throne.

"What could you possibly have to add here, Lady Andreia?" he asked curtly. "Your input is hardly relevant in this matter."

A small flicker of something passed over her face—irritation, maybe—but it vanished just as quickly. When she straightened, her expression was composed again, her chin lifted just slightly.

"With all due respect, my king, I believe it is."

She turned her gaze toward you then. Her green eyes swept over your slumped shoulders, your trembling hands still curled tightly in the folds of your skirt. Her lips curved faintly—something that wasn't quite a smile but not unkind either.

"Peisistratus is a skilled sailor," she continued, her tone carrying that gentle cadence she used when trying to sound diplomatic. "None here doubt his competence or his loyalty to Prince Telemachus."

Peisistratus stiffened at her words, his jaw clenching slightly, but he didn't interrupt.

Andreia turned back to the king and queen, her eyes flickering between them with careful precision. "But... are we forgetting who she is?" She gestured lightly toward you, the sleeves of her gown falling back to reveal pale, delicate wrists. "She is the Divine Liaison, is she not? The gods themselves have spoken through her voice, woven her fate into theirs. Surely... that means something, no?"

Her words rippled through the hall, murmurs stirring among the gathered lords, servants, and guards. You felt their eyes shift back to you, some curious, some uncertain, a few even nodding faintly in agreement.

Andreia pressed on, her voice growing firmer, more compelling. "If what she says is true—if Apollo truly did choose her, if the gods have favored her in any way—would it not be wise to use that favor to our advantage? Who knows what protection her presence might grant on the journey to finding Prince Telemachus... or what danger might befall it without her there."

She paused, letting her words sink in like hooks cast into still water.

"Perhaps," she finished softly, tilting her head just slightly, "her connection to Olympus will be what brings the prince home safely... and quickly."

The room fell silent again, heavier this time, the weight of her argument settling over every listening ear. Even Odysseus didn't speak immediately. His eyes narrowed at her, his jaw ticking as he considered her words—considered you.

His eyes scanned your face—slow, tired, like he was trying to read every thought racing behind your eyes.

Then, with a sharp exhale through his nose, his shoulders sagged slightly. You watched as his jaw flexed once more before he finally spoke.

"Fine," he ground out, his voice rough, each word pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. "You'll go."

Your breath hitched. For a heartbeat, you couldn't move. Then a small, shaky sigh slipped past your lips, relief flooding so hard your knees almost buckled. You caught yourself, your hands gripping your skirt tightly as your shoulders slumped forward.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to him again.

Your eyes met across the space. And gods... your chest ached at what you saw there.

He looked so tired. Older than you remembered, shadows heavy beneath his eyes, his mouth set in a thin, grim line. But beyond the exhaustion... you saw something else flicker there. Something raw and quiet.

Fear.

Not anger. Not disappointment. Just a father—fearful he was sending another child to war he couldn't fight.

Your lips parted softly, but no words came. You only dipped your head low, whispering a faint, "Thank you," your voice cracking around the edges.

He didn't reply. He only blinked once, slow, before turning away, his shoulders heavy beneath the weight of all his choices.

You barely had time to let it settle before the sound of shouting snapped you back to the present.

Your eyes lifted quickly, blinking against the bright sun overhead as you were pulled out of the memory like surfacing from deep water.

"Hey—get out of here, feather-brain!"

Peisistratus' voice rang out sharp and annoyed.

You turned your head just in time to see him waving both arms in front of his face, scowling as a seagull flapped its wings wildly, trying to snatch a piece of jerky that was half-hanging from his lips. He snapped his teeth shut around it with a small growl, shaking his head as the bird cawed in frustration and took off again into the orange-pink sky.

"Stupid thing almost took my nose with it," he grumbled around the dried meat, shooting the seagull a glare before popping the rest into his mouth.

A small, breathless laugh broke from your chest, unsteady but real. You shook your head faintly, the echo of tears still burning behind your eyes.

Because gods... you didn't know what waited for you beyond that horizon.

But at least you weren't going alone.

Peisistratus let out a low sigh as he settled back onto the small boat's worn bench. His arms stretched wide over the edge, head tipping back until the dusky orange sky framed his messy curls like a crown. The last bite of jerky still hung from his lips as he chewed lazily, eyes falling shut with a kind of easy peace only he seemed to possess right now.

You, on the other hand, couldn't sit still.

Your fingers twisted in the edge of your tunic as you shifted on the bench opposite him, the wood creaking softly beneath your thighs. The scent of salt and brine curled through your nose with each shallow breath, mixing with the faint stink of old rope and fish that clung to the boat's belly.

Your eyes flickered out to the horizon. The sun was nearly gone now, sinking low into the waves in streaks of gold and pink and bruised purple. Beautiful, yes—but all you could see was how endless it felt. How deep.

Your stomach clenched.

Because gods... you still remembered the last time you were on these waters.

The last ship had been so much larger than this. Wide decks. Heavy hull. Thick ropes that snapped like whips when the storm hit, but at least they were there. At least that vessel had felt strong enough to stand a chance.

But this?

This boat was little more than carved wood and faith. Barely enough space for the two of you plus the supplies. It bobbed and dipped with every passing wave, the water sloshing against the sides so close it felt like it might spill in and drag you under with it.

You swallowed hard, feeling your chest tighten, your knuckles whitening where they clutched the edge of the bench.

After a long moment, you cleared your throat softly. "Peisistratus?"

He hummed in reply, not bothering to open his eyes.

"Do you... do you think we should've taken a bigger boat?" you asked, trying to keep your voice calm despite the tremor edging it. "I mean... the last time I was on the water, it was a full merchant ship and even that was getting tossed around like driftwood. This... this feels like..."

"Like a nutshell floating on the sea?" he finished for you with a lazy grin, one eye cracking open to squint at you. "Yeah, I get it."

Your brows furrowed, waiting for him to agree—waiting for him to say you were right, that maybe you should turn back and find a sturdier vessel. But instead, he just shrugged, shifting the jerky from one side of his mouth to the other.

"Nah," he said simply. "We're good."

Your mouth parted in disbelief. "Good?" you echoed. "That's... that's it?"

Peisistratus let out a snort of amusement, finally sitting up to stretch his arms high over his head until his back cracked. "Listen," he drawled, dropping his arms back down with a thump against his thighs. "Ithaca's been sending too many ships out lately. Word gets around. Merchants talk, pirates listen. Last thing we need is some bandit crew thinking Ithaca's gotten lazy with her guard and is sending out ships heavy with tribute or jewels."

He jerked his chin at the little boat beneath your feet. "Small boats like this? Less suspicion. No fat merchant hull to chase down. Just a fisher's skiff with two idiots and a crate of smoked fish. Keeps the vultures away."

You swallowed again, glancing down at the wood creaking beneath your sandals. The sea sloshed just inches away, dark and rippling, deep enough to swallow you whole if it wanted to.

"Besides," he added, flashing you a lazy grin, "I've rowed in worse."

You didn't find it comforting.

But still... you nodded faintly, forcing a shaky exhale as you curled your arms around your chest, gaze flicking out to the last bite of sun slipping behind the waves.

For a moment, the silence stretched between you, broken only by the quiet slap of water against the hull and the faint cry of gulls in the distance.

Then, as if he could sense the unease curling tight in your ribs, Peisistratus cleared his throat softly. "Hey," he said, voice lighter than before. "Don't look so doomed. I made sure this boat was blessed to max capacity before we left."

You hummed weakly at that, eyes flickering down to where the boat rocked beneath your feet. "Blessed to max capacity," you repeated with a small, tired laugh. "What... like the usual? Mumbled prayer, wasting half a cup of wine into the waves?"

At that, Peisistratus scoffed loudly, clutching his chest with one hand in mock offense. "Please," he huffed, nose wrinkling. "You Ithacans and your lazy sea offerings. A half-cup of wine barely earns you a breeze in your favor."

You raised a brow at him despite yourself. "Oh? And what does Pylos do then, mighty prince of the western shores?"

Peisistratus grinned, wide and boyish, teeth catching the last flicker of sun. "Depends," he said, leaning back on his palms. "Depends if it's just a normal trip or something bigger. Usually, we offer salted fish, barley, and a full amphora of wine—pour it straight into the tide so it carries down to the deep. Then the priests chant, drums beat, and my father—gods keep him—will stand on the cliff's edge and say the words that bind the offering."

You blinked, surprised at the depth of it. "All that... for Poseidon?"

Peisistratus shrugged, glancing out to the darkening waves with a faint smile. "Pylos is a sea kingdom. We owe him everything. Our fleets. Our trade. Our storms. Storms listen to more than just the wind."

His words settled over you like a hush, heavy with quiet knowing. For a moment, you sat there, staring at the restless horizon. The words slipped out before you could catch them, half a laugh wrapped in quiet dread.

"So... we're safe from Poseidon's petty grudge against King Odysseus, then?" you teased softly.

Peisistratus let out a bark of laughter, tipping his head back. "As long as you don't bring Telemachus aboard," he shot back with a wink.

At that, you couldn't help it. A small, real laugh tumbled from your chest, curling warm against the cold wind. You shook your head, smiling despite everything, despite the ache still lodged in your ribs.

And for a moment—just a brief, flickering moment—the boat felt a little less fragile beneath your feet.

A/N: hello babies! first--sry for dissaperiang, like i said before i work a service job so ya know, if y'all like to eat out thats where your girl grinding! but serious note--ahhhh! tried to put so much here without overwriting and still the wordcount ended up being a smooth 6k, the original was like 15k but i just broke it up so that's next chapter lolol, if i got time i'll upload it later today💕💕 anywhoo... i know yall probrably heard, but--HOLY SHIT THIS IS NOT A DRILL!! Y'all Jorge is working on a prequel to epic called "Ilium" and it'll be based on the Illiad 😩 OMG are me and @k-nayee psychics?!? but fr my sis is so hyped, cuz with the new album coming ppl may give her book a chance 😭 ngl she told me how most are just waiting till the book begans where the musical start so she lowkey just bidding her time hahahahaha... also, l finally found time to create a google doc for godly things fanart! hope it has everything and i'll try to keep it updated!!

link: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/10gJ7k-pSL523qEmEtdCybSqutKLaGBeR?usp=drive_link

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ (email: [email protected] | tumblr: winaxity-ii) also because wattpad/tumblr is being a meanie, i can't show 18+ drawings on here, even if edited 😭😭 but don't worry i shall still sing my praises! but good news! i have them available on archiveofourown (ao3) and have my account/books to where guests can see so you guys don't have to make an account ❤️❤️ also, if you haven't seen my last update/PSA i'm no longer doing personalized notes under each art i receive the way i used to do them, i'll now post them with credits, and when given the chance come back and post my thanks/what i love about them! this way, i can share my babies and also still keep grinding/writing, thx for being understanding lovelies ❤️❤️❤️

from i.love_caramel

[MC AND ANDREIA]

as an author, i try to be neutral with my characters---but GODSDAMN y'all make it hard to not just smite andreia ass 😭😭 like damn girly-pop so determined yet cruel, what happened to bein g a girl's-girls??? 😩

[MC, APOLLO, TELEMACHUS AND HERMES]

not this looking like a renaissance/greek drawing😩 cuz yeaaahhh, the covered eyes??? screams symbolism in the right way. and not lil gremlin tele mad cuz he aint make a move yet 🤣

from tadssart

[TELEMACHUS DESIGN]

he soo cute 😭😭y'all fanarts of him make me feel so bad having wrote him straight up punch and man's face in 😩like a lil sweet powdered donut with spicy jelly in the center----a scam/TRAP 😭😩

from medicinebitter

[MC DESIGN]

ooohhhh i love the hair/color aesthetic!!!

from simp_0207

[MELANION--BEFORE PUNISHMENT]

HOLD UP NOW----👀 why he kinda????SJNIWSXIAS frfr gimmie a sec.... lemme find it 😩😩 y'all he so damn fine! now i'm mad i made him suffer... pretty privilege might be real cuz y'all looking back?? ion think it was that serious... it was just a lil stabby-stab and we survived 😩😭😭like fr! some of y'all might've been right, everyone was a lil too cruel to melanion...

[MC AND TELEMACHUS__MODERN!AU]

i'm such a bad influence, cuz the way i'd been like a devil in the ear whispering 'accidently drop the phone on the the titties'

[HERMES AND MC IN RAIN]

awww look at my bbys 😭😭😩

[FEM!DIONYSUS_THYESSA]

👀 umm...*cough cough* i'mpansexual... *cough cough* who said that??

from adriani

[MC DESIGN]

she look so cute 😭😭 now i gotta go beat andriea ass cuz she stressing out my bby 😭

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr penguintreblemaker

52 notes · View notes

hypewinter · 2 years ago

Text

He laid there on the ground, letting the cold sink into his bones as he bled out. Deep down, Danny had known for a long time this was coming. He was the Shadow, the Spare. The Inferior. He'd always been the shame of his family. After all, what good was an assassin that didn't kill?

That's why he knew it'd only be a matter of time before Grandfather got rid of him. He just never expected it to be like this. Struck down by his own brother. In hindsight, it made sense. It was a way for Damian to be completely initiated before his first mission and to cut off the rotted rope of the Al Ghul line.

It made sense, Danny repeated to himself, but it didn't stop the hurt. The pain that cut deeper than the sword to his gut. Damian hadn't even hesitated. He'd picked up his weapon and charged as soon as Grandfather had told them to begin the duel. Sure, he'd known Damian was never too fond of him. And maybe sometimes he'd thrown knives at Danny whenever he called him "Dami". But he always thought there was at least some form of affection between them. After all, they were twins. Yet Damian had ran him through as easily as breathing. He hadn't even spared a glance back as he left with Grandfather and Mother. None of them had.

Danny couldn't help but weakly chuckle. To think this was how his second death would go. Being stabbed by his own brother.

As his consciousness began to fail him, Danny distantly heard was sounded like a plane. Maybe a jet. He heard once that people can hallucinate before they died. Funny, he always figured he'd hear a train or something. Maybe a family member calling his name sweetly. Instead Danny heard heavy footsteps charging towards him. Gloved hands picked him up and held him close to a chest as an unknown voice whispered, "I've got you."

Ah, he realized what was happening. This was his mind's desperate attempt to give him some comfort in his final moments. It was nice, feeling cared for like this. He couldn't remember the last time he had been. Danny quietly thanked his mind for the blissful illusion, before his consciousness fully faded away.

(Bruce finds out he has a son and goes to rescue him. He gets there just in time to stop Danny from bleeding out and leaves, not knowing he's leaving his other son behind.)

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dpxdc #dcxdp #winter's tales #basically the thought behind this was what if danny had the complex instead of damian?#danny has spent his whole life being overshadowed by damian #even in his past life #more people seemed to care about jazz than him #that's why when he realizes bruce doesn't know about his twin #he doesn't bother to correct him #damian is plenty happy at the league and has fully bought into grandfather's teachings anyway #why shouldn't he hog the attention of his newfound family?

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aricchiin · 2 months ago

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“Claimed by the Swamp” — Part Two

[Yandere Crocodile Man x Male Reader] — (Nonhuman, One-on-One, Horror)

(CW: Yandere behavior, non-consensual themes, obsession, emotional manipulation, fear/panic, mild physical restraint, stalking)

(~1,500 words)

It was hard to know how much time passed after that.

The light faded, and the swamp outside turned to shadow. The shack-turned-nest was dim, lit only by thin gaps in the walls where the moonlight bled in. The crocodile man sat nearby, his thick tail curled lazily beside him, yellow eyes never leaving you.

You’d cried yourself into silence. Curled up, body tense, limbs trembling from exhaustion and terror. But he hadn’t hurt you again. He didn’t touch you after the first time. He just watched.

Eventually, when your sobs dulled and your throat burned, he shifted closer.

“I’m not going to break you,” he said softly. “Not unless you make me.”

You didn’t answer. You stared at the blankets beneath you, still trying to breathe.

He tilted his head, long jaw twitching. “You didn’t run. You didn’t scream again. That’s good.”

You said nothing.

Then came the strange part.

He laid down beside you.

Not touching. Not grabbing. Just... next to you. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his bulk. Close enough that if you turned, his arm could be around you in a second. But he didn’t move.

The silence stretched. Heavy. Until finally, in a gravelly murmur, he said:

“I want to hear you say my name.”

You turned your head, stiffly. Slowly.

“I don’t know your name.”

He looked almost pleased.

“Then ask me.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. It felt like a trick. Like if you said the wrong thing, he’d snap. But he didn’t press. He just waited, tail twitching faintly behind him.

You swallowed. “What’s... your name?”

A low rumble rose from his throat. Contentment? Satisfaction? You weren’t sure.

“Malik,” he said, voice thick like sap. “It means king. My mother gave it to me.”

You blinked. “You had a mother?”

He chuckled, but it sounded more like a growl.

“Everyone does. Once.” His eyes turned sharp again. “She didn’t keep me.”

The chill in your spine returned. You looked away.

Malik studied you, his wide chest rising with a slow breath.

“I watched you so long I started calling you things in my head. Names I made for you. Soft ones.” His claws twitched against the blankets. “But I want your real name now.”

You stayed silent.

He leaned closer.

“Tell me.”

You shook your head. “No.”

His jaw tensed. His muscles flexed, and you flinched—but he caught himself. He didn’t lunge. Didn’t roar.

Instead, he lowered his voice.

“Names matter here,” he said. “The swamp listens. The trees remember. If I say your name, it’ll belong to this place. To me.”

You pressed back against the nest wall, eyes wide.

“I’m not yours,” you said.

Malik’s smile was slow. Crooked. Dangerous.

“You came back,” he said again. “You stepped into my water. Knocked on my door.”

“That wasn’t your shack—”

“I made it mine.” His voice was low, but firm. “For you.”

You shivered, heart pounding again. Your name burned behind your lips.

You wouldn’t give it to him. Not yet.

He exhaled, slow and long, and backed off—just a little. Enough for you to breathe again.

“Then I’ll earn it,” he murmured. “If you won’t give it, I’ll make you want to.”

You curled tighter, but Malik didn’t move closer again. He turned his back toward you, oddly respectful of your space. Still watchful. Still listening.

That night, you didn’t sleep.

The next day—if it was a day—he brought you food.

You hadn’t expected him to leave, but when he returned, his hands were full. A bundle of small, strange fruits and fish wrapped in moss. You didn’t trust it. He didn’t make you eat.

He sat beside you again, watching like you were a skittish animal he was slowly taming.

“You’ll eat when you’re ready.”

You didn’t answer.

Hours passed. You said nothing.

But when he dozed—half-dozed, tail twitching—you whispered to yourself:

“My name is...”

You stopped. You couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t give it. Not yet.

But he stirred. His eyes opened.

“You were close,” he said, smiling lazily.

You froze.

“I have good ears,” he rumbled. “Even when I sleep.”

You glared at him, curling tighter.

“I’ll get it out of you,” he said, voice dark and smooth. “One way or another.”

That night, he tried something different.

He told a story.

You didn’t ask for it. You didn’t want it. But his voice filled the room anyway.

“Before I was like this, I lived near the edge. Half-man, even then. Wrong. The village didn’t want me.”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were on the ceiling.

“They called me beast. Threw rocks. Burned my home.”

You said nothing.

“I learned to swim. Learned to hunt. Got strong.” He flexed one thick hand. “The swamp made me better.”

Silence.

“But I was always alone.”

Your throat tightened.

He looked at you then.

“Until you.”

You turned away.

“Tell me your name,” he whispered.

You shook your head.

He reached out, just brushing your arm this time—gentle. Scaled fingers resting lightly, not restraining.

(As Malik leaned in, voice like gravel soaked in heat, you noticed something behind him—just for a second. A small, rotting log near the door, carved with scratches. Tallies. Dozens of them. Faint, some fresher than others. You didn’t know what they meant, but the longer you stared, the more your stomach churned.

Whatever they marked... it wasn’t days.)

“I’ll protect it. I’ll whisper it to the water. It’ll echo back in frog songs and ripples. It’ll be safe here.”

You clenched your jaw.

“I’m not safe.”

He leaned in, breath warm against your neck.

“You are with me.”

On the third day, your voice cracked from thirst.

He brought water. Let you drink from his hands. He didn’t let you touch the bowl yourself.

“You trust me a little,” he said, lips twitching.

“No,” you rasped. “I don’t.”

“But you drank.”

You glared at him. He smiled wider.

“Say it,” he said. “Just once. I’ll sleep better if I hear it.”

You stayed silent.

Then finally, you said:

“Why does it matter so much?”

Malik stared at you for a long moment.

“Because the name makes you real.” His voice was low. “And real things don’t leave.”

On the fifth night, you dreamt he had already named you.

Not your real name. But something else. Something half-feral. Something his.

You woke up in a sweat.

And found him right beside you, breath warm against your cheek.

He was murmuring.

“I’ll keep you,” he said. “Whether you tell me or not.”

And then, soft as a lullaby:

Whatever they marked... it wasn’t days.)

“But if you give it to me... it’ll be better.”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence, this time, was a little different.

#yandere x male reader #yandere x male darling #monster x male reader

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sylusonychinus · 5 months ago

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Maybe Forever?

Summary: In the neon-lit underbelly of The N109 Zone, a lost love resurfaces, forcing two souls bound by danger and betrayal to decide if their reunion is worth the risk. Pairings: Sylus x reader

The neon signs of N109 flickered a sickly purple and green, casting jagged shadows over rain-slicked streets. The air was thick with static, humming with the low thrum of illegal tech and the ever-present undercurrent of violence. You pulled your coat tighter, but the cold had long since seeped into your bones. There was no escaping it. No escaping him.

Sylus.

You hadn’t met him in some quaint cafe. Your paths had crossed in a far grittier setting: a high-stakes card game in a back-alley den where fortunes and lives were lost in equal measure. He had played with the kind of precision that only came from years of practice—or survival. His dark eyes had glittered with something almost amused as he bled the table dry. You should have walked away then. Should have ignored the way your pulse thrummed when his gaze locked onto yours, when he smirked like he already knew how this would end.

But you hadn’t. And it had been beautiful, in the way that falling from a great height was beautiful.

The N109 Zone was a wasteland of broken things, but with him, you had found something that almost felt whole. Stolen nights in hidden safe houses, whispered confessions over cheap synth-ale, his laughter in the darkness—a rare sound, like an eclipse, brief and consuming. He never promised forever. You never asked. Because deep down, you both knew what he was. What this was.

Then, one night, he was gone. No explanation. No goodbye. Just an empty room where he had been, a lingering trace of his cologne on your sheets. You told yourself you saw it coming. That you were a fool to think it could end any other way. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

You learned to walk its streets alone, learned to ignore the ghosts that haunted every corner. And still, he lingered. In the flicker of neon. In the hushed conversations of those who feared him. In the ache beneath your ribs that never fully faded.

Then, months later, on a night like any other, you found yourself back at the den where it all began, playing a game you no longer cared to win.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

The voice sent ice through your veins.

You turned. He was there, just a breath away, shadowed and worn, his sharp edges somehow sharper. His gaze was unreadable, but you could see the hesitation in the way his fingers flexed at his sides, the unspoken weight of what he had done, of what he had left behind.

You swallowed hard. “Guess I had a debt to settle.”

His lips twitched at the familiar words, but the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t want to leave,” he said, voice rough, almost hesitant. “It wasn’t safe. Not for you.”

Your breath hitched. Of course, it had been about you. About what you meant to him, about how easy it would have been for his enemies to rip you apart just to watch him bleed.

“And now?”

His jaw tightened. “Now, things are different.”

He spoke of the war he’d waged, the blood he’d spilled to climb higher, to take control, to make sure that no one could ever use you against him again. It should have terrified you. Maybe it did. But more than that, it made something inside you crack wide open.

He wasn’t offering you promises. Wasn’t offering you something soft or easy. He was offering you the truth—ugly, violent, and real. He was offering you himself.

You exhaled slowly. Then, without a word, you reached for his hand, felt the warmth of his skin against yours, the callouses that hadn’t faded. And for the first time in months, you felt steady.

His grip tightened. A silent vow.

Outside, the lights from a lampost pulsed against the dark, but for once, they didn’t seem so harsh. The city hadn’t changed. The danger hadn’t faded. But you weren’t walking through it alone anymore.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

@/cafekitsune for dividers

#love and deepspace sylus #sylus qin #sylus x reader #lads sylus #love and deepspace #sylus x you #sylus angst

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admiringlove · 7 months ago

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persuasion. the way writing this was kind of hurting me too ugh. anyway here it is, another part of my @angstober event this year. again, sorry for the delay. and please watch out for some very slight nsfw themes. masterlist of the event can be found here.

you couldn’t keep doing this to yourself.

this endless teetering back and forth. like a newton’s cradle, every action meeting an equal and opposite reaction, but never any resolution.

the first time you left was harrowing. painful in ways you hadn’t thought possible. your chest had burned, your hands had trembled, and every step away from him felt like you were leaving parts of yourself behind. the arguments echoed in your head long after, looping endlessly, even though all you’d truly wanted was his arms around you.

toji’s arms.

but he never gave you that, not when it mattered most. he always seemed so far away during those moments, like his mind was locked in some impenetrable place you could never reach. and next to him, you felt small. you felt like a child fumbling for answers, even though there wasn’t much of an age difference between you.

when you left that first time, you’d told him you’d come back for your things later. you couldn’t bear to stay long enough to pack your life away from his. instead, you’d grabbed the clothes scattered across his apartment—an afterthought of intimacy you thought you’d had—and left.

your place wasn’t a home; it was a shell. the silence there was too loud, suffocating in its starkness, reminding you with every passing second what you’d walked away from, and who you hadn’t yet been able to let go.

your room had become a husk, hollowed out of the life it once held. the absence of him pressed against the walls like a shadow, suffocating and stark. his things weren’t strewn across the floor in that careless, maddening way he always managed, nor did that strange, musky scent linger in the air; the one that clung to his clothes and skin, a scent you once loathed but came to crave. he wasn’t sprawled on your bed, that half-smirk pulling at his lips, looking at you like you were the only thing worth devouring. he wasn’t there to drag you down with a grip that bordered on desperate, kissing you like he needed you to breathe.

no, now the room was just a room. the furniture remained, untouched, like a stage after the curtain had fallen. the fake vines tangled along the walls, the band posters clung stubbornly to their place, and the photographs on the desk smiled back at no one. the bookshelves loomed overhead, brimming with stories you didn’t have the energy to revisit. everything was exactly where it should be, and yet, it all felt wrong. lifeless.

the man you loved wasn’t there. fushiguro toji wasn’t there.

that night, you sighed into the darkness, and when the weight in your chest became unbearable, the tears came. quiet at first, then relentless, soaking into your pillow until it felt like drowning. you woke up to the salt of it still clinging to your cheeks and the heavy dampness beneath your face. the idea of going back to his place—to face him, to gather the pieces of the life you’d left behind—was unbearable. a week passed. seven days of silence so loud it fractured you. no rough hand reaching for yours in the dark, no shared laughter echoing from your phone’s glow. no wild thrill of butterflies thrumming beneath your ribs.

without him, the world dulled, fading into muted shades of grey. the sharpness of living—the chaos of loving him—had bled out. and you were sure he was fine. you could give him that much credit. he was always good at holding you just far enough away that he wouldn’t feel the sting if you left. replaceable. that’s what you must’ve been to him.

but he wasn’t. he could never be.

he was a fever, an affliction, something that sank into your bloodstream and burned. without him, there was nothing but withdrawal. the ache, the longing, the torment of wanting something you knew would destroy you.

and so, after a week of circling the inevitable, you found yourself standing at his door again. he opened it halfway, leaning lazily against the frame, that shit-eating grin plastered on his face like it belonged there.

"finally came back, didn't ya?"

you didn’t rise to the bait, your expression deadened by days of sleepless nights and the hollow ache gnawing at your chest. "i came back to get my shit, loser," you muttered, rolling your eyes as you pushed past him. you kicked off your shoes at the door, out of habit more than anything else, and made a beeline for the bathroom with your bag in tow. he followed close behind, trailing after you like a shadow, until he propped himself against the bathroom doorframe. his arms crossed loosely over his chest, that insufferable smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you.

"yer really takin' everything, huh?" his voice was low, a little rough around the edges, as his gaze flickered to the toiletries you were gathering. you spared him a glance—brief, cautious, like looking at the sun too long might burn you—and quickly looked away. you couldn’t give him more than that. your heart had been steeling itself for this moment all week, and even then, you weren’t sure how much more you could take.

he didn’t have to do much. the way he leaned there, the way his voice curled around the words, the sheer nearness of him was enough to unravel you. you kept an arm’s length between you, refusing to let him cross that invisible line.

you dropped the shampoo and soap bottles into the bag with a heavy sigh, your hands trembling just slightly. "yeah, that’s what people do when they break up," you said, your voice flat, though the weight of the words nearly crushed you.

for a moment, the air stilled, heavy with unspoken tension. then you heard it—soft, deliberate footsteps closing the gap between you. you didn’t turn. you didn’t need to. you felt him before he reached you, his presence looming in the small space like a storm cloud.

his reflection joined yours in the mirror, his dark eyes fixed on your face. he could see it. your defeat, the way your shoulders slumped, the resignation etched into every line of your expression. you’d known, hadn’t you? you’d known exactly how this would go, as if it were scripted, as if you’d walked willingly into his hands.

his arms slid around your waist, slow and deliberate, pulling you into the warmth you’d been trying to escape. his lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his breath soft, his voice softer.

"come on, we aren’t really broken up. are we?"

you swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the sink as if it could anchor you. "yes, we are—"

"i apologized, didn’t i?" his words were gentle, deceptively so, the kind of tenderness you’d begged for in last week’s shouting match. but he hadn’t given it to you then. no, toji saved that tone for moments like this, when you were already teetering, already crumbling.

his ego was insufferable. a goddamned egomaniac, that’s what he was. fushiguro toji, the man who knew exactly when to break you down and when to scoop up the pieces, holding them just tight enough that you didn’t slip away.

just like that, you ended up in his bed again. the grey hoodie you’d worn lay discarded on the floor, forgotten, as cold unrelenting air seeped through the open window. it didn’t matter—not when he moved the way he did, reckless and punishing, slamming into you like he was trying to shatter something inside you.

as if he knew exactly what he was doing. as if he knew he was breaking your mind beyond repair.

and you’d gone back. over and over, swearing each time would be the last. it never was, though, was it? the only difference between you and toji was that you loved him for all his broken pieces, while he only cared for moments like these—animalistic, primal, and starving.

how many times had you come back to him? how many times had he been conveniently nearby when the weight of your breakdowns became too much to bear? you’d stopped counting after fifteen—somewhere between your pride and his grin, the numbers blurred together.

and now here he was again, in your room, in your bed. the very bed where you’d spent sleepless nights imagining him after you left. it was almost poetic, in the cruelest way.

you looked down at him, your hands resting lightly on his chest as you straddled him, your breaths still uneven. his grunts had quieted now, replaced by the steady rhythm of his breathing, and his arms wrapped around you with a familiarity that made your stomach twist. you were bare to him in every way that mattered, as you always were.

"we can’t keep doing this," you sighed, slipping off of him and onto the bed to lay beside him. your chest rose and fell heavily as you stared at the ceiling, your thoughts spinning.

he tilted his head, a flicker of amusement crossing his face before he rolled his eyes. "ya say that, but then ya call me in the middle of the night for a quick fuck."

his words hit like a slap, but you didn’t flinch. instead, you turned away, pulling the blanket over yourself as if it could shield you from his gaze. "i mean it this time," you murmured, your voice soft but resolute.

he scoffed lightly, a sound that grated against your nerves, but you didn’t look back at him. instead, you closed your eyes, letting the silence stretch between you.

"when you leave this time," you said quietly, "you won’t see me again."

your words hung heavy in the air, the finality of them sinking in even as you felt the mattress shift under his weight. but whether he believed you or not didn’t matter anymore—you were done trying to convince him, or yourself.

"come on, seriously, not this again," he groans, dragging a hand through his hair, the exasperation in his voice palpable. "we had such a good time, and now you wanna dampen the mood with this shit—"

"fushiguro," your voice cuts through his complaint like a blade, sharper and more commanding than it’s ever been. it makes him pause, his spine straightening on instinct, his eyes narrowing as if trying to gauge whether you’re serious.

but you are. more serious than you’ve ever been. "i can’t keep doing this with you. it might be amusing for you, but it’s killing me. yeah? we had a good run."

those words—we had a good run—hit you as hard as they hit him. the taste of them feels foreign in your mouth, bitter and heavy. you never thought you’d say that to him. not to toji, not to the man you still loved with a depth you couldn’t articulate, more than you’d ever admit, more than he’d ever understand. your heart fractures as you sit there, each crack spreading deeper when you see his face harden.

he doesn’t say anything. not right away. instead, he gets up from the bed, the mattress shifting as his weight leaves it, and strides toward the desk chair where his clothes are piled in a careless heap. His movements are brisk, almost robotic, but the slight clench of his jaw betrays the simmering frustration beneath the surface.

"i’ll wait for yer text," he mutters, tugging on his tight black shirt in one swift motion. the fabric clings to his frame, the same way it did hours ago when you first saw him, but now it feels suffocating.

you turn your gaze away. you can’t watch him like this—not when the sight of him could undo everything you’d just resolved. "i blocked your number, remember?" you remind him, your voice flat but steady. "it’s why you came here today."

he freezes for a fraction of a second, the realization dawning on his face. "oh," he mumbles, his tone subdued. "okay. i’ll wait for you to unblock me, then."

"no, you won’t," you reply firmly, forcing yourself to look at him now. every word feels like dragging glass through your throat, but you press on. "this was the last time. it’s not happening again."

his eyes flicker, a brief flash of something you can’t quite place—irritation? disbelief? something deeper he’d never admit?—before he scoffs, shaking his head as if dismissing your declaration entirely. "whatever you say, doll."

"toji." his name falls from your lips with a weight that makes him stop. you sigh, sitting up straighter on the bed. the loose shirt you’d thrown on clings to your body in awkward folds, and your cheeks burn with an unwelcome warmth. you meet his gaze, forcing yourself to hold it this time. "close the door on your way out, yeah? and leave the spare key."

he blinks at you, as if processing the words takes more effort than it should. for a moment, his posture stiffens, his jaw tightens, and you think he might argue—but he doesn’t. instead, he nods. a single, awkward bob of his head, so uncharacteristic of him that it leaves you momentarily disoriented.

you watch as he moves toward the door, his steps slower now, almost uncertain. his broad shoulders seem to hunch slightly, his usual confidence replaced with something hesitant. when he reaches the corridor, his hand hovers over the gold-colored doorknob, suspended in mid-air.

he pauses there, turning his head to glance at your living room. it’s the same space he’s been in countless times, but now, it feels foreign to him—as if he’s unsure where to place himself, unsure if he’s allowed to linger any longer.

then he looks back at you, his dark eyes locking with yours. there’s something in them you don’t want to decipher, something too raw and too late. your mouth goes dry, but you manage a tight-lipped smile, awkward and full of finality.

he doesn’t say goodbye. doesn’t say anything. he just turns back to the door, his movements slow and deliberate as he opens it, the faint creak of the hinges cutting through the silence.

and then, without a second glance, he steps out.

the sound of the door clicking shut feels deafening. final. like the last note of a song you wish you could replay but know you never will.

#toji fushiguro x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #fushiguro toji angst #toji fushiguro angst #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujustu kaisen angst #toji smut #toji fushiguro smut #fushiguro toji smut #jjk angst #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk toji x reader #jujutsu kaisen

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