#are just the ones from when they were in the prison - or if it's all their memories and they start over w a clean slate

[astraystayyh]

Bleeding heart dove

pairing: idol!chan x lawyer!reader. youngerbrother!seungmin.

genre: f2l. slow burn. angst (lots of it). fluff. (un)requited love. forced proximity. law/corruption sub-plot.

warnings: parental loss. grief. self-depreciating thoughts. suicidal thoughts. reader has she/her pronouns. this is a work of fiction. the actions and timeline depicted in the story don’t represent the idols in real life.

word count: 25.7k.

You are ashamed, even in the privacy of your thoughts, of this longing, of this sharp ache. For even thinking, daring to dream of a world where you could behold his warm hands into your butchered ones. Where he’d let you. Where you’d let yourself.

It feels like death to think of Chan, it feels like living too.

a.n: she’s finally here!!!! i haven’t written for chris in such a long time and i’m so grateful to @kayleefriedchicken for commissioning this fic :,) it spiraled and i took some creative liberties that’s why it’s so long now LMAO but i hope you’ll enjoy reading!!!! i challenged myself writing this, it is a bit different from my other fics. much heavier too. but i’m slowly finding a writing structure i truly enjoy. i love you all 🤍 thank you for waiting for me

They say that smells are little vessels of memories, wrapping themselves around moments in time. When a certain scent floats by you, it doesn’t graze your shoulder like a stranger in the streets, never to be seen again.

No, smells seize you by the wrist, their nails sinking deep into the softness of your skin. Scents do not pass. They pull. They lead you into the locked corridors of your mind, to places you thought had crumbled into dust, memories buried seven feet under by the weight of years.

You smell rust.

Many may not recognize it, most might not even notice it. But you do. The scent of rust is etched into your nostrils, carved along your nerve endings, again and again. It smells earthy, metallic, sharp—like blood smeared on your tongue against your will.

As everything in your life has ever been.

Every orphanage you lived in reeked of rust. It seeped into the walls, staining them beneath layers of pale, lifeless paint. It curled into the battered beds and damp linens. You tried to pinch your nose shut at night, suffocating against the foul scent. But rust was patient. Rust had time. And so, naturally, rust always won.

It was a cruel smell at that— the scent of things stolen— childhood, innocence, soft mornings, your very ability to dream.

You were ten years old when both your parents died in a tragic accident. A drunk driver slammed into their car and made it combust into flames. He was quickly caught and cast into prison. But what did that serve you? Your parents were gone. What respite would this semblance of justice bring you?

That part of your life remains hazy since there was no room to mourn, only movement, hands ushering you from one orphanage to another. Each time the walls could no longer contain any more children. Any more grief.

And you were only ten.

But Seungmin was only six.

Your brother didn’t understand what was happening. Why did he have to leave his shiny toys and Pochacco-themed bed behind? He cried at night for your parents, his wails cresting and receding like waves against a fragile shore.

Sometimes, he cried so fiercely that no one could calm him—not even you. You would leave him to sob until exhaustion claimed him. You envied him, in a way. Sleep refused to visit you. You were sentenced to lay awake instead, burdened by responsibilities too heavy for your small hands. Yet, when you glanced at Seungmin’s resting form, the ache in your chest eased, just slightly. If he could rest, that was enough.

You didn’t know it then, but this thought would become the basis of your entire life. You’d give and give, tear at your own flesh if it meant Seungmin would remain intact and safe.

The first orphanage was small. Twenty beds crammed together in a single room. It was a temporary holding place while the city council decided your fate. Orphans, you realized, were like misplaced luggage—tagged and eagerly discarded, waiting for someone, anyone, to claim them.

The second orphanage was somewhat worse. There were a hundred beds this time, a larger playground, warmer food. But the older kids were cruel. That’s what you remember. Rust and cruelty, entwined.

They shoved you hard against the ground on your first night there. And then, they turned to Seungmin. The moment their hands reached for him, something primal surged within you—a burning, blistering rage as if your very being was dipped into scalding water. You lashed out, punching the nose of one of the older boys. Blood. Yours, his, theirs. It all blurred together.

Then, punishment quickly followed: no more dinner for three days.

Seungmin didn’t understand. He tugged at your sleeve, crying that he was hungry late at night. That’s when you decided it was better to endure in silence. To take the blows, as long as your brother could eat.

By thirteen, you arrived at Promise Orphanage. Your hand trembled in Seungmin’s grip as Miss Jeeho introduced you both. Forty-four pairs of eyes bore into you, gliding over the faint bruises that painted your arms like ink stains.

You braced yourself for the worst. But then, a girl stepped forward, her hair a messy halo around her face. Her smile was wide, her eyes bright despite the dust coating her skin. She held out her hand, and you noticed how rough and calloused it was for her age. How warm it was too.

“I’m Winter,” she said, her voice soft.

You blinked at the odd name, then nodded. Later, you would learn she had been abandoned as a newborn, left nameless at the orphanage’s doorstep. It was a cold night when the workers found her, with heavy snow. It was surprising she didn’t pass from pneumonia.

Winter chose her name after the season she was born, since her parents didn’t bother to do so for her.

You came to realize that in these walls, even something as mundane as a name was a privilege, something the world could simply not grant you at birth.

“I’m Y/n, and this is Seungmin,” you replied, gripping your brother’s clammy hand. There was steel in your voice as you said his name, ensuring everyone knew he wasn’t to be touched.

But the other children simply smiled at you, and you tried to smile back. Though it came out much more like a grimace. Smiling felt foreign to you, like a muscle long unused.

Promise Orphanage then became your home for five long years. The children were kinder, their grins did not sharpen into unkind hands. Your bed was slightly bigger. You got gifts for your birthday and cake on New Year’s. You always gave yours to Seungmin— the better toys, the bigger slices, the softest pillows. You hoped it would make him feel better, even for a second.

But rust remained.

It followed you when you turned eighteen, into your first apartment. A single room, smaller than your childhood kitchen. But it was enough. Enough to build a life for Seungmin, to earn his custody, to gift him the privilege of dreaming.

Though even then, when Seungmin laughed, when he sang with Winter, when you had enough warm showers to forget the cold of the orphanage, you wondered if other people could still smell the rust like you did.

Perhaps it was your mind’s way of reminding you that, even if you shut your eyes so tightly that colors bloomed behind your eyelids— even if you thought hard enough of your summer home and salt-kissed winds, if you strained to hear your parents’ airy laughter calling you to dinner— this was not home.

It never could be.

“Y/n?”

Han’s voice slips through the fog of your memories, bright and familiar. You blink, the haze receding like chimney smoke to find him leaning casually against the doorframe.

He’s the first one out of the stylist’s room, his hair falls in soft waves over his forehead, and silver dust coats his eyes, catching the overhead lights like scattered stars.

“Hey, Han,” you greet, pulling him into a brief hug.

His grin is as easy as ever—warm and full of mischief. “Like the makeup?”

“It’s perfect,” you reply, poking his rosy cheeks.

“The boys are still getting ready,” he says, falling in step beside you as you walk toward the waiting room. Shelves stacked with instant noodles, water bottles, chips, and candy stare back at you.

“Figured.”

Your gaze flickers to the jelly candies, and you smile. You can already picture Hyunjin diving for them first and Seungmin scolding him for his sugar intake.

Jiho, the manager, greets you with a nod, and you return the gesture.

“You seemed far away just now,” Han notes, twisting the cap off a water bottle.

You exhale slowly. “The vents smell like rust. This whole place can quickly turn into a safety hazard. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Han gasps in mock horror, clutching his chest. “Why is it that every time you talk about law, I feel like I’m about to be sued?”

You swat his arm, giggling at his theatrics, before pinching his forearm lightly.

“Hey—“ he yelps and you narrow your eyes at him.

“I should actually sue you for not visiting my new office though,” you point out, doing a neck-slicing motion with your hand.

“Okay, creepy. AND, for my defense, I sent you that fruit basket, didn’t I? Been busy writing songs. You know how it is when inspiration strikes me.”

You do.

It tugs at a distant summer, long days spent on the coast of Jeju Island alongside the boys, to celebrate your first successful case. Han locked away with his notebook while the sea breeze knocked at his window. He only joined you once he had finished writing the lyrics of two new songs. Some of your favorites too, at that.

“There she is! You’re smiling,” Han says, poking your cheek.

“Just remembering our trip.”

He sighs dreamily, before slinging his arm around your shoulders. “Best summer ever. Next time, the vacation’s on me. Pinky promise.”

Your smile softens, warmth pooling within the cracks of your heart.

Han was angry once, when you had first met him. Just like you. But where his anger burned bright, yours hid beneath the surface, smoldering slowly. But time softened his edges. You wonder if the same could ever be said for you.

“You’re here,” Seungmin appears suddenly, peeling Han’s arm away from your shoulder with a scowl. Han retaliates by blowing you an overly exaggerated kiss before wandering toward the vending machine.

“I finished up the case early,” you explain.

Seungmin’s gaze narrows slightly, scanning the lines of your outfit.

“And why are you so dressed up?”

“Can’t a sister look nice for her favorite brother’s first sold-out concert at the Kyocera Dome?” you tease, clasping your hands.

Jiho snorts from his seat. Traitor.

“I’m your only brother, and we both know you’re lying,” Seungmin deadpans.

It’s endearing—the way he shields you from heartbreak as if he hasn’t spent his whole life beneath the cover of your arms.

It’s foolish too— as if you still have a heart that beats hard enough to love, then to break.

“Fine. I have a date after the show.”

“With who?” Hyunjin’s voice drifts in as he steps into the hallway, Changbin trailing closely behind.

You smile. “Jaehyun.”

Seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know I don’t love him.”

“And who said I do?” you ask, a sly smile tugging at your lips.

“Then why do you still meet up with him?”

“Because he’s fun. And I like spending my time with fun people.”

Changbin leans in, grinning wide. “I’m fun too. Why not date me?”

He drapes his arm over your shoulder, and Seungmin groans, pretending to smash his head against the wall repeatedly.

“Alright, alright, stop the flirting,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I fear you’ll end up killing my brother.”

Seungmin pouts, and you laugh softly, pulling him in for a tight embrace. “Look at you, performing in such a big arena,” the words suddenly catch in your throat, a silky rope tightly binding the syllables together. “You know that I’m proud of you, right?”

You smile, and Seungmin holds you a little closer.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Thank you for coming. I really wanted you here.”

You clear your throat, stepping back with a playful flick to his arm. “I’ll see you after the show. Say hi to the rest of the boys for me.”

“You’ll do great,” you add, and his smile softens like sunlight melting across the sea.

His voice follows you down the hall. “We’re still talking about this date later, though!”

“Seungmin loves acting as if she isn’t older than him—” Swat.

—

There is one peculiar emotion that always beats within your heart at your brother’s concert halls. It is warm, like beholding a glowing sun within the empty hollows of your ribcage. It swells and swells, spreading within your being like paint spilled on canvas— soaking your heart in wildflower hues.

You feel relieved to see your brother and his friends so loved. You sense it in the cacophony of cheers, in the misty eyes of all the fans surrounding you. You know that the boys can feel it too. In the shaking of their voices as they take turns saying their ending ments. It is a monumental moment for them, something they only dared dream of back when they were still trainees and you had to sneak snacks into their dorm.

It is Seungmin’s turn to speak. His shaking hand barely manages to hold the mic. Seungmin doesn’t cry as often as before. Never in front of you anymore. He suddenly stopped once he turned fifteen, as if he had made a vow to himself, to lift off some of his worries off your burdened spine.

But tonight, unmistakable tears gather at the edges of his eyes, glinting like faraway constellations.

He tilts his head toward the sky, and you wonder who these words are really addressed to.

Deep down you already know the answer to this.

“My sister is here tonight,” he starts and tears glisten in your eyes, all of the sudden. “If I’m here today it’s all thanks to her, so I– I hope you’re proud of me,” he says, voice tight, breaking. But he still speaks. “You know, I… I don’t believe in forever—” his lips tremble like leaves at the mercy of autumn winds. A faint ringing surges through your ears, muffling the sound of everything until only his sharp words remain. “But just at this moment, being with the members and everyone who stood by our side, I— I want to believe in eternity with you.”

The crowd roars at his words. Cameras flash everywhere. The boys quickly move forward to wrap Seungmin in their arms.

But you’re not here anymore.

You’re somewhere quieter. Smaller. Somewhere dimly lit by flickering hallway lights and hushed whispers past curfew.

Your hands shake, pressing into your thighs as if their weight might ground you. But the cold creeps in anyway, walking alongside your veins, settling into your heart like an old companion.

—

He was eight.

His hair stuck to his forehead in damp curls, and the faint glow of the moon reflected onto his eyes like a gleaming water surface.

You remember smoothing his bangs away, tucking him beneath a worn blanket that didn’t quite reach his toes. He didn’t mind. Seungmin never minded the small things.

��Did you make a wish?” you whispered. It was his birthday. Birthdays never got easier for Seungmin, nor for you. Most days you were just pretending— that you knew what you were doing, that your knees were strong enough to hold you upright. Pretending that you had what it takes to protect your brother when you, yourself, were in desperate need of protection.

How do you salvage innocence in halls that spell out loss and grief at every turn? How do you make a birthday a happy memory in such a terrible place ?

Seungmin blinked up at you as his small hand curled around your fingers.

“I said that I want to see mommy and daddy again.”

The air had thickened then, and the knot in your throat twisted so tight it left no room for you to breathe.

You forced on a smile anyway. “You will,” you promised, voice soft but unsteady. “Soon.”

He paused, blinking slowly.

“What’s forever?”

The question felt like a swinging pendulum suddenly came to a halt— Seungmin’s innocence slipping away from your shaky grasp.

“Why do you ask?”

“I told Gyuvin I’ll see our parents soon. But he said that you lied, and it will take forever until then.”

Your chest tightened. You knew Gyuvin had a mean streak—sharp edges chiseled by loneliness and unspoken grief. You never held it against him. He was only eight too.

Still.

“He’s joking, Seungminnie,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “Forever just means something that doesn’t end. Like numbers. Numbers don’t end, right?”

He thought for a moment, lips pressing into a pout.

“Would you like to believe in forever?” you asked, teasing gently.

“No,” he said quietly, “Because then I’ll be sad for a very long time. I want the time to pass quickly.”

Oh.

Seungmin drifted off not long after, his breaths soft and even. But you stayed awake—long enough for the world outside to fall silent. Long enough to bury your face in the pillow, stifling the sobs that trembled past your chapped lips.

Seungmin was only nine.

But you were only thirteen.

And you missed your parents, so terribly so. You wished your mom was there, combing your hair with fingers that seemed to be made up of silk. You wished you could press your ear to her chest and listen to her heartbeat, breathe it in, soak in the love that the sound seemed to spell out for you.

You wished your dad was here, holding your hand in his much larger, weathered down one— rivulets of age running between his knuckles. You wished he’d carry you once more on his shoulders, tall enough for you to reach out to the stars, to foolishly believe you’d be able to graze them with your fingertips. You wished they were still here. You hated them for being gone. You hated yourself for hating them, even for a millisecond. For allowing the thought to filter through the endless void that constitutes your mind.

You thought of what it’d be like to float atop the sea near your home. Of letting the waves carry you deep into the darkness of the water. Of sinking deep enough that you wouldn’t feel anything anymore. You couldn’t bear it. You couldn’t bear having a heart that kept demanding you to live. It felt like a curse, like every heartbeat spelled out horrible truths for you. You wished for it to stop. All of it. All of you.

—

“Yah, Y/n why aren’t you smiling?” Changbin nearly shouts in your face and you and Jeongin scurry away on cue, cradling your ears at his loud voice.

You plaster a smile on your face, force the corners of your mouth to tug forward— “Because! You’re all sweaty and pressing onto me,” you say, and a cacophony of protests erupts all at once— “this is the sweat of hard work”, “but our sweat smells nice though!”, a groan, “that’s just you Hyunjin.”

Your yelp as a hand suddenly wraps around your wrist, Felix’s, pulling into the middle for a group hug.

“Stop, your sweat will rub off of me!” Your high-pitched shriek causes all of them to back off on cue, giggling loudly.

You don’t give yourself a second to breathe, afraid that your mask will slip away quicker than you can stop it. You take advantage of the commotion to kiss Seungmin’s cheek quickly, avoiding his gaze as you run off to the entrance. “You all did well! I’ll have to go now! My date is waiting!”

You don’t leave him time to respond as you scurry away, leaving the backstage. You can feel the oxygen settle like stones into the pit of your heart, weighing the rushing of your blood down. It takes you excruciatingly long to breathe. Being here suffocates you all of a sudden.

You remember your wish, for the waves to carry you away into whichever place they rest in. What a violent thing for a thirteen-year-old to wish for. What a violent thing to still seek now deep into your twenties. You felt guilty. To be surrounded by many people who love you and yet to not feel loved.

You’re almost outside when a warm hand curls around your wrist.

“Seungmin, I told you I’m—” you turn around expecting to see your little brother’s gaze, full of mischief, full of affection, only to be met with Chan’s worried one. Your retort dies on the tip of your tongue, like a deflating balloon. You try your hardest to plaster a smile on your face but it comes off like a grimace. Chan’s frown only deepens further.

“I—” you think of something quick to say, to get his scrutinizing gaze off of you. You can predict the question forming, swirling his mind, you already know which way this conversation will head. But all your thoughts seem to melt, your mind unable to conjure something to save your facade.

Your phone suddenly rings, Jaehyun’s name lighting up the screen. You go to reply when Chan grabs the phone away from your hands, silencing the call.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asks and it feels as if the walls are closing on you once more. You can hear the waves thrashing around, calling. “And don’t say you’re just feeling emotional because we made it so far.”

You chuckle faintly. You know it’s no use lying to Chan, of all people. “Jaehyun is calling again,” you point to your lit-up screen, and his lips press into a flat line, rejecting the call.

“Cancel your date,” he cocks a perfectly shaped eyebrow at you, “you know you have the most fun hanging out with me”.

“Alright, Mr. Cocky,” your heart is heavy as you attempt to smile at him, as if you’re forcing it to perform something it does not wish to, to pump blood for an action as meaningless as smiling. What purpose does it really serve if you are not happy? “I'm not in the mood for you to psychoanalyze me, though.”

“I won't,” his eyes soften as he takes one step closer to you. “We'll go on a drive okay, like old times?”

What is the point of pressing ice to a third-degree burn? Nothing, if not a fleeting respite, to close your eyes and pretend as if the burn would come undone, to soothe the fire only for it to barge in again. With a vengeance. Stronger. Harsher.

That is what being next to Chan is like to you.

“Fine,” you concede, though. Because you despise worrying people. You despise worrying Chan mostly. “I don’t want Seungmin to know though.”

“Don’t worry,” he smiles as he hands you back your phone, his thumb brushing your wrist for a second before he walks back. “I’ll come to your car, alright? Wait for me.”

—

It was a late summer night when Chan first discovered his love for music. He was only five, the air fragrant with the sweetness of strawberries and the tang of lemon zest. His curls were damp, clinging to his forehead from how hard he played with the neighborhood kids. The glass of water his mother handed him felt like the sweetest reprieve against his parched throat. Because Chan was happy, a joy so vivid it seemed to have taken roots within his veins, blooming into gleaming eyes and a smile so vast it could mend every crack in the universe.

He didn’t know it then, but there was a beautiful carelessness in the way he dashed outside, barefoot and giggling to order ice cream from the vendor near his house. Vanilla and bubblegum. In the way he did not use a spoon, instead licking the ice cream directly from the cone, as the sun melted it into rivers of sweetness that coated his fingers, leaving them sticky and fragrant. In the way he paid no mind to the earth clinging to his shorts, the sweat glistening on his face, or the syrupy mess on his hands. Because his happiness was so full he was bursting at the seams with it.

Because he was still a child, and children did not care for perfection. Children did not see the world through a lens that sought out every flaw— Chan did not learn yet how to turn that lens inward, harsher as he aimed it at himself.

His dad had brought him a ukulele, gently placing it into Chan’s small hands. The notes stumbled out, clumsy and wrong at first, as if their melody were caught in the strings, hesitant to be set free. It took a few tries for Chan to untangle them, but he didn’t mind. Because within these notes he found a new kind of joy—one that seemed to amplify his racing heartbeat, spilling into the room and filling it with the decadent taste of happiness.

It was a late autumn night when Chan first hated himself.

It was a particularly exhausting training day, the kind that left Chan barely upright as he walked down the stairs, his legs shaking with every step. He couldn’t bring himself to head back to the cramped dorms just yet, nor did he want to speak to anyone. Or rather, he no longer knew how to talk to anyone anymore. How could he make futile small talk when his soul was seized by a terrible longing, one that lingered bitterly on his tongue like the cough syrup he used to drink as a child?

See, how could he explain to anyone that he even missed that—the syrup, the warmth of his home, the pieces of a life that now felt as if they belonged to somebody other than him. He felt as if the wound only grew larger each day, spreading farther into his ribcage, infesting every part of his heart—every vein, every molecule—tainting them with the blueish colors of sorrow and ache.

Chan had found a quiet spot by the Han River, tucked far from prying eyes, his shoulders slouched under the weight of nostalgia, not the sweet one, rather, the one that felt like pine needles digging into his skin, at once. He liked it here—if he closed his eyes long enough he’d pretend the salty air was Australia’s breeze. He missed the wind there and how it ruffled his hair like an old friend. He missed his father’s grilled meat, his mother’s lemonade, his sister’s shenanigans. He missed his dog.

Would Berry even remember him now? Has it been too long?

It had.

The thought stung sharper than he expected. Was it all for nothing then? Does Berry not remember him for nothing?

Sometimes, it only takes one second for the world to shift off its axis, for the seconds to march forward but for you to remain stranded in the past. It took Chan this single question to break apart. It was as if someone had driven their fist into his chest, their claws digging deep, twisting around his heart until it felt on the brink of bursting— an ugly eruption of crimson, staining the blissful river with its bloodied ache.

What is wrong with me? He’s been asking himself the same question ever since.

It was a late winter night when Chan saw you for the very first time.

He was seventeen, shackles of self-doubt and insecurity wrapped around his ankles, digging deeper into his flesh with each year spent farther from his dream. Chan hated looking at his reflection in the mirror. He hated thinking of home. He avoided thinking of the future, of who he was, of who he hoped to become. Sometimes, he wished his mind could just go quiet. The voices were very loud and very mean.

Yet, unbeknownst to him, there were fragile blossoms of hope that fought to flourish in his chest, tentative, frail, since they grew in barren soil that didn’t quite believe in meeting the sun once more. But they were there.

Because Chan wasn’t alone anymore. Jisung joined him first, a kid with a passion that burns so fiercely it scathes his own heart at times. Then Jeongin, a voice singing of a reverence that shook Chan to his core. Hyunjin, who saw in dancing a form of salvation. Changbin, the missing golden piece to complete the infamous 3RACHA.

And then Seungmin.

It was through Seungmin that Chan saw you.

You had just dropped off Seungmin at the trainee dorms, bags full of homemade food in his hands. You hugged him tightly as he waved you off before disappearing into the building. And then, as soon as Seungmin was out of sight, Chan saw you collapse against the wall, your body wracked by cruel sobs. Cruel, because it was winter, and he knew that crying during the cold was somewhat harsher on the soul. You can’t cling to blooming flowers, to warm sun rays, to anything beautiful to ease your pain.

Cruel, because he recognized himself in you. In the way you rushed to hide your tears, wiping them away with your sleeves so that no one would see you. As if you were not deserving of this moment of weakness. As if you were not deserving of being human too.

“Do you still pick at your nails?” Chan asks, glancing at your figure as the light turns red. “Can’t give up bad habits?”

“You’re the last one to talk about bad habits, Mr. Never Sleeps.”

“Touché,” he chuckles, and you shake your head, the faintest smile lingering on your lips.

The seasons passed, and Chan’s fragmented heart had somehow found itself pieced together again—not to its original form. That would be a fool’s hope. People noticed the external changes—the different hues of his hair, how his muscles grew more chiseled with time—but they couldn’t see how pain and self-doubt had altered him, down to the very molecules of his being.

Because pain doesn’t pass like an angry cloud, casting a dark shadow only to drift away. That would be too kind, too merciful for emotions forged to drain you dry. No, it breaks you, reshapes you, molds you with the thorns in its calloused hands. It forces you to relearn who you are, how to breathe, where to stand, how to cling to the fragile thread that keeps you from stumbling back into the darkness.

The heart Chan carries isn’t his own anymore. It belongs mostly to sorrow now. But it still beats.

And so it did. And that winter passed, and so did spring. Then summer came, and fall returned once more.

And the years went by, and Chan blinked, and suddenly it had been ten years since he first saw you. And yet, it felt as though you remained stuck in winter. Because you did not have anyone’s hand to hold, warm enough to make you believe that summer would come again.

“Is this about Seungmin?” Chan asks softly, his fingernails drumming absentmindedly against the steering wheel.

“No, yes—I… I don’t know,” you sigh in exasperation, and he nods, turning his head to glance at you.

You first went on a night walk with Chan when you were still a law student, and his group had just debuted. Your apartment was under renovation, so you had to stay in the boys’ dorm for a few days. It was late into the night, with both of you the only ones still awake, working through your respective tasks in silence. He had offered to go for a walk, and you had accepted.

Neither of you spoke. Chan pretended not to see the stray tears that silently slipped down your cheeks, with no previous warning. He wondered what had weighed on your heart so heavily that it searched desperately for any moment of solitude to escape.

Your eyes are distant now, glazed over as if your mind has carried you to a place where the sun never rises. You bring your hand to your mouth once more, but Chan gently pushes it away, cradling your fingers in his palm.

He has to pretend that the sensation of your hand in his doesn’t feel like a thunderbolt—a surge of electricity that shoots up from the tips of his toes, swirling deep into his chest and settling into warmth in his stomach.

“It will bleed, and then you’ll come whining because it hurts,” he jokes, though his heart pounds in his throat, threatening to choke him.

“When did I do that?” you exclaim, but you don’t pull your hand away.

Your hand is in his.

Your hand is in his.

Your hand is in his.

“Besides,” you say, your fingers slipping from his grasp to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “You know I’m the last person to ever whine.”

Was it normal to still feel your hand on his? For his hand to memorize the warmth of yours so quickly? As if it had been thirsty, like a man astray in the desert, longing for what a drop of water would feel against his parched throat.

“Yeah, you should do that more often, actually,” he chastises softly. You exhale a shuddered breath in response.

It feels like a lifetime before you speak again. “You heard Seungmin’s speech,” you say quietly, like a wounded animal, hesitant and wary of what approaching another human might bring, of what baring your heart might cost.

Chan wants to say: It is safe with me, I would shred my own heart if it meant keeping yours intact.

“Hard to miss, since I was on stage next to him,” he jokes, and you finally giggle—a real laugh, not the artificial ones you’ve been giving him. It feels like Australia’s breeze ruffling his hair, like he can finally breathe again.

“You know,” you say, your voice shifting to something gentler, “It reminded me of Seungmin when he was still young, discovering the concept of forever.” A bittersweet smile tugs at your lips. “Seungmin was short, pale, and so fragile that I was afraid the faintest wind would break him. You should’ve seen him. When he looked up at me, his eyes were wide, his irises pitch black, and they looked so trusting. He was an easy target for the kids who needed someone to blame, someone to pour their anger into, to soothe their bruised hearts. There was no one else to punish. Too much injustice, and no respite.”

Chan’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. To think of such sad times for both you and him. Should he rewrite the march of time, he would have forced the universe to make him your friend, to entwine your hand in his, to stop the cold from making a home within the pathways of your heart.

“I remember when I first saw him. He was very shy. Like he didn’t quite know how to carry himself yet. But he ranked second in the open audition.”

“He did,” you smile. It’s a bit different from all your grins. You’re always different when it comes to Seungmin—softer, bursting with pride.

“And…” Chan trails off, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, a wide smile tugging at his lips. “I remember you.”

“Oh, please, no,” you hide your face in your palms. “That’s so embarrassing.”

Chan chuckles softly, but in his heart, he remembers your first encounter with such clarity. He had found you many things—beautiful, brave, human. ‘Embarrassing’ had never been an adjective that crossed his mind when it came to you.

He remembers.

“Here,” Chan handed you a handkerchief, and you looked up at him, a frown deepening in your eyes. Time had somehow stilled then. The seconds felt like years passing on Chan. The cold seemed to dissipate, his heart emanating a warmth he hadn’t known before. Everywhere. Consuming him.

You blinked, and time resumed, and yet Chan was changed.

“Thank you,” you said tentatively. “Something got into my eye.” You attempted to explain, and he simply nodded, humoring you.

“I figured. There’s a lot of dust around here. From the trees and all,” He cringed internally, realizing how silly that sounded. So, he fell into silence, as did you, both of you just looking at each other. Chan had never felt this way before. He ached to ask you what was wrong, if he could do anything to alleviate your pain. If you too would like to break near Han River with him.

“I’m Chan. Bang Chan. Christopher, actually. But you can call me Chan.”

You had giggled then, and his ears burned so fiercely he was sure they were a shade of fuchsia, bright and loud. The sound was melodious, like notes strung along a flute just right. Soothing and warm. He loved your laugh. He wished his piano could recreate it. He wished he could save it so he could dance to it later.

“Alright, Christopher Actually Chan,” you smiled, and his cheeks flared a shade brighter. He silently prayed you’d account for the harsh winds that wrapped around you both.

“And I know you, actually,” you continued.

His eyes widened in surprise, and you chuckled softly at his reaction. He liked making you laugh. He liked it so much he’d make a fool out of himself if he needed to. “I’m not a stalker, Kim Seungmin told me about you. He’s my brother.”

“Right,” Chan responded, his usual confidence slipping for just a moment. He was never awkward—social prowess was one of his greatest strengths. Still, with you, all semblance of normal interaction vanished. There was something in your gaze, something so beautifully haunting, like the sight of tree branches in autumn. Something that once was whole, now stripped bare, yet still captivating in its vulnerability. It made him wonder if beauty like this could ever be captured in music.

“I’m Y/n, by the way,” you bowed slightly, before quickly turning and walking away. Chan watched, breath hitched in his throat, as you paused, and then as if pulled by some invisible thread, you turned back to him.

Without a word, you grabbed his hand, gently placing something within his palm.

A cherry lollipop.

“As a thank you,” you said, a bit sheepishly, eyes still puffy from the sobs that kept you prisoner just a few moments ago. “Ah, and, you better debut with my brother!”

You pointed at him, and in that moment, a grin broke through your face—one so radiant, so full of life, he wondered if this was what witnessing the first sunset felt like to humans. A beauty so grand, so overwhelming, he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Chan’s fate was sealed right then and there—he would spend the next ten years chasing after your smile, no matter how foolish it seemed.

For one would ask, what’s a drop of white against a sea of black? What use are cherries’ scent before the stench of sorrow? And the answer would always be everything. Everything, if it’s you.

Chan clears his throat, settling on the least incriminating adjective of the bunch. “You were brave, Cherry. You still are.”

“You think too highly of me,” you snort.

“I think of you just right, actually.”

You are nearly home when, out of nowhere, you speak. “What if I told you I’m terrified?” The words rush out, as though you are afraid they’d die in your throat before they could reach him.

Chan’s heart tightens in worry. He parks hastily in front of your place, the engine still humming as he turns to face you, you who’s like a Russian doll—layer upon layer of your soul wrapped carefully, each one guarding the other.

“Why?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper, thick with concern.

“I didn’t want to tell Seungmin,” you begin, pausing to bite your lower lip. “He’d be heartbroken... I know him, I—” you falter, your voice cracking just slightly. “My new case... It's about Promise Orphanage. They want to tear it down to build a luxury apartment complex. A fucking billionaire’s investment, with pools and golf courses.”

“Sun Corporation,” you explain, “it’s owned by the son of Gyeongdo Holdings’ CEO. They’ve been harassing Miss Jeeho for two months now because she refuses to desert the orphanage. It’s a mess, Chan.” you’re angry, he can feel it, the rage burning bright right beneath your skin.

“The city council caved in and granted them a permit because the land belongs to the state and this project apparently serves public interest, but that’s bullshit. Who would benefit from this other than billionaires?” you bite your lower lip, sucking in a deep breath. “I told you Winter became the vice director of the orphanage, right? She just learned about this and told me. They’re offering compensation but I’ve dealt with those kinds of people. They’re greedy. They’re corrupt.”

“I couldn’t turn my back on it,” you whisper. “I had to take the case. Those kids… they’ll have nowhere to go. And I know how cold it feels, how brutal it is when you lose your family and still have to look for someplace to call home.”

Your eyes glisten, tears clinging to the edge like dew on a leaf, only to be blinked away before they fall. How much does it cost your soul to bear this weight? How much longer until you fracture—like a pomegranate violently split open, bits of your soul scattering out in splatters of raw scarlet.

Chan’s palm finds your knee, squeezing it gently. “You’re worried they’ll end up forgetting about the orphanage and not building a new one?”

“Yeah. They did this before. I checked the civil files. They built over a nursing home and never gave them proper compensation, paid hush money to the owner to keep them from suing. What if I can’t stop them? This is all those kids have. This is all Winter has. Miss Jeeho too.”

“They won’t. you’ll stop them. I know you will, Cherry, alright?” he says with all the sincerity he can muster. You seem dubitative and he sighs, reaching out to hold your cold hands. Please warm up.

“You will, okay? I have no doubt you will,” he repeats with a fire that seems to light you up. A sudden light reflects off the broken shards of your heart.

“I will.”

—

Chan: you up?

Your phone lights up, distracting you from the mountain of paperwork scattered across your desk.

Y/n: What a fuck boyish text

Chan: akldkdkd so you’re definitely up

Y/n: I’m working on the case :(

Chan: open up!! i have snacks

You blink at the message, confused, before padding to the door. When you open it, Chan stands there, a wide grin stretching across his face. He’s wearing a grey varsity jacket that drapes across his broad shoulders perfectly, and a blue navy cap. You still don’t understand why he rarely allows his curls to see the light.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, crossing your arms.

“I got bored alone in the studio,” he shrugs casually. “So I thought I’d drop by.”

“Drop by?” you repeat, laughing softly. “Your studio is on the other side of town.”

“Okay, I guess you don’t want fish cake and tteokbokki—”

“Come back,” you interrupt, wrapping your hand around his forearm and tugging him inside. His body is warm, and it is only then do you realize just how cold your apartment truly is.

“It’s a mess, I’m sorry,” you apologize, glancing at the dirty plates in the sink and the papers all over the desk, and the floor, and the couch too.

“Need me to tidy up again?” he teases, grinning as he steps inside.

You swat his arm, rolling your eyes. “You did it once because I was bedridden, and Seungmin was in Japan for a schedule.”

“I don’t mind, Cherry,” he says softly, setting the food down on your coffee table. His gaze flickers to yours. “I’d do it even if you weren’t sick, you know.”

Chan has a habit of saying things that send your heart into a slow, painful thrum—one long pulse that stretches endlessly, forcing you to acknowledge its existence. But, as always, you avoid it. You never allow yourself to question the warmth that only blooms when he’s near.

You both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, the spicy scent of tteokbokki wafting between you. For a while, the only sound heard in the apartment is the soft clink of chopsticks against takeout containers.

“Any updates on the case?” he asks.

You nod, running a hand through your hair. “I filed for an injunction,” you say, sighing deeply. “Trying to stop the demolition for now, at least until I figure out what to do next. The city council is ridiculous.They keep saying this is for the public benefit, but how is that true? Who benefits from luxury penthouses except rich assholes? And because the orphanage is on state land, they think they can just sell it off like it’s nothing.”

Chan’s eyes have been tracking each one of your words intently, drinking in every syllable that drips from your mouth. He has long thought your calling was law, there is a certain logic in you, a peculiar fire that burns in your core that seems inherent to this job. Though oftentimes he wonders if this is truly what you’ve always wanted. Had you been raised in your home would you have turned out differently? Would you like to pursue something else? Would you sing like Seungmin too?

“I’m trying to figure out who’s behind those apartment deals. Jaehyun’s helping me track it down.”

Chan’s eyes darken, like a storm has gathered within his irises. He doesn’t realize his jaw is ticking. You do. You pretend as if you don’t notice.

“Jaehyun… are you guys together yet?” Chan asks, and your heart pauses at the change in conversation. You shake your head. “Hm? No. We’re just friends.” you say between bites.

“You go on dates with your friends?” he chuckles, but there is nothing funny in the sound. His eyes don’t morph into crescents, his dimples refuse to show.

“You know, we’re just messing around, or whatever,” you quickly say.

“Right.”

Chan remembers the moment with striking clarity—when you first mentioned Jaehyun. You were both at a hotpot restaurant, the steam from the bubbling broth curling around you.

You had said his name casually, A journalist you’d met at one of the court hearings, someone with the same fiery passion for justice that you had. He was annoying, you’d said, always bothering you with his questions, his relentless pursuit of truth. But there was something else in your voice when you spoke of him—something new, something soft and fond that made Chan’s chest tighten.

“Anyways, he’s friends with one of the junior employees in the city council,” you continue, voice tinged with frustration. “So he’s been trying to convince him to help us out.”

“An insider,” Chan says absently, his voice flat, like the surface of a pond long undisturbed by pebbles. He’s thinking, how long is it acceptable to harbor a crush on someone? Three months? Six? A year? What if Chan’s been carrying this weight for ten years? 3650 days spent thinking of you, chasing the shadow of your image away from his eyelids at night, yet always yearning for a dream where all he’d glimpse is you.

What if bile rises in his throat at the thought of Jaehyun so close to you, his fingers tracing the lines of your lips, memorizing the shape of your body, the rise and fall of your chest as you sleep? What if he cannot bear it, cannot stand the thought of anyone else knowing you in ways he never will?

You sigh, fingers digging into your temple as the weight of your exhaustion becomes tangible. “It’s tiring, Chan,” you admit as your forehead rests against your knees. Chan feels something shift inside him—a peculiar ache that only surfaces when you are in pain.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hand hovering above your back before it settles there. He slowly pats your back, dragging his nails along your spine. It’s very quiet all of the sudden, a calm that only manifests when two souls, not bodies, are sitting by one another. You lean into his touch, your body angling towards him like a sunflower tilting towards the sun.

“Do you remember when the possibility of us debuting became very high?” he says and you nod, resting your cheek against your knee to look up at him. His hand doesn’t stop caressing your back. You don’t wish for it to.

“What is it with you and my most embarrassing memories?” you giggle quietly only to sober up at the sincerity you gather in his eyes. They are like pools of amber, the color of decadent chocolate, like the rich bark of trees kissed by sunlight.

“Everyone was out and I was the only one in the dorm.” He recounts the memory as if you weren’t there; as if he needed you to hear this, not as a participant but as an outsider. “And then you came knocking on my door, disheveled, looking like you hadn’t slept in days. You asked me, ‘Is it true? Are you debuting soon?’”

You close your eyes, the weight of that moment flooding you—how raw and real it was. You remember it vividly: the way his eyes met yours, like he had seen you for the first time right there and then.

“You were petrified. Because yes, you worked overtime to pay off Seungmin’s vocal lessons, you supported him so much his confidence never wavered, and yet, you were scared,” his words soften, and the pit in your throat tightens. You can’t speak even if you wish to.

“I said yes and you started crying. and I hadn’t seen you cry in three years. Not since the night we first met.” You remember his worried gaze, how he sank to the ground with you when your knees crumbled beneath you. He called you Cherry for the first time then, as if he had kept the nickname a secret, wishing to speak it outloud but never daring to. He did it because he thought back to your first meeting, and the cherry lollipop in your hand. You thought of it too.

“Seungmin,” you heaved, “please protect him, Chan, I— please, you have to protect him, please.”

“What’s wrong?” He panicked. “Talk to me Cherry, hm?”

“What if they are unkind to him? What if they somehow find out he’s an orphan and use that against him? He doesn’t like telling me anymore when it hurts. What if he’s hurt and he can’t tell me?”

His thumb swipes at the lone tear slipping from your eyes, gentle and warm. What if Chan is too kind to you? What if your heart wasn’t crafted to handle it?

“Then when all the boys came back ten minutes later you smiled as if nothing happened. I had seen you break down on the floor a few moments prior, and yet, you found the strength to smile, so as to not worry anyone, especially Seungmin.”

Chan’s heart throbs in his chest, the rhythm uneven and insistent. His voice wavers as his gaze locks with yours. Your eyes glimmer, like a river kissed by the summer sun, like stained glass basked in the light of a centuries old cathedral.

His palms cup your cheeks, tentative and gentle, akin to a flower breaking through the soil for the first time. “You are the strongest person I know,” he says, his voice soft, “The most hardworking, too. You care, so much, even when you try to hide it. It’s that passion that makes you the best at what you do. You’ll win this case, and every case after it, because you’re the one handling them.”

His thumb brushes against your skin. “And you believed in me when I said I’d protect Seungmin. So I believe in you, Cherry. Please believe in yourself too.”

You nod, over and over, like a broken record stuck on a single note. Before he can process it, your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close. Your head finds its place in the crook of his neck, and for a fleeting second, he’s frozen, the world tilting off its axis. Then, slowly, his hands slide to your waist as he breathes you in—your shampoo, your favorite laundry detergent, the faint trace of cherry lingering on your skin like a memory of a distant summer.

“Thank you, Channie,” you whisper against his shoulder.

He nods, his voice muffled by the turmoil caging his heart. “You’re welcome, Cherry.”

For how long is it acceptable to love someone who doesn’t love you? Chan doesn’t know. He doesn’t really want an answer. Even a lifetime wouldn’t be a waste if it’s spent loving you.

—

“Three penthouses are already registered under different names,” Jaehyun tells you, handing over a couple of lease contracts. You’re seated in a small café near Promise Orphanage, waiting for Winter to join you. The junior employee in Sun Corp. has finally caved and handed over the registrants to Jaehyun—names of the people who have already secured luxury apartments, long before the project even saw light.

“Park Yuna, Lee Seo-Jun, and Choi Joon-Ho,” you read aloud, glancing up at Jaehyun, who’s already smirking.

“Park Yuna…” you pause, “isn’t she the wife of the city council president?”

“Bingo!” he exclaims, his arms wide open, head tipped back as a sinister giggle rips out of his throat.

“Oh gosh,” you cover your face as some customers turn to look at you. “This isn’t an action movie stop it.”

Jaehyun pouts as you swat his arm and you laugh despite yourself.

“Anyway, you’re right. She’s his wife. I also found out Seo-Jun and Joon-Ho are tied to prominent council members. Second cousin and son-in-law. They had their penthouses promised before the project was ever public.”

“They didn’t even register them under their names. Subtle,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Yeah, I bet they weren’t even expecting Miss Jeeho to resist the compensation.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “They think those kids are just pawns, something they can move around for their benefit. They don’t get that those children have nothing but each other and the comfort of a familiar bed.”

The conversation lulls. Jaehyun grows quiet as you stare holes into your coffee, swirling the caramel syrup into the dark liquid. But no amount of sweetness can mask the bitterness on your tongue—the bitter taste of injustice, of watching people prioritize their greed over others’ lives.

“We’ll gather more evidence of their corruption,” Jaehyun says eventually, his tone firm. “And when we do, we’ll confront them. They won’t risk this becoming public with so many global investors involved.”

You nod. “You’re right.”

He leans back in his chair, a teasing glint in his eyes. “By the way, why did you cancel on me two nights in a row?”

The question catches you off guard, and your mind drifts to last night: Chan showing up at your home, his comforting words, the warmth of his hand on your back, the scent of pinewood and cinnamon lingering in the air, the clean apartment you woke up to. Something stirs in your chest, warm and soft.

“Chan came over,” you admit.

Jaehyun whistles, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“Chan,” he says, drawing out the name.

“Mhm,” you reply, suddenly shy under his gaze.

“The man who calls you Cherry.”

“Yeah. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re so oblivious.”

“Agreed,” a familiar voice chimes in as Winter slides into the seat next to you. She presses a quick kiss to your cheek before sitting back with a knowing smile.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “This isn’t the subject of discussion,” you say pointedly, glaring at both of them.

You’re momentarily distracted by Winter’s appearance. Her cheeks are hollow, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. She’s poured so much love back into the orphanage she grew up in. Losing it would destroy you both.

“That man likes her,” Winter says casually, sipping from your drink.

You glare at her. “No, he doesn’t. He’s my friend.”

Winter raises an eyebrow at you. “He always looks at you differently. His tone is softer when he talks to you.”

Your eyes drift away, thoughts pulling you back to last night—to how Chan stayed with you until dawn, watching awful dramas with you despite his packed schedule, simply because he was worried.

“What’s the point of him liking me if I can’t like him back?” you murmur, voice barely audible. “My heart isn’t made for this.”

“Have you ever given yourself a chance?” Jaehyun asks and you scoff.

“A chance for what? To hurt someone?” you reply, shaking your head. “I don’t know how to love. I never had the time to learn. I was too busy surviving. We were,” you say glancing at Winter who averts her gaze.

This suddenly felt like a conversation too grim to have in the open. To speak of how your heart has been morphed into a cowardly being, shrinking at the simple thought of being looked at. What would anyone behold anyways? If not an organ that’s too battered, too bloody, unworthy of being seen, let alone to be loved.

“Anyway,” you say, forcing your voice to steady, “Can you set me up a meeting with that employee? We need more insider evidence and he’s the only one who can help us. I’d like to talk to him alone.”

“Yeah, I’ll try to convince him,” Jaehyun reassures you. The three of you nod and dive back into the stacks of paperwork, but the words blur in front of your eyes, forming an incoherent mass.

There are things you’ve always wished to escape—dark truths you thought you'd one day outrun. You still haven’t. Perhaps, you will never.

Perhaps, had you not been shaped by the cruelty of others, had you not been born beneath a star soaked in grief. Perhaps, if you never had to carve pieces of yourself out to survive, if you had the time, the strength to sit quietly with your own heart, to listen to who it wanted you to be, then, maybe, just maybe, you would have known the warmth of another’s touch.

You would have allowed yourself to melt into the softness of their gaze, you would have let your cheeks flush freely with the sweetness of their words, with no restraints, no shame. But the world is not kind. It will not offer you such a path. And so, this is your curse: to be one of grief’s favorite beholders, for you to wear it like a second flesh. To cling to it, as it clings to you because it is all you’ve ever known.

—

Your mother’s fingers were always warm as they entwined with yours, no matter the season. You remember the feel of them particularly when you went on walks by the ocean, her hand tugging you close to her frame. She was like an angel, walking softly on earth, coaxing the waves to slow down their feverish run as she brushed against their milky foam.

You can’t see her clearly in your memories anymore. Your temples ache each time you try to picture the fine details of her features. But you remember her humming along with the waves, as if singing a song to the sea, thanking them for the salty breeze they carry within their tides and swells. You remember closing your eyes to soak it in, as if you had known, even back then, that you’d forget the map of moles drawn upon her face, and the specific hue of her hair against the sun, and yet you wouldn’t forget her voice filling up your heart to the brim.

You remember coming home and trying to replicate her humming, through broken whistles at first, then, adding words where you saw fit. You remember singing to your mother in your living room. You remember feeling as if the sea was lodged right within your heart.

You loved singing, for the three years before your parents’ deaths. You sang in chorals, you sang to the birds and to the flowers blooming in your garden. You sang to the sun and to the moon. You sang to your reflection in the mirror. You sang, because it made you feel like your mother talking to the waves. And then, your parents died, and the music within you did too. The flowers, the sun, the birds… They were all an unworthy audience all of the sudden; since they all turned blind to your voice, allowing for your entire world to be stripped away from you. Leaving you bare, rootless.

You were then forced to learn that there isn’t just one big death in a lifetime. That the heart can perish multiple times before it finally stops beating completely. It felt like a little death when you began to loathe the ocean. It felt like a little death when Seungmin told you that he wished to become a singer.

You too, had wanted to, once. Maybe. If you had been given enough time to think.

It felt like a little death when you stepped into a recording booth for the first time.

You’d told Winter you were desperate for money. She mentioned agencies looking for anonymous artists to record backing vocals for prominent groups. It paid well, she said.

Your voice was well-liked. Not overpowering, but subtle, like a floral perfume—soft, seamless, blending effortlessly with whoever you sang alongside. It paid well to sing lifeless songs, to let your name dissolve into the footnotes of prominent groups, 2PM, Twice… Even your brother’s group when he debuted.

You knew that fans liked to speculate on who you were. You knew that the songs in which you sang were popular. And yet, it did not matter.

It felt like death, to kill your voice and for the sun to keep rising regardless.

“You were brave, you still are, Cherry.” Chris had told you. You wanted to believe him so badly. You wanted for the world to split open and atone for what it did to you. You wanted for the world to mend the cracks in your soul. You wanted for the world to disappear with you in it.

Your legs are growing weary of driving for so long with no destination in mind. Your eyes burn from how long you’ve stared at the road, unblinking. Somehow, you find yourself outside of Chan’s and Jeongin’s place.

It would feel like death too for you to head back to your empty apartment.

You grab your phone, sending Chan a message before you can second-guess yourself.

Y/n: Are you home?

You wait, fingers hovering over the delete button. His reply comes three seconds later.

Chan: yeah, innie is sleeping over at seungmin’s

A heartbeat.

Chan: why? are you here? are you alright?

You sigh, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. What the fuck are you doing? But still, you unbuckle your seatbelt and walk hurriedly to his door.

You knock. He opens immediately, eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m okay,” you say quickly, expecting the deluge of questions swarming in his mind.

“It’s 1 a.m.,” he replies, concern etched into his features.

“I can read the clock,” you joke, and his pout deepens as he steps closer. He’s beautiful in a way that makes your soul wish to split open to escape it. It overwhelms you.

“I’m just anxious about the next few days,” you admit.

“What’s happening?” he asks, already taking your coat and leading you to the kitchen. He pours you a glass of cold water, just the way you like it.

“I’m meeting a junior employee at Sun Corp. He’s called San. I need to convince him to give me materials proving the corporation’s corruption for our case.”

Chan’s worried gaze meets yours, and you shake your head quickly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur. “I didn’t come here to worry you. I just… I wanted your company.”

Chan’s demeanor softens at your words, like white foam finally resting against the warm sand.

“I think I feel less anxious around you,” you add, the warmth in your cheeks suddenly betraying you. Winter’s words echo in your mind: That man likes you. What a foolish thought to engrain in your mind.

“Oh, I…” His words stumble, and his fingers flex as if they’re debating reaching for you. Instead, he lowers them and smiles softly.

“So do I, Cherry,” he admits. His voice is gentle, his ears tinting red. “And I could come with you to meet San, if you’d like.”

“Really, you’d do that for me?” his being slacks off, his shoulders sinking low. If you were in a battle, this would be him dropping his sword, kneeling.

“Of course, you don’t even need to ask.”

You see it then—visions of yourself wrapping your arms around Chan’s neck in his kitchen, holding him long enough for his warmth to seep into your soul, shielding it from the many winters to come. You imagine, for a fleeting moment, putting down your defenses and letting one human in.

Perhaps this is the most violent act of all—to have visceral fantasies of something as innocent as a hug.

“Were you working?” you ask, and Chan clears his throat, nodding. “Yeah, working on some new songs. But I’ll take a break now.”

“The mighty producer CB97, taking a break for little old me. How wonderful,” you tease, a giggle escaping your lips. He rolls his eyes, his tongue pressing against his cheek in mock exasperation.

“Should we have a drink?” he offers, and you clap your hands excitedly. “Yes, I’d like that.”

It’s easy to recall with Chan—to relive the memories alive in your shared history. The summer vacation in Jeju, grilling meat for the boys, playing video games till dawn. Chan face-planting into the snow, the times you hid backstage to surprise them. You remember him accidentally body-slamming you onto the floor, the way you nearly drowned in the pool from laughing too hard.

The clock creeps toward four a.m., but you don’t feel tired. You’re tipsy, the wine warming your stomach—a bright, crisp taste, like biting into a ripe apricot. And you are happy. Your soul feels satiated, as though this laughter could sustain you for a lifetime.

Your giggles fade, leaving a comforting silence between you. You’re close to all the boys—you care for them deeply. But Chan is different. Because he dropped by only because he was worried. Because he calls you Cherry. So he remembers, and not alot of people remember you.

“I was thinking on my drive home of this… melody my mom used to sing,” you whisper, staring ahead. Your shoulder brushes against Chan’s. You rarely speak about your parents. Never this openly. Chan knows this well.

“She used to hum it to the ocean, to me when I’m about to sleep, when I was sick, when she was cooking,” you smile softly, bringing the drink to your lips. “I’ve been trying to replicate it on the piano but I’ve never managed to.”

You turn to look at him, only to find his gaze already fixed on you. His eyes are wide, vulnerable, twinkling like stars witnessing the birth of a galaxy. He licks his lips, hesitant, and your eyes linger on them. They are glossy, red, and impossibly inviting.

“Can I hear it?”

You start humming, singing what you remember off of your fragmented memory. Chan listens intently, his eyebrows tightly knit in concentration. You hear the waves, you taste the salt in the breeze. You miss the sea.

You finish, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Thank you for sharing,” he says.

“Thank you for listening,” you whisper, and your eyes are closed, but you feel it, his lips pressing to your temple, soft as a petal. It quakes through you, unmaking you, as though your soul has been cleaved wide open. You are a supernova, unraveling, scattering light in a beautiful, dying burst.

You wake up to a note on the bedside, and a pink plaid blanket draped over you. It hits you then: you’re in Chan’s room. A blush spreads across your cheeks, igniting your skin. When did you fall asleep? Did he carry you here? Of course he did. Did he press another kiss to your temple? Why would you think of that? Still, you can’t help but wonder if he too felt it— the way your soul trembled under the weight of his touch.

You imagine him writing the note, his figure hunched near you, glancing at your peaceful form, his eyes fleeting to yours as if making sure you were still there.

‘I’ve made you breakfast, it’s in the kitchen. I have an early morning schedule, but I’ll see you tomorrow, Cherry. Thank you for coming to see me :)’

You close your eyes, burying your head deeper into the pillows surrounding you. You can’t help but inhale their scent—traces of Chan lingering in the fabric, pinewood and cinnamon, intoxicating, as though they were made for you alone to breathe in. Your skin tingles with the thought, as you imagine him beside you, what it would be like to press your face into the soft curve of his neck, to take in that scent and to fill all the hollow spaces inside you with it.

You are ashamed, even in the privacy of your thoughts, of this longing, of this sharp ache. For even thinking, daring to dream of a world where you could behold his warm hands into your butchered ones. Where he’d let you. Where you’d let yourself.

It feels like death to think of Chan, it feels like living too.

—

You find Chan leaning casually against his car, arms crossed over his chest. With his Chrome Hearts beanie nearly swallowing his eyes and a mask covering the rest of his face, he looks almost intimidating. Almost—because you can’t help but giggle at his over-the-top efforts to stay incognito.

“I think we’ll scare the poor boy away,” you tease in greeting, and he huffs, reaching out to lightly punch your arm.

“Do you want me gone? It’s fine, I can leave,” he mumbles, his pout clear even behind the mask. “It’s not like I made all this effort to come here—”

“Oh my god, you’re still a whiny baby at your big age,” you cut him off, laughing as you both step into the café.

You choose a table by the large windows, the sunlight streaming in and bathing the space in golden light. As Chan sits across from you, his grin spreads wide, making his eyes crinkle and nearly disappear. You miss the sight of his dimples, all of the sudden.

San arrives ten minutes later, sliding into the seat across from you. His eyes dart to the door every few seconds, as though someone might burst through at any moment. He fidgets in his chair, tugging at his slightly askew tie, beads of sweat gathering on his brow despite the cool air conditioning.

Your fingers curl loosely around a lukewarm cup of coffee you’ve yet to sip. “Thank you for meeting me, San. I really appreciate it,” you begin softly, and he barely nods. He reaches for his iced Americano but pulls his hand back.

“Look, Miss Kim,” he stammers, voice barely above a whisper. “I gave Jaehyun the names of the apartment holders, but what you’re asking of me now... it’s dangerous.” He avoids your gaze, eyes fixed on the floor, as if it might open up and swallow him whole. “They’re not the kind of people you cross. You have no idea how high this goes.”

“I do,” you say firmly, leaning forward. “I know exactly how high it goes. That’s why I’m here. And that’s why I need your help.”

San hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line. His gaze flickers to Chan before meeting yours again.

You take a deep breath, knowing how delicate this conversation is, how crucial it is too. “Look, I’m not asking you to go public,” you murmur, lowering your voice. “I just need the truth. Documents, emails… anything that proves there’s a corrupt force behind this decision. I’ll keep your name out of it. I promise. Whistleblowers are common in our lines of work. No one has to know where it came from.”

“I want to help you, I do,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “But they will find out, and I’ll lose everything,” he pauses, shoulders slumping, “I’m the sole caregiver for my mom… She’s in the hospital, and I still have bills to pay. You understand, right?”

Your eyes soften as you watch his anxious form. He’s still young, shouldering a burden you know all too well. You think he will understand, only if you bare a part of your heart to him.

“San,” you start gently, “I once lived in Promise Orphanage too.” you admit and his eyes slightly widen. “Before that, I was in two other orphanages in the city…” You pause, looking for the right words. “I still have nightmares about those places. About how cruel some of the people there were.” Your voice cracks, and Chan’s warm hand finds your knee.

“It’s hard to be happy in a place like that, but Promise Orphanage was the only place I ever thought of as home. It felt like family. I still visit to play with the kids. They’re happy, I see it, as best as they can, anyways. But they’re well taken care of. I know Miss Jeeho, I know Winter. They love those children. They allow them to dream. They don’t deserve to have their only familiarity stripped away from them.”

San swallows hard. "And what happens when Sun Corp. finds out anyway?”

“You’re here,” you reply, “you’re afraid, but you also believe in what we’re fighting for. Otherwise, you would’ve rejected this meeting.” You sigh, your voice softening. “You’re a good person, San. Don’t let them corrupt you too. You know this is wrong.”

“I do,” he admits, voice shaky. His resolve is unraveling.

“Look, I know they gifted the city council members penthouses to sway them in their favor. But no judge would consider this hard evidence since I can’t prove intent. What we need is what’s inside your office. You know, emails, memos, contracts, whatever. I can’t do this without you, San. I mean it.”

San stares at you for a long moment. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “There are emails,” he admits quietly. “Some from the CEO, discussing how to ‘incentivize’ council members. And I’ve seen the transaction logs... Large deposits to personal accounts, listed as ‘consulting fees.’ It’s not hard to connect the dots.”

Your heart leaps in your throat. “That’s exactly what we need. Can you get copies?”

“I think so,” he says reluctantly. Then, in a quieter tone he adds, “I lost my father too, you know.” There’s a rawness in his voice that only those who’ve been burdened by grief can understand. “I’ll find a way. For those kids.”

You reach out, briefly covering his hand with yours. “Thank you,” you whisper, and he nods, a miniscule smile finally stretching across his lips.

-

“Should we celebrate?” Chan asks, his voice light, once you’re settled in his car. For a moment, you hesitate. Celebration feels foreign to you. You’ve been the prosecutor and the wrongfully accused, you tie the noose and gasp when it tightens. But now, it seems like you’ve closed this case without needing a trial. That’s something worth celebrating.

“You know what? Hell yeah,” you giggle, and Chan’s face lights up like the sun cresting the horizon. “Great! Because I already planned for us to!” His laughter bubbles over, and you yelp as the car suddenly accelerates.

“Cherry! you’re free tomorrow, right?” he shouts over the music, and you recognize the song—No. 1 Party Anthem.

So you’re on the prowl, wondering whether she left already or not…

“Hmmm, let me check if my schedule is clear for being kidnapped…” you tease, pretending to swipe through an imaginary calendar. He chuckles, his dimple deepening, and the sound makes you feel giddy, like champagne fizzing in your veins. “Looks like I am!”

“Perfect! Let’s go on a trip, then!”

Sunglasses in doors are par for the course…

“Where to?” you laugh, and he simply winks in response, “You’ll see.”

“Fine, you be mysterious, and I’ll…” You grab his Fendi sunglasses from the console, perching them on your head, “I’ll be your passenger princess.”

It doesn’t escape him— how readily you’ve let go, how much you’ve placed in his hands without hesitation. It makes him want to drive further, faster, to a place where your bruised hearts won’t catch up with the two of you.

Her eyes invite you to approach…

You stop along the way at a small, unassuming seafood stand nestled along the coast—one Chan seems to know well. The air is alive with the sizzle of grills and the briny scent of the ocean. The ahjumma behind the counter greets Chan warmly, her hands deftly working as she prepares your meal.

You’re served grilled crab, its shell glistening in a marinade of soy sauce, chili, and honey. The flavors burst on your tongue—savory and spicy with a delicate sweetness that reminds you of the sea itself. Chan insists on feeding you the oysters, gently placing each one on your plate. They’re buttery and tangy, kissed with lemon and sea salt and the warmth of Chan’s gaze.

Your heart softens as you watch Chan chatting easily with the older woman, a laugh bubbling out of him as she teases him for eating too fast, as he fist-bumps her grandson as he clears the plates. How tragic it would have been for him to remain closed off, a flower enclosed in itself, never sharing the vibrant beauty of his petals with the world.

And it seems as though those lumps in your throat that you’ve just swallowed have got you going…

You pause again at a roadside shop, picking out heart-shaped sunglasses and trading the ugliest souvenir T-shirts you can find, laughing until your sides ache. Chan drapes an obnoxious orange scarf over his shoulder, striking a runway pose that makes you topple over from how hard you’re laughing. But then, in the mirror’s reflection, you catch his gaze—soft, unguarded, and filled with something you don’t dare name. Your breath falters. You’ve never been looked at like this before, as if someone could unravel you completely and still leave you whole.

Come on, come on, come on…

The road stretches endlessly ahead, the horizon blurring as you feed Chan fresh strawberries from a farmer’s market along the road. You don’t question why your pulse skips each time his lips brush your thumb. You don’t question why you’re suddenly sure the fruit would taste sweeter off of his mouth. You simply let the wind whip past, wondering if his cheeks are flushed from the cold or from you. You pray it’s the latter.

Number one party anthem…

“Welcome to Gangneung,” he announces as the car rolls into the small coastal town. The sea glimmers outside your window, and the houses—painted in pastel blues and greens—climb the hills like a living postcard. A group of high schoolers are biking down a narrow street, their laughter reaching you even as you drive away. While three women walk uphill, groceries in hand, their wide-brimmed hats bobbing as they chatter energetically. They seem to be gossiping. They seem happy.

“You remembered,” you say softly, your gaze flickering to him.

“I’d like to go to Gangneung one day,” you had once told him during a late-night walk. “I heard it’s a small town, and the locals agreed to all paint their houses blue. Isn’t that sweet? I’d love to escape there one day, without telling anyone.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he says, giggling. “Well, except Winter—so she could pack a bag for you. And Jisung, so the kids wouldn’t worry. But I didn’t tell them where we’re—”

You don’t let him finish. Stopping yourself would feel unnatural, like damming a river mid-flow. You lean over and press a kiss to his cheek, right where his dimple is hidden.

The look of love, the rush of blood…

“Thank you, Channie,” you whisper. He simply nods, a bit dazed, so are you.

Come on, come on, come on…

Both your cheeks are still burning as you pull up by the sea. You’re the first to step out, stretching your arms to shake off the nerves while Chan rummages through the car. A sudden chill creeps over you, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself.

Number one party anthem…

“Here,” he says, draping a hoodie over your shoulders. He’s got a towel slung casually over one shoulder, and a basket balanced in his hands. “Come on,” he beckons softly, leading you to the shoreline.

He spreads the blanket atop the golden sand and you both lay on it, admiring the sea. You’re lost in your thoughts as you silently nibble at the cheese and crackers Chan brought with him. You haven’t sat before the waves in so long. For all your bravery in courtrooms, you were a coward in real life, scared that the mere sight of the overlapping water would make your buried wish resurface— to be adrift amidst waves, to sink with the peaceful certainty that you won’t resurface again.

But you haven’t felt this serene in a long time. Like you could draw in a deep breath and not dread the one that will follow it.

“I made you something.” Chan blurts suddenly, and you twist your neck to look at him. You’ve seen Chan in many states— happy, angry, weeping. But you haven’t seen him this nervous before.

“What is it?” you ask, your curiosity tinged with caution as you sit up.

He hesitates, his words tumbling over one another. “I’m sorry if this is too much, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the melody you hummed. I... I turned it into a piano piece. I recorded it. Do you want to hear it?”

He offers an earphone with trembling hands. Your own shake as you tuck it in, and then—oh god.

“Chan, I—” you choke, clutching his arm as the music flows into you. It’s her. It’s your mother, her voice resurrected in the notes. It’s as though he’s handed you a forgotten fragment of time, lighting it up, brushing away the dust of years. The memories flood back—her hand in yours, the melody she sang to you like a lullaby for your soul. Because she loved you, so much. You were once very loved.

You close your eyes as silent tears slip down your face. It’s a short recording, just fifty-five seconds, so you replay it, again and again, until the night falls gently around you. You want to live, you want to live if only to keep her voice alive.

“Should we go swim, Chan? I feel like swimming.” You suddenly say, a smile breaking through your face. This is the easiest it has been for you to grin in a long time.

“We’ll get sick,” he says, though a grin tugs at his lips.

“We haven’t been kids in so long”, you say and something shifts in his gaze. He understands, so he nods, suddenly picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Wait, not like this!” you shout, flailing as Chan hoists you up with ease. But it’s no use—he’s already running and the next thing you know, you’re plunging into the cold water.

He dives in after you, surfacing with a loud laugh that echoes across the shoreline. The water is freezing, but it doesn’t matter. He feels weightless, unburdened, like a child again, like he could do anything he wishes for in this world, like he could get on his knees and confess to you right there and then.

You’re both trembling still by the time you reach the hotel. You linger by the entrance, your gaze tracing the cracked wallpaper and worn-out carpets. Chan is at the desk, talking to the receptionist. Snippets of their conversation float your way—“only one room... unfortunately a pipe broke... an old hotel.”

Oh.

When he returns, his ears are tinged with pink. “There’s only one room left,” he stammers. “The other one has a water leak. But it’s okay! We can find another hotel. I understand you might be—”

“Christopher, I’m fucking freezing,” you interrupt, teeth chattering. He giggles softly, boyish. “I’ll let you shower first, then.”

The room is sparse, reminiscent of a hanok. There are no beds, only two padded mats that side by side on the heated floor, and a small desk in one corner. It feels intimate, ten times smaller as Chan stands behind you.

“Go ahead,” he says, “I’ll wait.”

You quickly grab your bag and retreat to the bathroom. With trembling hands, you unlock your phone.

Y/n: Winter!!!!!!!!!! Are you here?

Winter: OMG are you still with cherry man?

Y/n: Yes, and we’re sharing one room 🫣

Winter: Wooooooo my ship is sailing

Y/n: I hate you. Did you pack me cute pajamas at least?

Winter: Of course i foresaw this

You giggle slightly, gusts of powdery air materializing before you.

Y/n: I’ll kill you once I’m back!!!

Winter: you love me 😘 you’ll have to tell me everything when you come back

Y/n: I will ❤️ He’s very sweet… and confusing

Winter: Just trust your gut

Trust your gut? You’re quite unsure what your gut is trying to spell out for you. You sigh, before quickly heading into the shower. You know Chan must be freezing too even if he tries not to show it.

You hear the water cascade down when he goes in after you, still avoiding your gaze. It feels almost forbidden to imagine him standing there, steam curling in clouds scented with your cherry shower gel. He’ll carry it with him, you think—a faint trace of you on his skin. That thought seems to send goosebumps rippling down your spine.

Later, the two of you lay atop your mats in a quiet darkness. You can hear the hum of the heater, and the splashing of the waves far away. You don’t remember falling asleep, but the cold wakes you, sharp and biting.

“Chan?” you whisper into the quiet.

He hums instantly. He hasn’t slept.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“I am.”

“Should we move closer? Body heat and all,” you suggest, your voice barely audible. You hear him swallow in the dark.

Slowly, cautiously, he inches closer until your shoulders brush. You wrap a tentative arm around his waist, and he draws you in, his palm resting on your back. The embrace feels intimate, terrifyingly so, but you stay. He is warm. He smells like pinewood and cherry. He smells like you and him.

“Good?” he asks, voice rough, and you nod. “Yeah, good.”

You hear his heartbeat, frantic at first, mirroring yours, then slowing down as the minutes pass by. It feels familiar to lay so close to him, it feels natural, ordinary.

“Channie?” you whisper.

“Yes, Cherry?”

“How different do you think we’d be, if we hadn’t gone through the things we did?”

You don’t know why you ask, except that today, for the first time in forever, you feel like blank paper—uncrumpled, untainted, left to be.

He thinks for a while, his hand threading gently through your hair, lulling you back toward sleep.

“I think I would open my heart more,” he finally says, voice soft. “I’d be myself without fearing judgment or abandonment. I’d stop chasing perfection. I’d just... exist.”

You nod against him. “You should stop apologizing for wanting the things you do.”

It feels hypocritical coming from you, but you mean it.

“Yeah, Cherry,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “And you?”

“I’d allow myself to love. Without fear. I’d be someone worthy of being loved.”

A pause stretches between you, heavy and sharp. You inhale deeply.

“I’ve dated people,” you say quietly, “it drives Seungmin’s crazy because I know he wants to protect me from heartbreak,” you giggle softly, memories of the long talks Seungmin had dealt you flooding your mind.

“He’s a good brother.”

“He is,” you smile, before sighing. “But I don’t know how to tell him that it has always been for fun. They know what they’re getting into, which is, nothing beyond a few dates because... that’s all I have to give. I’m afraid someone might waste their time peeling away my layers, only to find nothing worthwhile. I’m hollow inside, Chan. A hollow chest can’t beat for another. Not in the way they deserve.”

His hand stills, his grip falters on your back. You hope he has heard your plea, unspoken, that he can read between the lines of your words. Please, you beg. Don’t love me. Don’t hurt yourself.

—

Chan sees it then, as evident as the rising of the sun. The truth of you, the truth of himself. Chan is loved by many, yet he doesn’t feel loved. You do not love Chan, perhaps you will never allow yourself to love another, and yet—he still loves you. Despite your warnings, he does. Even if you paint the image of the most violent of heartbreaks, he still will.

—

You judge heels by two criterias: one, how easy they are to stand long hours in, and two, how satisfying they sound when you walk. The powdery pink Jimmy Choos Seungmin gifted you hit both marks perfectly, sounding particularly delicious as you stride through the halls of Sun Corporation’s headquarters.

From the corner of your eye, you catch employees glancing up from their desks, whispers rising as you breeze past the secretary’s protests, her voice growing increasingly frantic. But you already know where you are headed: straight for the conference room, where you know an important meeting is currently unfolding.

Fun!

The secretary, a petite brunette, jogs after you, her heels barely keeping up with her urgency. She plants herself in front of the double doors, blocking your path, literally, with her arms outstretched.

“Miss, you can’t go in there,” she says, chest slightly heaving. “This is a private meeting.”

You flash her a thin smile, the kind that looks anything but kind. “Private? How convenient! It seems like they’ve kept their corruption private too!”

Her face pales, and she stammers. “I… I’m sorry, but I’ll need you to wait. Mr. Choi is—”

“Expecting me,” you cut her off, brushing past her without a second glance.

With a forceful push, you throw open the conference room doors. The chatter inside ceases instantly, replaced by stunned silence as ten executives turn to face you. At the head of the table sits Choi Min-soo, the CEO. His expression remains calm as his gaze locks with yours. He’s young, roughly in his thirties, surrounded only by men, of course. Perhaps that's why he keeps accumulating one bad decision after the other.

Choi leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Who let you in here?”

“Apologies for the interruption,” you say, though there’s not a shred of remorse in your voice. “I’m here about the demolition permit for Promise Orphanage.”

Choi leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t recall scheduling a meeting with you.”

“No, you didn’t,” you reply coolly. “But I thought I’d save your secretary the trouble. Some things simply can’t wait. Surely you understand.”

An executive to Choi’s right clears his throat, tapping his fingers against the table in a measured rhythm. “This is a private meeting. You can’t just barge in—”

“Oh, but I can,” you curtly cut him off, “And I have. Now, if you’d prefer, we can do this in front of the press, but I thought you’d appreciate the courtesy of keeping this internal.”

Choi’s mask of indifference falters ever so slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Sit,” he says curtly.

You ignore him, instead leaning forward, your palms pressing into the polished surface of the table. “No need for pleasantries. Let’s cut to the chase. I have evidence that the city’s approval for your demolition project didn’t come through lawful means. Bribery, to be precise.”

A heavy silence blankets the room. The executives exchange uneasy glances, but Choi’s smirk betrays no concern. Though you know it is all rehearsed. Every expression is part of the masquerade that is their lives.

“I could sue you for defamation, you know,” he says, leaning forward. He’s beautiful, but in a sinister way. Like staring into the core of a bubbling volcano knowing it could swallow you whole.

“Is it defamation if it’s supported by your own emails?”

From your bag, you retrieve a thick stack of documents and toss them onto the table. One of the younger executives fumbles to pick them up, his face paling as he scans the contents.

“These emails detail discussions between your company and key city council members about how to tip their votes in your favor. Then there are the transaction logs. Substantial sums of money deposited into personal accounts, labeled as ‘consulting fees.’ Oddly enough, these transactions occurred right after a cozy dinner at that hotpot spot downtown. Convenient timing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your grin widens as you add, “All of it obtained lawfully, of course.” You know they’re infuriated by you. You’ve learned over the years that men like these don’t fear consequences as much as they despise being brought down by a woman.

“There is nothing illegal about consulting fees,”a voice quips from your right, “it’s standard practice.”

“Standard practice,” you repeat, tilting your head. “How fascinating that these fees always seem to align perfectly with approvals for morally bankrupt projects. This isn’t your first rodeo, Choi, is it? Remember the nursing home? Your big debut? The one that earned you Daddy’s approval?”

Choi’s fist slams onto the table. The sound echoes sharply through the room. You don’t flinch.

“How dare you speak to me like this?”

“And how dare YOU prioritize greed over the lives of children?!” you fire back, your voice rising. “YOU are the one bulldozing an orphanage to fatten your pockets. Not me.”

The room shifts uneasily. The executives glancing at one another, avoiding your gaze.

“You have two choices,” you say, straightening. “Withdraw the permit and take responsibility for the lives you’re willing to destroy, or I’ll take this to the media. Every email, every transaction log, it’ll all be public knowledge. Let’s see how long you keep your title when the truth comes out.”

Choi chuckles, a sinister sound that sends shivers down your spine. Spoiled assholes are always somewhat deranged. “So let me get this straight. You barge in here, threatening ME in my OWN office? Do you have any idea what this project is worth? FUCKING BILLIONS! And powerful people back it, people who won’t tolerate interference.”

You pick up your bag, winking. “Then I suggest you start figuring out how to explain this mess to them. You have five days to withdraw the permit. Good luck!”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and stride out, the sharp clicks of your heels like music to your ears. You wave at the secretary who looks at you as if she’s just seen a ghost. And so do the rest of the employees. Your voice must have been loud enough then.

Now that was fun.

Winter launches herself at you as soon as you open the door to her car. “Fuck you were so badass!” she laughs, hugging you tightly and you giggle, the sound light and airy, as you take out your phone from your back pocket, silencing the call with her.

“I can and I have,” she repeats your words, voice dipping lower as you high-five excitedly, your palms almost ricocheting off one another.

“God winter you should’ve seen his face,” you laugh, cheeks almost splitting open, “he looked like a big baby throwing a tantrum!”

“Ah I think this is over, right?” she asks excitedly, as she gets out of the parking lot, “they’ll yield or else you’ll drag their reputation through the mud.”

“I think so,” you sigh, resting your head against the seat cushion. “If they’re any smart they’ll know that the general public will always empathize with children. We’ll wait and see,” you grin, pinching her cheeks. “Either way, I’m not letting them take away the orphanage from us.”

“Never doubted you will,” she smiles widely, before elbowing your side, “girls night then? It’s been so long.”

“Yeah, let’s do it!”

You glance at her as she drives, the sun threading between her blonde strands like molten gold. You’ve always found it ironic that she chose the name Winter for herself when she’s the warmest person you know— she’s the saccharine taste of honey, she’s the colors of the sun and the sounds of a joyous summer. She cannot possibly be a mere human. She’s too kind, too patient for the confines of such a flawed label. You suddenly remember her supporting you as you undertake your law classes, working long hours at the bakery near your home to pay for Seungmin’s lessons. You feel her move for you when your body was too weary to even stir.

“I love you,” you suddenly say, your voice a raspy whisper, and she turns to look at you, her eyes softening. “Yah save this for the sleepover.”

The sun has long slipped beneath the horizon, as you talked the night away with Winter, stomachs full of sweetened Soju and laughter on the living room floor. You rest your head on her stomach as she idly runs her fingers through your hair, reminiscing. It doesn’t hurt as much to remember these days.

“So, will you tell me about Chan?” she whispers, and you groan, hiding your face in your hands.

She giggles at your reaction, gently scratching your scalp. “Come on. How was your getaway?”

It takes you a few moments to admit it. Out of joy. Out of fear. “It was the happiest I’ve been in a long while, Winter.”

“You don’t sound happy about it,” she observes, and you nod.

“I’m terrified, because he’s confusing me.”

She’s silent, and you gather your memories—the ones that have kept you afloat for the past week, the ones that have mended some hidden part of your heart, though you can’t say which one. It is too scarred to keep count, but you can feel it, something inside you has healed, something caged within you can breathe again.

“He remembered which coastal city I wanted to visit, something I said on a whim during one of our walks, years ago, Winter” you say softly, as though speaking of his memory would make the universe take him away from you.

“He took me to eat oysters; You know how much I love oysters. He wore every ugly souvenir I gave him,” you giggle faintly before quieting down. You choose to skip over your mother’s piano piece secret. You feel as if you’d desecrate it by speaking of it, like it’s a memory that belongs only to Chan, you, and the sea. “And then… since we had to share a room, we cuddled because it was cold.”

You expect her to tease you, but her voice is gentle as she asks.

“How did you feel?”

You think hard of how you felt. How easy it was to fall asleep near him. How beautiful he looked as dreams wrote themselves behind his eyelids.

“I felt safe. Like I could let go, and he’d be there to catch me.”

“I don’t think he would hurt you. I don’t think he could, even if you hurt him.”

You sigh, straightening up to meet her gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt him, Winter. That’s my issue. And I know I will.”

“Why would you—”

“I’m a bundle of issues, grief, and sorrow,” you cut her off, resigned. “You know that. I didn’t choose to be this way, but I am. I will taint him.”

“What I know,” she says, taking your hands in her own, “is that you are a good person. Your heart is warm and full of goodness, despite everything that happened to you. Grief changes a person, injustice changes them even more. But your heart still overflows with love. That’s something not everyone can say.”

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes.

“Winter, have you ever found a flower so beautiful? You see it, and its petals are the brightest colors, almost calling to your soul. Would it be right to cut it and take it home? Yes, it might bring you joy for a while. You’d change its water, add vinegar and sugar cubes. But then what? It’ll falter and die early. Because I was selfish. Because I hurt the flower, even though I loved it so much.”

Your voice cracks, and the tears you’ve been holding back are now dangerously close to spilling. She’s quiet for a long moment, and you begin to believe you’ve imagined this whole conversation. But then—

“What if that flower’s only wish is to be loved?”

Sometimes, words feel like a soothing balm coating your wounds. Sometimes, they feel like a dagger suddenly protruding what’s left of your heart. Sometimes they feel like both.

Your phone pings, and you reach for it through a hazy view, grateful for the small distraction.

Except it isn’t.

Jaehyun: Your cherry man just paid for San’s hospital bills.

You frown, and Winter leans over to peek at your screen.

Y/n: What???

Jaehyun: Yeah, he just called me. An anonymous (beautiful) man (with dimples ;) per the nurse’s description) paid for all his mother’s expenses.

Winter stares at you knowingly as your heart does somersaults—throbbing in your chest, in your throat, in your stomach. You feel him everywhere, Chan, like he’s made a home inside you and is now setting you ablaze.

Does he have to be so kind? Does he have to make it so hard for you not to love him?

Somehow, it’s 4 a.m. before you notice, Winter sleeps soundly beside you while you lie wide awake. You can’t stop thinking about Chan. His desire to be seen, his fear of it too. His voice. His warm hands. His soft lips. His heart. His soul.

You slip away from Winter and head to the balcony, a shawl wrapped around your arms. You hesitate for a moment, then press ‘Call’.

“Cherry?” Chan answers instantly, and your shoulders relax despite yourself. Is this what it feels like to be a flower plucked from millions? Cherished. Loved.

“Hi, Channie,” you whisper, and you hear him rustling in bed.

“Are you okay? Where are you? Do you need me to pick you up?” His questions come fast, and you stop him before he can leap out of bed.

“No, no. I just… I wanted to thank you. For what you did for San.”

“Oh, who told you?” he sounds sheepish, timid. “I thought I told the nurse to keep it anonymous.”

“Well, not many men have dimples as pretty as yours.” The words slip out before you can stop them. You don’t hate yourself when you hear Chan chuckling softly, the bed covers rustling with his movements. Does he too chase remnants of your perfume on his pillows? Does he too imagine you laying on his bed once more?

“Well, it’s the least I could do.”

“No, you didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to take me on that trip, or rearrange your whole schedule to spend a night watching shitty dramas with me. You didn’t have to do any of it. So why? Why do you do these things, Chan?” you ask, breathless.

He sighs softly. “Does it make you happy, Cherry? When I do these things?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have your answer.”

Oh.

The silence stretches, long and endless. Your shoulders hurt from always being cowered, tense. You wish you could ease them down.

“Thank you for making me happy. Sleep well, Channie.” You hang up before he can reply, before he can call you Cherry again. Because it makes you feel like dying. To love Chan in a world where you won’t let him love you feels like the biggest of deaths.

—

Seungmin’s earliest memories have always been of you.

There was a hollow space in his small heart, carved with the dullest of knives, something that pulsed even though he didn’t know who was it far. He knew his parents existed, he remembers his old home, but only faintly. They’d been taken too soon, he didn’t have much to hold on to.

So it was always you and him.

He remembers being a whiny child, crying endlessly because he didn’t understand why the world was so cruel—to him, but mostly to you. It confused him deeply, the way people overlooked your kindness. You were his older sister, his light. Why, then, couldn’t everyone else see you the way he did?

By the time he grew more into his body, into his heart, the tears stopped coming as often. He noticed the way a light dimmed in your eyes every time you tried to console him, and it frightened him. He didn’t know how many lights you had to give, or how many were left. So, he stopped crying.

Seungmin started piecing together truths he didn’t yet know how to speak. He began to understand the sharpness in your voice when prospective parents visited the orphanage, the urgency in your words when you told him to hide in the bathroom. You were protecting him. You didn’t want to be separated from him. It was almost impossible for two children to be adopted at once.

He began to understand why you always came back a bit breathless from talking to the older kids, the ones you strictly forbade him from playing with. Why would blue marks always appear on your arms after those conversations. Why he often heard you crying at night when you believed him long asleep.

And it killed him. There was no other way to describe it, because Seungmin had scraped his knee and lost his parents, and yet it did not hurt as much as it did when you were hurt. So, he tried to be as small as possible, as quiet, he tried to not get sick, to get good grades, to do his bed and yours. He tried to be perfect, so you wouldn’t be burned by him. So you wouldn’t cry when looking at him asleep.

Joy was scarce in Seungmin’s life. And it was all tied back to you. He was practical, even as a child, understanding early that he’d have to work harder than most to make something of himself. But not for personal gain, it was all to repay you for everything you gave him.

Then, one day, he stumbled onto something unexpected—a gift. A cheat code. “You’ve got a beautiful singing voice,” Miss Jeeho told him on his second night at Promise Orphanage. She had caught him singing in the garden. He didn’t like singing in front of other people. He feared you’d be punished for it too. “Have you ever thought of becoming a singer?”

The idea felt like cracking open a window in a suffocating room, a breath of air sweeping through the dust and decay of a crushed life. For the first time, he saw a semblance of dream take shape. He felt hope settle below his ribs, softening the thorns in his chest.

So he researched in the library of his school obsessively on this topic. How to be a singer, how to audition, how to win. He kept it hidden from you in all the years you spent in Promise Orphanage. Only Miss Jeeho knew, and she was kind, he didn’t feel scared sharing his hope with her. He was fifteen when he told you, after a year of relentlesses fighting to gain his custody. “I want to be a singer.”

You froze for a second, and Seungmin hasn’t stopped wondering where your mind went in that moment.

“Will you help me?” he asked, voice burning with resolve. “It pays well. I promise I’ll debut, and I’ll make you proud. And I’ll repay you, for all of it, I swear.”

“What’s this talk of you repaying me?” you said softly, your eyes so kind it made him want to weep. “All of me is for you, Seungminnie.”

Seungmin felt a sharp, throbbing ache in his chest at that moment. There she was, his greatest supporter, promising to back his dream. And yet, he felt hideously worthless, as though merely looking at the mirror would make it shatter.

It was then he named it—the poison coursing through his veins, the thorn lodged deep in his throat—the guilt. He wore that guilt like a second skin, its barbed wires sinking deeper into his soul with each passing year. Did you have a dream, too? Did you abandon your own to make room for him? He should’ve asked what your dream was. He should’ve begged you to keep your heart for yourself.

Seungmin could not rewrite the past, could not save his parents, could not undo his own birth so that you would not carry the weight of him. So, he sought to make up for it. He never spoke of his weariness during practice, nor of the pain, the fear, or the anger that gnawed at him. He only shared the triumphs—him ranking second on the entry competition, his voice praised by the vocal coaches at the company, finding friends that turned into family who genuinely cared for him, and you with time, that he would debut soon, that he has made it.

He spent his first paycheck on you, buying you the heels you’ve been eyeing for a long time, the ones you wore to your first courtroom. He spent the next on you too, and the one after it. He overcompensated for the guilt– gifts, flowers, a luxurious coffee machine, a two weeks retreat fully paid. He grew overbearing too, when it came to your heart, when it came to protecting it, disapproving of every person you chose to date.

He understood after a while that you weren’t looking for anything serious, at least not for now. Your dates seemed to understand this too. But he was afraid that one day you’d fall for someone who’s still looking for fun, who wouldn’t care for your heart like it was your own.

His hyungs would always poke fun at him for his protective nature, but he couldn’t help it. He was terrified for you, terrified that a heartbreak would be the thing to take you away from him.

He still remembers the look on your face when you caught him sitting in the same restaurant as your date. You’d laughed, and he’d felt sheepish under your gaze. “I told him it was a bad idea,” Jeongin giggled, throwing his hands up.

“I don’t like him,” he grumbled and you had chuckled, ruffling his hair, “when do you ever?”

You had then spent the night with him at the dorms watching movies with all his members. It was a normal occurrence for you to hang out with them, his found family, because they too had been touched with your kindness, back when they were all still trainees and you insisted on making them homemade food.

Seungmin knew it was your way of clinging to a normal home, that too killed him a little.

He knew that the members loved you, that they too cared for you deeply. Though they liked to annoy Seungmin by flirting with you. Which made you giggle, so, although he despises it, he still lets it slide.

Which brings him to today.

Seungmin hasn’t seen you since the concert at Kyocera Dome. So, he spammed you long enough for you to finally agree to have dinner in his dorm. Except 3RACHA was there too since they were all working on a song. It wasn’t their presence that weirded out Seungmin. Nor the fact that Han and Changbin took turns flirting with you, turning more obnoxious and loud and making Seungmin wish he could hit them with the plates on the table. Not that.

It was Chan. Who looked tense, jaw tight, his fingers flexing each time they sent a flirty remark your way.

Was he��� Jealous?

“Thank you honey,” Han says, blowing you a kiss when you hand him his chopsticks. You giggle and Seungmin buries his face in his hands when Changbin grabs your plate, declaring that he will cut the steak for you.

“She doesn’t like meat cut that way,” Chan suddenly says, taking away the knife and plate from Changbin. Your cheeks blush as if a dahlia blossomed there. Han and Changbin exchange knowing looks.

Okay. What?

“Is there something—” he asks when your phone suddenly rings and he quiets down, swallowing the question with the rest of his beer. That would have been a stupid question, anyways.

“Winter!” you pick up, tone cheerful. Though all the color drains from your face as she speaks, the flower withering and turning into ash.

“W-what…?” you ask, slightly dazed, your hand gripping the table.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Cherry, what’s wrong?” so does Chan.

Cherry?

“The orphanage…” you say, Chan seems to understand what you’re talking about perfectly. You don’t finish, getting up and running out of his dorm. Everyone gets up on cue following you. “We’ll take my car,” Changbin says.

—

Is it possible to have sinned right before birth? To have done something so terrible you cannot atone for it no matter how much time passes. You accept it, you accept that your star is an unlucky one. You accept that even the most restless waters will always drown you, not carry you. Still, for how long do you have to pay the price, over and over again? Till how long is it no longer justice? Till how long does it become the universe toying with you? Does it think you can’t break? Does it think there is no limit to how much you can take?

Because there is.

You think you’ve reached it now.

Time seems to have slowed down, so much you’re sure five lifetimes have passed between each of your breaths. You know that there must be people screaming, a loud shatter, the sirens of ambulances and firefighters. Still, it’s quiet in your head. Save for a faint ringing, a buzzing, like a swarm of bees has lodged itself within your ear.

The earth is moving beneath your feet, it threatens to split open and swallow you. And you’d let it. You don’t have the nails to dig yourself out. You don’t have the will. You don’t have the hope.

You almost feel like laughing. You’re cursed. Every bit of happiness comes back to haunt you down the line.

It’s hot, extremely hot, and ashy. And you’re before the orphanage but you don’t smell rust. You smell smoke, pungent and bitter. You smell loss. You smell your last hope dying.

The orphanage is burning.

The kids are outside, covered in blankets and hugged turn by turn by the staff— Miss Jeeho, Mister Seonghwa, the cook, the gardener, the teachers, the psychologist, Winter.

The firefighters are trying to control the fire, but it’s spreading rapidly before your eyes, emboldened by the wooden floors and squeaky doors. You are losing your home again. The fire is eating the room you slept in, the kitchen where you learned how to cook, the garden where you caught Seungmin singing to Miss Jeeho. It’s eating the stairs where you sat with Winter laughing, the attic where you hid when existing became too rough.

It’s eating your memories, it’s eating you.

“What’s— what’s happening?” Seungmin stammers, his hand on your shoulder. You feel like kids again, back when the policeman came to your home and found only you and a toddler inside. A kid caring for a kid.

Winter sees you from afar, rushing to wrap you in her arms. You don’t feel her warmth. You don’t feel anything, now that you’re thinking of it. Has your heart bled dry? Finally?

“Cherry,” you hear but you brush the hand away, walking towards two firefighters once only smoke remains. “Who started it? The fire?” you ask breathlessly.

“Why?” they ask, cautious, “do you have reason to believe it was intentional?”

“Who started it?” you repeat.

“It’s too early to tell,” he says, eyes fixed on his coworker, sweat dripping from his brow, his forehead smeared with ash. “Preliminary findings suggest it began in the garden, which is odd, since there’s no apparent cause and no sign of a cigarette. The owner claims no one smokes. We did find what looks like traces of gasoline, but more investigation is needed. It spread quickly towards to the utility room, where there are electric wires. Something, or someone must’ve sparked it, and now it’s out of control.” He sighs, “We’ll call the police.”

You feel it then, a stone that sinks deep within your gut: they burned it. Sun Corporation burned the orphanage because if there is no orphanage then there is no case. They burned the orphanage and you with it.

—

“Would someone tell me what’s going on?” Seungmin grows more agitated the more you remain silent in your apartment. You can tell everyone is looking at you, waiting for you to snap out of your daze. But you don’t know where to begin. You don’t know how this will end.

“Miss Jeeho called,” Winter says softly, reappearing from the balcony. “There’s enough suspicion to begin an investigation. They need my testimony.” Changbin, without a word, stands and grabs his car keys. “I’ll drive you,” he says. She nods in reply.

“Do the kids have a place to go tonight?” Han asks, his voice laced with concern. Winter shakes her head. “No, Miss Jeeho is still trying to figure that out.”

“Alright,” Han says, pulling out his phone. “Let me call the others for help.”

“You have my card,” Chan says, pressing a sleek, cold card into Winter’s hand.

“Text me,” you tell Han, and he nods, following Changbin and Winter out the door.

And then there were three.

“Would you please tell me?” Seungmin asks again, kneeling before you. His voice is quieter now, laced with something you hadn’t anticipated—hurt, confusion. A part of you stirs alive and you sigh, beginning to recount everything— the apartment, the corruption, San, the meeting, the fire— but your voice feels like someone else’s, void, unfamiliar.

“And why didn’t you tell me any of this?” he asks once you finish. There’s raw pain coating his gaze, Seungmin has always been an open book to you.

“I was going to tell you,” you murmur, “once the permit was withdrawn. I didn’t want to burden you with this.”

“But I want you to burden me!” his voice rises slightly, as he stands up, pacing before you. “I could have helped you. I would have stood by you!”

“Seungmin, please,” you breathe, the weight of it all pressing against your chest.

“You don’t always have to carry everything alone. It doesn’t make you stronger, it only makes the pain ten times worse,” he presses his eyes shut, “I wouldn’t have hid something like this from you.”

“Well, you’re not me!” You snap, and he flinches, recoiling like you’ve struck him. You’ve never raised your voice at Seungmin before.

There she is, the person who pushes those who love her away, the person who deserves to be punished.

“I’ll go help the boys,” he softly says, walking out, shoulders slumped. He looks smaller now, like you’ve just hurt the child within him mourning his only home.

“Cherry…” Chan’s voice cuts through the tense silence, and you rise to your feet, instinctively covering your face. “Not you too, Chan.”

“Would you talk to me?” His voice is gentle. “You haven’t said a word in over an hour. This isn’t healthy, I know this must hurt so you shouldn’t keep it all inside.”

“I don’t have anything to say,” you reply, your voice colder than you intended. Please go, you beg. Please, before I snap at you too.

“Just talk, okay? Say whatever comes to your mind. I’ll listen to you. It’ll feel better if you let it all out.”

“Except it won’t!” The words come out harsher than you meant, and you feel yourself spiraling. You’re throwing up thorns, and you can’t stop it. “You don’t always know what’s best for people, alright? You can’t always fix people, Chan! And I can’t be fixed! Talking about it won’t help, keeping it in won’t help, because this is who I fucking am. This is all I’ve known.”

“Cherry, please. You know that’s not what I meant.” His voice is soft, still tender, still trying to reach you.

He still calls you Cherry. He’s still here. You can feel the desperation creeping inside, a bitter realization that they should all run before you curse them too.

“Oh, come on,” you laugh, the sound hollow. It feels like daggers slicing through your throat as you speak. “Don’t you see me as a project to fix? Something to make you feel in control for all the years you’ve lost it?”

“Is this how low you think of me?” he asks, taking a step back, his face a mix of hurt and disbelief. “I never thought you needed fixing.”

“Well, it’s how I felt around you,” you say, the words spilling out like venom. Liar. Liar. Liar. “Like I’m the poor orphan and you’re the knight in shining armor, coming to save me.” He looks like you’ve just slapped him in the face.

Does he hate you now? Does he hate you as much as you hate yourself?

“You know, you should stop punishing yourself, Yn.” He says your name, not Cherry, but your name, plain and flat. It feels like all your little deaths combined in one. “You only have one sin and it’s that you wish to be loved.”

He pauses. You feel as if the world was cracked wide open. You feel as if your soul just splattered before his feet, naked, trembling.

“And I love you. God, I’ve loved you for the past ten years, and I wish you could open your heart just a little bit to see it.”

“What?” you ask, breathless, the words barely leaving your mouth before he turns away, silent. He doesn’t answer. He leaves.

He left.

Your feet move before your mind can catch up, and suddenly you’re running after him. “What do you mean you love me?” you shout, the words raw, desperate. Your chest is heaving, breaths coming in ragged gasps. You’re sure your neighbors are peeking from their windows, watching, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now except him, nothing has in a long time. “What do you mean, Chan?!”

“Forget it,” he mutters.

“You can’t say that and ask me to forget it!” you shout and he chuckles, hand tightly gripping his hair in frustration.

“Has it not been clear? That you’d ask me to get you the moon and I'd fucking die trying. Can’t you see that I’d sacrifice the sun if it means making you happy?”

You back away, tears streaming down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow. No. Yes. No. How?

“N–no, you… You shouldn’t love me.”

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” His voice rises, raw and hoarse. “I’m human too, it kills me to love someone who I know won’t ever love me. But tell me, please, teach me how to pause the throbbing of my heart. Teach me how to silence it when it calls out your name, when it aches because it misses you so much I feel like I’m dying. When there is a void in my soul shaped after your laugh, your smell, your words, how do I—“ his hands land on your shoulders, his forehead resting on the crook of your neck. You can feel the shaking of his hands, you can feel his being unraveling before you.

Your hands curl in tight fists, you are broken, shattered, there is no glue that could piece you back together. Even if gold travels between your shards, it will not make you into something beautiful. You’ll remain a disaster. You’ll ruin him too.

“Look at me.” You shake your head, unwilling, unable to face him. “Please, Cherry, look at me. Even if you’ll leave me right now, please, I— I’d rather you leave while looking at me.”

You bite your lip, choking on the sob rising in your throat.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” he pleads, taking your palm and placing it atop his chest.You can feel the erratic thrum of his pulse, alive and desperate beneath your hand. “Say it. Say you never will. Make me believe it, so this thing inside me will die. Please.”

“I can’t say that,” you whisper. The world offers itself at your feet. “I can’t say that because I won’t mean it.” Your eyes finally meet his, you wonder what he sees in yours. You wonder how someone like him could ever love you.

You lick your lips tentatively, tasting the saltiness of your tears and the cherry of your chapstick.

“Do you know what a bleeding heart dove is? It’s a small pigeon, with a plumage so white and pristine it resembles the first snow. But right in the middle of it, there is a patch of crimson, it looks like a bullet wound Chan, it looks like his little heart is always bleeding.” Your voice cracks like glass, Chan’s eyes soften more than you’ve ever thought was possible. “That’s how I feel, like I always always carry this wound that won’t ever heal. It bleeds and it bleeds and the blood oozes so much at times that I choke with it. I don’t want to taint you with it too.”

“What if I want you to taint me?” His warm palms cradle your cheeks, threads of sunlight brushing against your skin. “What if I want you to change me? What if I want everyone who has looked at me to know that I’m loved by you?”

You smile softly, shaking your head. “That would be selfish of me.”

“Then love me selfishly, love me with greed. Just love me, Cherry. Please, love me,” he begs, his eyes boring into yours. You peer into him, his soul, the sincerity in his offering to you— his heart, so fragile, yet so resolute in loving you.

“You’re so beautiful, Channie,” you gently say, as your palms tenderly cup his cheeks. His eyes flutter closed, tears staining your hands as he leans into your touch, placing his heart right in your hands. “I’d like some time to think of myself as beautiful, too. Would you wait for me? Until I figure it out.”

He softens. “I waited for you for ten years. I’d wait for you for an eternity if I have to.”

A knot forms in your throat. “You’re so sweet, God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know you don’t pity me, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just so overwhelmed and everything spiraled down and I don’t know where to even begin now,” you ramble, and he cuts you off by placing a tender kiss atop your wrist.

“Would you breathe now?” he smiles and your world somehow brightens despite it all. “I'm not mad, alright? And we’ll figure it out together, Cherry. You have us. You always did.”

Your voice is small as you mumble– “Seungmin is mad at me.”

“He’s not. He always wants to protect you so he feels bad when you don’t let him in. You know that.”

You did, of course you do.

You feel a little less ashamed of plucking a beautiful flower out of its soil. You’ll insuflate your own soul in it to keep it blooming.

“Will you stay with me, Chan?”

“Always.”

—

“So, they burned down the orphanage?” Jeongin asks, disbelief thick in his voice as you finish recounting the horrors of the past month.

Your small apartment is packed the day after the fire—Winter, Jaehyun, Miss Jeeho, San, and the boys. Some sit huddled on couches, others sprawl across the floor, leaning into one another. You’ve never known that warmth could become a tangible thing, that it could weave itself around your heart like silk, drip sweetness down your ribcage like rivers of honey. You feel it, despite how harrowing the situation is, because all your friends care. They care for the orphanage like it’s their own.

“Yeah, I’m sure of it,” you reply. “We got a report of a suspicious van speeding off right after the fire started.”

“And remnants of gasoline were found at the scene,” Jaehyun adds, taking a leisurely sip out of his beer. “The police are tracing it now.”

You nod, thinking back to the police chief who happened to be one of your high school classmates. He got promoted and he promised he’d tell you first, if anything happened. “Yeah, the firefighters confirmed that it was arson. Once the police officer gets back at us I’ll file a lawsuit against them.”

“But can you believe the fucking nerve?” Felix scoffs, “I just read their statement: ‘We are extremely saddened by the news of the burning of Promise Orphanage due to faulty wiring. We promise to work side by side with the community to ensure the children are safe and living in better conditions’. Do they think we are stupid?”

“They’re lying,” Miss Jeeho says bitterly. “Trying to save face while they can.”

Hyunjin’s face pales. “This makes me sick,” he whispers. “The fact that they’d endanger those kids just for their agenda…” He trails off, shaking his head, and the room falls into a heavy silence.

“They stopped communicating through emails after you confronted Choi,” San says, his voice tight. “They must’ve realized someone was leaking information. Now everything’s confidential.”

He slumps, defeated, and you reach over to pat his back gently. “It’s okay. I don’t think they’d be dumb enough to discuss arson in emails anyways. We’ll find another way.”

“What about the kids? Are they okay?” Jeongin asks, his brows furrowed in concern.

“They’re doing fine, considering,” Minho answers, nodding toward Han. “Yeah,” Han adds with a soft laugh. “We visited this morning. They’re warm, well-fed, like michelin chef well-fed, we made sure of it, and maybe a little spoiled, we might’ve gone overboard with the toys.” The group chuckles briefly, Minho throwing a pillow at Han’s face before smiling fondly at him.

“But this is all just temporary,” Winter whispers, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “We can’t keep them in a rented house forever. They’ll need to be sent to different locations, scattered across the country.”

“Is there really no other way?” Changbin asks, as he squeezes Winter’s shoulder gently.

“Unless we can rebuild the orphanage in record time, then no. It’s all gone,” Miss Jeeho sighs, and you feel the knot in your throat tighten. You’ve avoided looking at her ever since the fire, you can’t bear the sight of raw grief in her eyes, specifically.

“What if we rebuild the orphanage?” Seungmin suddenly asks. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice during the night.

“We don’t have the funds for that, Seungminnie” you say softly.

“We do,” Chan interjects firmly, “If we all donate, we can raise the money. Start a fundraiser, maybe?”

You see it then, a fickle of hope blossoming in the air.

“You know, it’s not a bad idea,” Jaehyun says, leaning forward. “Media coverage of the case is really strong and it has garnered a lot of public sympathy. I also told friends in media to keep up intense coverage since something big is simmering beneath the case.”

“I can hold a press conference then,” you say, your voice quipping up. “Expose everything, from the beginning and ask for public support.”

“And me,” Seungmin says suddenly, looking up to meet your gaze at last. His voice is steady, but his eyes are tinged with vulnerability. “I want to stand by your side. It’ll help us garner more attention too.”

“Are you sure?” you ask gently. “Are you ready to reveal where you grew up?”

“I’m not ashamed of it,” he replies softly. “It’s because of that place that I’m here today.”

Your heart swells, and tears sting your eyes as you nod. “Alright. Sounds like a solid plan.”

—

You’ve known loneliness long enough to recognize that it doesn’t wear a singular face.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. My name is Y/n Kim, and I am the lead attorney representing Promise Orphanage.”

You’ve known the loneliness that slices your bones. That cuts so deep within your marrow you’re unsure whether the sun will rise tomorrow, whether you’ll be even there to witness it. You knew it when you were ten and your parents simply never came back home.

“You are aware that Promise Orphanage has been burnt down last week. A tragedy for our community as this orphanage housed forty children who only have that place to call a home.”

You’ve known the loneliness that doesn’t stab, its sharp tip always remaining at the edges of your soul, as if threatening you, reminding you that it could sink within you at any given moment. You knew it when you were fourteen and Winter shook your hand for the first time.

“I am here to explain that this isn’t due to uncontrollable circumstances. But a crime. The fire did not start hazardously but was intentionally caused. By Sun Corporation, the subsidiary of Gyeongdo Holdings.”

You’ve known the loneliness that doesn’t fill you, but rather sits beside you on a bench. Loneliness that only manifests when you’re surrounded by people who love you, and who you love. And yet, you feel as if you are enclosed in transparent glass, always keeping you at arm’s length from them. Because your heart is different. Because you grieved a lifetime before you were old enough to understand it.

But for the first time in years, you don’t feel lonely.

Not when the people in your life have worked tirelessly with you for the orphanage, for justice, for the children. Not when a room full of journalists hang onto your every word, cameras flashing, questions flying. Your eyes scan the crowd, landing on your loved ones in the back. They nod.

The legal case is airtight. You’ve worked tirelessly with your team to gather the proof—police reports, financial records, surveillance footage. You exhale, steadying yourself, and nod toward the screen.

“We have obtained documentation, in collaboration with the authorities, confirming that a van was seen fleeing the scene moments after the fire started getting out of control. That van was rented by a company in which Sun Corporation holds 45% of the shares. The individual who rented it is also an employee at Sun Corporation, whose identity we’ll keep anonymous. For now.”

Your eyes meet San’s, and he winks—he’s the one who verified the identity, right after depositing his resignation letter at Sun Corporation.

A journalist raises his hand. “Are you saying Sun Corporation committed arson?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. But don’t take my word for it, of course.”

You press a button on the laptop connected to the speakers.

The room falls silent.

Then, the recording crackles to life.

“Are you insane?! I said a warning, not a damn inferno!”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd, cameras shifting toward the speakers as the voice, angry, panicked, continues.

“You idiots lost control of it! The fire department is involved, you know that bitch is going to the police too. Do you have any idea what’s at stake? BILLIONS! I wanted to sue them for neglect and now we are the ones who will lose EVERYTHING! Fix it, or so help me—”

The recording cuts out. The silence that follows is deafening.

Journalists erupt all at once.

“Who is that speaking?”

“Was this obtained legally?”

“Is Sun Corporation under criminal investigation?”

You raise a hand, and a hush falls upon the room.

“The voice belongs to Choi Sungho, CEO of Sun Corporation,” you confirm. “This recording was obtained from a whistleblower inside the company and has been turned over to the authorities. The police are actively investigating Sun Corporation for arson, conspiracy, and fraud.”

You think back to the brunette secretary. You now know her name—Jia. She once dreamed of becoming a lawyer too, but she needed money for her sister’s medical bills, so she had to give up her aspirations. She heard snippets of the conversations authorizing the fire and recorded the aftermath. You know she’s watching this at home too.

“This is not just a case of reckless endangerment. This is a coordinated criminal act, executed for financial gain. Sun Corporation had previously filed for a demolition permit for the orphanage, but the permit was granted under questionable circumstances.”

You gesture toward the documents on every table.

“There is evidence that Sun Corporation bribed city officials to fast-track the permit process. However, because of our legal scrutiny, the project was delayed. Burning a part of the orphanage to argue neglect was their alternative. But as you can see, it backfired.”

More whispers, more frantic typing. A journalist from the back calls out, “Are you pursuing legal action?”

“Yes. We are also working closely with law enforcement to hold all responsible parties accountable, including those within the city council who enabled this corruption.”

You suck in a deep breath, nodding towards Seungmin who was standing behind the curtains, veiled from everyone’s view.

“There is someone I’d like you to meet now.”

He steps forward, taking the mic from your hand.

The camera flashes become incessant as the interrogations ripple from everywhere.

“Is that…?”

“Wait, Kim Seungmin?”

“What is going on?”

“Hello,” he says, voice reverberating around the room. “My name is Kim Seungmin. Some of you may be familiar with who I am, but today, I do not speak to you as an Idol.” A pause. “I am here as one of the children who once lived at Promise Orphanage.”

The cameras shift, zooming in on his face. Jaehyun excitedly signals that the viewer’s count is rising up rapidly.

“I’ve never spoken about this publicly before, but I am an orphan. My sister,” he nods at you, “raised me. My fans may recognize her voice from some of our songs,” he smiles softly, before sobering up. “We moved from place to place, but Promise Orphanage was the only orphanage that felt like home. The only place where we were truly taken care of, where I was allowed to dream, thanks to Miss Jeeho, the director. She’s the one who helped me become a singer. She’s also the one who helped my sister in her fight for my custody.”

He swallows hard, steadying himself.

“This crime is not just about corporate greed. It’s about children who lost their home overnight. And now, they face being scattered across different locations, losing the only family they have left.”

His gaze fixes every camera, every journalist in place. You feel pride swell in your heart, loud and bright and all encompassing.

“We are not just seeking justice. We are seeking solutions. We are launching a legal fund to rebuild Promise Orphanage. We ask for your steady support in holding Sun Corporation accountable and in ensuring that these children are not left behind.”

“Please don’t let this injustice go unanswered.”

He bows deeply. You follow. Cameras flash, a deluge of light and sound.

It’s done, now. The end of the beginning is finally over.

—

Sometimes a month is just a month. Sometimes a month stretches like ten lifetimes crafted solely to hurt you. Sometimes a month slips through your fingers like running water, not yours to keep.

The past six months have been both, somehow.

You spent sleepless nights building the most solid case against Sun Corporation. Exhausting weeks passed before the judge finally struck his gavel against the wood, charging them with arson, criminal activity, bribery, and interference with civilian law. It took the sweat and tears of many to rebuild the orphanage from the charred ground. It took a lot of love to fill its multicolor walls with children’s laughter again— yours, your brother’s, your friends’, the fans’, the general public’s too.

And yet, when it was all over, when you could finally exhale without fearing the consequences of letting go, you were left with a gaping hole in your chest. Void was an insatiable creature gnawing at your heart, void was a creature that sought something you could not name.

That is until Seungmin talked to you.

“Can I sit?” he asks, pointing to the patch of shade near you. You nod, scooting over as you both lean your backs against the freshly planted pine tree. For a while, it’s quiet as you watch Han and Felix, dressed as clowns, playing hide and seek with a group of children at the orphanage’s reopening party.

“They look happy,” he whispers and you smile softly, letting their giggles waft to your ears.

“They do.”

“I never apologized for that night,” he suddenly says, turning to look at you. “When I got mad because you didn’t tell me about the orphanage.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” you sigh. “I knew how much this place means to you. I knew this was where you figured out what your dream was. I just… didn’t want to burden you, not when you already have so much atop your plate” you explain, gently smoothing down his bangs. “I guess a part of me still sees you as the little kid I have to protect.”

“You were a child too, protecting me,” he whispers, voice hoarse as he places his warm palm over yours. “You don’t have to protect me anymore. I promise. I’d rather you look after your own heart. Listen to what it really wants.”

Your eyes drift toward Chan. He’s playing guitar for a group of older kids, their small hands clapping to the upbeat melody. His smile is the sun. His smile tastes like the ocean breeze.

“Do you like him?” Seungmin asks softly.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“Chan. I’m not blind. I see the way you look at him. The way he looks at you, mostly.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Why would your happiness ever bother me?” He smiles, and you feel a weight dissolve in your chest. The creature within you perks up at his words.

“Then yes,” you admit, breath hitching. “I like him. So much it terrifies me.”

You speak your feelings for the first time, and yet, the sky does not collapse, the earth does not tremble beneath your feet. It feels almost miraculous— to voice what you long for and not be punished for it.

“Sometimes the things that scare us the most are the ones that make us happiest,” he says. “Because we’re scared of allowing ourselves to feel joy. Because we’ve conditioned ourselves to think we don’t deserve it.”

Tears prick your eyes, and you crack a soft smile. “Look at you, saying such wise things.”

“I’m literally twenty-four,” he deadpans and you laugh, ruffling his hair. “But you’ll always be a baby in my eyes, Seungminnie.”

“All right, all right.” He laughs, pulling you into a side hug. “But would you do it? I know you’ve sacrificed a lot for me, it must have hurt to do so,” you go to interject but he stops you, “Please. Would you listen to your heart for once?”

It takes a week away from everyone to do just that. You return to Gangneung, you walk past the blue houses, you talk to the locals and play chess with the grandpas and drink tea with the kind women at the local market. You twirl barefoot by the waves until salt clings to your skin, you lay on the sand and trace constellations with your fingertips. You sit in stillness. And you listen, truly listen, to the silence between each of your breaths. And then slowly, the melody emerges. Faint at first, like a distant lullaby. Then clearer, insistent, unwavering—stuck on a single note.

Chan.

You’ve never quite known who you were. When personality quizzes asked how your friends would describe you, you hesitated. Funny? Sweet? Practical? What about nothing—an emptiness that expands to swallow you whole? You never knew what to say when interviewees asked about your strengths and weaknesses, the things you’d like to change in your being, the ones you’d like to keep. You felt like a water lily floating aimlessly atop the still water, untethered, with no roots to return to.

But you knew you were a coward when it came to your heart. That you craved love so violently you could cleave the earth open with your ache. You knew that your mind had convinced you that you were cursed, flawed, undeserving.

But for the first time, you allow yourself to simply feel human.

You sit by the waves once more, the endless sea stretching before you. The sun disps slowly beneath the horizon, the clouds are dusted pink. Are they blushing too, at the thought of what you are about to do?

You had asked Chan to meet you on the beach at Gangneung whenever he could free himself, and he did—without hesitation. Seungmin texted you that he left the mid-writing session and jumped into his car with no second thought. He seemed happy, he said. That made you happy too.

“You look different,” Chan observes, and you turn away from the sea. His eyes are kind and you don’t shy away from his gaze, for once.

“Different?” you echo.

“At peace.”

You nod, curling your knees to your chest, resting your cheek against them. He follows suit, his legs grazing yours now and then, grounding you in his presence.

“I’ve thought a lot about what it means to be human,” you murmur. “To soften my heart, to open doors I thought were long sealed. I don’t have all the answers. But I found something.”

“What is it?”

“I found you,” you confess, so softly like you are speaking of a prayer. His eyes widen but you press on. “I weighed in the pros and cons, of what I want, of what losing what I want would cost me. And yet, in all my most horrible twisted scenarios, where you’d leave me heartbroken and bleeding, it still feels worth it. It feels worth it if it means you’d love me for a while, and that I’d love you too.”

He gently tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the gesture tender, as all his touches are.

“A while? The only way for me to stop loving you is if my heart stops beating, Cherry.”

“So you still love me?” you ask, a bit shyly, too hopeful.

Chan blinks, then deadpans, “Are we sitting by the sea?”

You burst into laughter, the sound rolling out of you freely. As it fades, you see him—your beautiful Chan—the faint smile lines etching themselves around his lips, the kind warmth in his eyes, the remnants of dimples on his cheeks. He is so achingly beautiful it feels like an axe splitting your chest open. It feels like being born once more.

“I haven’t listened to my heart in so long,” you confess, brushing your thumb against his cheek, letting it trail softly over the corner of his mouth, a whisper against his lips. “But right now, it only wants one thing.”

“I’m yours,” he breathes, lips slightly parted.

There is no one around but the two of you and the sea. Who is there left to pretend for? The play is over. You bow to the sadness. You bow to the grief.

You take a deep breath. You dive into the water. You finally kiss Chan.

You knew that his lips would be as soft as silk, that pressing your mouth to his would be akin to breathing in oxygen for the first time, and yet, you did not imagine it to be this soul-shattering. You did not foresee the fireworks going off behind your eyelids, the bees and the bleeding heart doves singing in your chest, the garden buzzing in your stomach, telling you that you are alive, and that you are loved, at last, and that that is all that matters.

You did not imagine that he would taste like salvation, like honey and cherries and everything beautiful in between. You did not imagine that his tongue dancing along yours would feel like floating atop the sea, warm as sun, carnal like surrendering to your heart’s rawest desires.

You did not foresee that his warm palms would cradle your cheeks, that he would kiss you with the urgency of a starved man. That he would not tire of you, never ceasing, never faltering. That he would lay you on the sand and kiss you till night fell above you both, till your lips are both swollen, tender, and bleeding cherries.

“I love you,” you finally breathe, your heart throbbing all over your body, “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it.”

“Nonsense,” He smiles against your lips. “Even if you only loved my last dying breath, it would still be enough for me.”

—

“So, does this mean I can officially no longer flirt with you?” Han asks, eyes wide with mock horror. Seungmin flicks his forehead in response, and Chan tosses a napkin at him, an amused smile playing at his lips.

“Wait, pause, I can’t believe I lost to Chan,” Changbin pretends to weep, earning a laugh from the others.

“She’s mine,” Chan cocks his eyebrows at them, leaning back on his chair. “Go find yourselves your own partners.”

You are tucked away in a remote town of Japan, a hard-earned vacation after the turmoil you’ve went through the past months. You figured it was the best time to tell the boys that you are dating, only for wave of questions (and indignation, mostly) to immediately crash over you, followed by a group hug that lasted two full minutes, courtesy of Felix.

“Wait, but we liked you first!” Han protests once more, and Seungmin groans, his face contorting in annoyance that borders on anguish. “God, I thought I would be free of this torture.”

“I literally liked her before you guys even saw her,” Chan chimes in with a satisfied grin.

“So you’ve loved her for ten years now?” Hyunjin shouts, raising from his seat dramatically. “Wait this is so romantic.”

“I’m sorry, Jisungie, Binnie,” you tease as you press a lingering kiss to Chan’s cheek.

“Oh my god guys he’s BLUSHING!” Minho shouts, pointing excitedly at Chan. “This is too funny! Channie hyung is so flustered,” Jeongin laughs, whipping out his phone to capture the moment. “Wait, Innie pan over to Seungmin’s face!” Felix claps in pure delight, and you turn to see your brother sulking.

“What? I’m still not used to… this,” Seungmin grumbles, wiggling his fingers in front of you both in exaggerated disgust, but there’s a soft gleam in his eyes. He’s happy for you, only after threatening Chan five hundred times to treat you right, but he’s happy.

“Who wants ice cream?” Chan suddenly asks, not waiting for an answer before he grabs your hand and pulls you away.

“What was that?” you ask once you are out of the house.

“Nothing, I just wanted you all to myself for a bit,” he smiles bashfully, and you giggle, wrapping your arm around his waist. “You’re making it a habit to kidnap me,” you tease.

“Do you mind?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Good,” he grins, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Also, it’s Changbin and Jisung for you,” he chastises, a big pout tugging at his lips.

“Does Mr. Bang feel jealous when I call them Binnie and Jisungie?”

“Yes, I am. Sue me, I worked day and night to be yours. Day and night and for ten years at that too,” he sighs dramatically and you tip your head back in laughter. Your giggles lull when you see it.

“Are we standing underneath…” you draw out.

“A cherry blossom,” Chan whispers, his gaze soft and full of warmth. His smile is so wide, so radiant, it feels like your soul is buzzing, melting underneath his light.

“This reminds me… Did you fall for me because I gave you a cherry lollipop?” you tease, wrapping your arms around the nape of his neck, his hands instinctively finding your waist.

“Yeah, you must have laced that lollipop with something,” he chuckles, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“What if I hadn’t given it to you? What if we hadn’t met at all?”

He softens, his palms cupping your cheeks gently. “I would’ve found you,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours. He can almost taste it, vanilla and bubblegum. “In the streets of Gangneung. As you swam in the sea. In one of your courtrooms… I would’ve found you, my Cherry, and I would’ve loved you just the same.”

What does it mean to soften your heart? What does it mean to open the doors of what you thought was long sealed? The answers didn’t come to you all at once, you found them serendipitously, as you rounded up corners of paths you never thought you’d walk in.

You learned that softness is the greatest act of courage. You learned that to tear down your defenses is the greatest act of rebellion. You learned that love is a patient being, that it is all encompassing, that it heals, but only if you allow it to, only if you let it make a home out of your ribcage.

You learned that being human, unapologetically so, in all of its sorrowful and joyous shades, is to forgive, first and most. To forgive the world, for being sharp at times, for being cruel. To forgive yourself, for depriving your soul of happiness, for doing what you had to do to survive the cold.

To forgive the rust, for walking by your side for a long time. To let cinnamon and pinewood and cherries invade your senses instead, settle upon your sheets and waft into your home. To let the fire within you simmer, to let the anger go, even if it had kept you warm for a while.

For you have the sun now.

You have Chan, and he has you too, at last.

[tarotsoul]

ghost in the wind — part five

summary: harnessing your power is growing easier by the day, and madja finds out some interesting things about witches souls.

warnings: swearing, mentions of torture, kissing, teasing, fingering, handjob, oral (female receiving—all of this is somewhat public), mentions of death

word count: 6.4k

series masterlist

Cassian struggled against the vines that wrapped tight across his midriff, his muscles flexing with power but nothing shifted as they tightened with his every move. His golden skin was coated in a thin sheen of sweat, his shoulder-length hair damp with excursion. 

You were no better. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your skin flushed as your knees began to buckle. Hold it. Rhysand’s voice had continued to purr into your mind throughout the session, guiding and commanding every step of the way. He worked you from sunrise to breakfast, then again from dusk until nightfall. 

It had been your routine for the past two weeks, and with every session, your power and control grew stronger. You could now detain a being with nothing but your mind, could bound and gag with vines and soil. This session, however, was different. Because it wasn’t just vines that wrapped across Cassian’s arms and legs and torso. 

This time, the vines had thorns. And they pierced his skin deeper with every movement he made. 

It had taken an additional two weeks to get to this point. Two weeks of introducing the Inner Circle to your magic, of slowly allowing them past the protective walls your abilities offered. You no longer had to keep your distance from your friends and family. It appeared the only time your magic attacked on its own was when you were startled or afraid. 

You’d been at it for sixty minutes already, your brows dotted with sweat. Rhysand continued to slowly pace the training ring atop the House of Wind. Feyre stood off to the side, a towel in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Nesta watched from beside her, arms crossed against her generous chest as she squinted at the way her mate seethed in discomfort. 

So far, Cassian had not been able to break free from your bindings, nor had he been able to move a single muscle more than an itch. And Rhysand was more than impressed. 

“Good,” he complimented, a noticeably proud smile on his face. At that, you slowly released your power and took a heaving breath of relief. The vines lazily slithered from Cassian’s body, the thorns leaving scratches in their wake that healed almost immediately.

“You’re presenting incredible control. Tomorrow, I’d like for you to make those thorns bigger. And by next week, I’d like to see if you can implement a slow releasing toxin or poison.”

Cassian widened his eyes at his High Lord. “I’m not volunteering for that.”

A smile found your lips as you took a few breaths to settle your lungs again. You had never expected training to be this rewarding. Rhysand was nothing but attentive to your powers and how they worked. He made sure you felt comfortable with everything you tried and he never once tried to push you beyond your limits. 

When you expressed you first wished to harness your power in a defensive way, he was more than happy to oblige. He agreed that perhaps it would be the best way to learn control, and then you could go down the route of healing, learning how to harness it for remediation, too.

And Cassian… well you were unsure if you would ever be able to thank Cassian for the trust he had for you. To allow your wild magic to bind and hurt him, not knowing if you could reign it back if it got too much. 

Rhysand chuckled at his brother. “We’ll work something out.” 

If it were Rhys, he’d practice on one of Azriel’s prisoners—draw out their pain and suffering with toxins and thorns. It would make a great interrogation tactic. But it wasn’t him. It was you. And Rhysand was not prepared to present that situation or idea to you. Not unless you came to him and it was exclusively your suggestion. 

For now, he would figure out another way. 

And Elain had told him as much before she and Lucien left just a week ago, claiming she had to reason to remain. You were safe, you would learn control. And she would visit after her and Lucien’s travels.

Feyre approached with a glass of water, handing it to you and dabbing your damp skin with the towel. From his seat across from you, Cassian gawked and scoffed playfully. “I didn’t realise Y/N was the one to be bound and pricked for an hour.” 

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Illyrian baby. As if you haven’t endured worse.” 

Despite the chuckle leaving your lips, you still offered him the rest of your water, which he happily took with a cheeky wink. You returned the sentiment with a half-smile, your body still struggling to recover from the energy the session took from you.

As much as you were enjoying it—honing your power and taking control—you couldn’t help but yearn for more. You understood the strength of your mothers magic was enhanced by your fathers Fae heritage, and you had been practicing winnowing with Mor whenever she had the time to spare…but your mother…

“I’d like to learn more about witchcraft.” 

All eyes turned to you, some wide, some weary. You cleared your throat, shifted your weight from one foot to another. “As thankful as I am for this—and as much as I am enjoying it—I’d like to learn the other side, too. Rituals, spells…”

No one spoke. You met Rhysand’s eyes and something akin to regret was lit. Your shoulders slacked at the sight. “None of us are exactly versed in witchcraft. And it has been a long while since I’ve met a witch who doesn’t feel inclined to eat me.” 

An attempt at a joke, you understood, but it did not relieve any of your disappointment. Three weeks ago, Madja had confirmed that out of all of your cousins, Elain was the only one to share similar markers in her hair and blood as you. Markers of wiccan ancestry. Rhysand had been the one to suggest Elain’s presence and similar magic may have been what awoke you. 

It had been known that when she was tossed into that Cauldron, it took something from her. Through Madja’s research, she was led to believe it had taken that power and replaced it with her Fae abilities—keeping that nature element but changing its course completely. 

Which meant you were alone. With barely any clue where your ancestry stemmed from, it was useless to even ask. But your mother had been a healing earth witch, that much you were certain of. Surely there had to be books somewhere, even if just to intrigue you until Madja concluded the rest of her research.  

“Gwyn may be able to help,” Nesta spoke. 

You turned to her. Yes, you’d heard of the young priestess, a fellow Valkyrie of Nesta’s. Your cousin had told you much about her position in the library within the House. Yet that was as far as your knowledge on her went. 

Still, it awoke that small shred of hope within you. Hope that one day you could feel close to your mother again. 

Azriel took a sip of his tea, lounging back at the dining table as he watched Cassian shovel heaps of eggs and bacon into his mouth. The shadowsinger couldn’t help but quirk a brow at his brother. Cassian had always eaten like a starved male, but this… Azriel was certain it had been minutes since he stopped to take a breath. 

“It’s not going anywhere,” Azriel quipped above the rim of his mug but Cassian did not slow. He chewed as his gaze met his brothers and spoke through a mouthful of his breakfast. “You let Y/N bind you with her vines and prick thorns into your skin for a solid hour, then you can comment on my eating habits.” 

A smirk kissed at the corners of Azriel’s lips at the thought. He would be more than willing to allow his body to you for practice. Though he wasn’t sure he’d want an audience. Especially not with how his scent was already beginning to shift at the thought alone. 

Gods, after four weeks of tasting you and touching you, he should have his hormones under control by now. But he was no better than any other Illyrian brute. He was starved for you all hours of the day—completely insatiable. He had never experienced such hunger before. It was completely overpowering. 

The sound of Cassian’s plate sliding across the table broke him from the sinful thoughts, and he looked at his brother who now seethed. “Really, Az? While I’m eating my breakfast?” 

Azriel’s smirk faded as his brows rose, taking a sip of his tea. “Are you forgetting about the time Nesta was choking on your cock, right before I was about to eat my dinner?” 

Heat rushed to the apples of Cassian’s cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from the thought of his brother seeing his mate in such a compromising position. And not because he did not trust Azriel, but because he knew that at one point, Nesta had considered the shadowsinger for herself. 

The general cleared his throat and shifted, attempting to reign in that mated protectiveness. “What’s the deal with you and Y/N anyways?”

Azriel took another sip of his tea. “What do you mean?” 

Cassian scoffed. Azriel always did that. Played dumb or completely ignored any conversation when it came to his love life or bedroom habits. “I hear you both, going into each other's rooms at night,” Cassian admitted, “you’re not sneaky.”

Azriel hid his smirk behind his mug. “Not trying to be.” 

The general's eyes squinted. He was used to his brother deflecting, ignoring. He was not used to him being so truthful and open, despite him only saying four words in response, Azriel did not deny his involvement with you. 

“You like her?” 

Azriel remained quiet, watching Cassian with a blank expression. 

“She’s been through a lot,” Cassian probed, noting the way Az’s grip on the mug tightened. 

“I know,” he got out. 

“And this is all pretty new to her… I imagine it's very overwhelming, too.” 

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “What are you getting at?” 

Cassian shrugged, slouching back in his chair as he crossed thick arms over his muscular chest. “Nothing. She’s grown a lot since coming here, and she’s growing more every day. I wouldn’t want her to feel like she’s just a secret to you.” 

Raw pain sliced through Azriel’s chest at his words. He knew you did not feel that way, knew you were always so open and honest and comfortable with him. Yet Cassian’s words still stung. He could have brushed his brother off, claiming he didn’t know what he was talking about. But that would mean downplaying what he felt for you. 

And he was not prepared to even entertain the idea of that. 

“We’re not keeping anything a secret.” 

Cassian smirked. “So there is something going on.”

Azriel finished the rest of his tea, set it on the table and a scarred finger traced the rim of the mug as he considered his next words. He did not have words to describe what continued to bloom between the two of you. Longing stares, subtle touches, heavy kisses and passionate intimacy until the early hours of the morning.

And yet you had not crossed that line, not with him. He would not rush you, would not pressure you. Azriel accepted anything you offered and gave back everything in return. 

“She’s been through a lot,” he repeated Cassian’s earlier words, “I want her to understand that she’ll never have to experience that type of control ever again.”

Cassian did not need to ask anything further. Partly because he understood what Azriel was insinuating—that he was allowing you to set the pace and decide whatever you were—and the other part because it was not his place to press for more information. It was your life, your story and your trauma. He would not invade your privacy like that. 

Cassian respected you far too much. 

So, he nodded his head, pulled back his plate of breakfast and heaped another spoonful of eggs into his mouth. He would not push on the matter, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t toy with his brother a little. 

“Y/N mentioned she wanted to learn some witchcraft. You know, spells and rituals that her mother might’ve used.” Azriel hummed, gaze fixed on the table. Cassian bit back his smirk. “Nesta suggested taking a look in the library for some old books. Gwyn’s going to help.”

Azriel’s eyes snapped to Cassian’s, his face paling just slightly. Bingo. 

The shadowsinger swallowed. “When?” 

Cassian ate another spoonful. “They’re already down there now.” 

Azriel did not bid his brother a goodbye before his shadows guided him to the library doors within the House. His heart was thumping against his chest, an anxiety like no other streaming through his veins. He was yet to tell you about his infatuation with Mor, his brief involvement with Elain, and he had not yet disclosed the same about Gwyn. 

The last thing he wanted was for you to hear anything outside of anyone else’s mouths. It was for him to explain. No one else. 

He entered the library quietly, dismissing his shadows so as to not fright the priestesses. He passed Clotho first, offering a subtle nod in greeting before sauntering further into the dim library. 

Perhaps Azriel should have mentioned this place to you sooner. Despite your love for books, maybe knowing this place was available could have helped with your healing. But you had done so well without it, and Azriel had very selfishly enjoyed every moment of your presence. 

It did not take long to find you, your scent still lingering in the air and he followed that trail to one of the higher levels. There was where he found you. Alone, eyes gleaming in happiness as you looked through the archives of rituals and witchcraft. You already had two books in your arms and Azriel did not hesitate to take them from you as he approached. 

His presence took you by surprise, only for a moment and you offered a wide smile, your chest feeling warm. As it often did when you spent time with the shadowsinger. 

“Az… what are you doing here?” you asked in a way of greeting. 

He held booth books in one arm and offered a grin at the nickname you’d taken to calling him. Gods, he had only seen you yesterday evening and yet it felt as if it had been days. You looked even more beautiful today, the gentle glow of Fae lights casting over your skin. Though he could notice a hint of exhaustion in your eyes, likely from your training with Cassian and Rhysand. 

Az stepped closer. “Cass mentioned you were down here looking for some grimoires. Thought I’d offer some help.”

You squinted your eyes at him playfully, cocking your head to the side. “Didn’t Cassian tell you that Nesta was with me? And Gwyn?”

Colour stained his cheeks. “Yes. But an extra set of eyes and hands never hurt.” He looked around then, in search of his brother's mate and the young priestess that he had saved those few years ago. “Where are they anyway? Nesta and Gwyn.”

You shrugged, returning to look at the bookcase before you. “Nesta wanted to look at some romance novels, Gwyn mentioned she saved a secret stash of the smutty ones for her.” 

You did not mention the way the priestess had looked at you with guilt or embarrassment when Nesta told her Azriel was quite fond of you. Your cousin did not need to say anything for you to understand. There had clearly been something there in the past, something Gwyn felt wrong for. She had no reason to. 

But you did not speak those thoughts to her. Instead, you offered a beaming genuine smile and thanked her for offering her assistance. You had promised to come and visit the library again, and had suggested bringing lunch next time.

It was clear to her that her past involvement with the shadowsinger did nothing to sour your current one. And she was more than thankful for it. 

“And you’re not interested? In the smutty novels, I mean.” 

You turned to Azriel with a smirk, a knowing gaze in your eyes. He mirrored it, cheekily. Gods, he would never fail to make you melt beneath that hungry stare. “Something else has been keeping my interest instead.” 

A grin, and then, “I’d like to keep your interest tonight, if you’ll let me?” 

You quirked a brow, the books long forgotten as you faced the handsome male before you. “Oh? And what did you have in mind?” 

Everything with Azriel had felt so easy in the past weeks. Even this, the flirty… it seemed to fall naturally between you both. Never once had you experienced an uncomfortable silence or nervous pause. 

It felt right. 

Az closed the distance between you, reaching a gloved hand for your waist as he leaned down to brush his nose against yours. “I was thinking of taking you to the Rainbow… more specifically, to the theatre.” 

A grin spread across your full lips. “Really?” Your excitement was palpable, and Azriel had no doubt that if his shadows were here now, they’d buzz around your small frame with adoration. 

He nodded, planting a slow kiss to your mouth. Your lips puckered against his, following his lead. There had been more of this since that fruitful night he touched you at the townhouse. 

Kisses and touches when you were alone, lingering glances when in the presence of others. Often, your nights were spent with him, in his bed or yours, in the private library or in the gardens. 

You had allowed him to touch you, taste you… he had allowed you to do the same. Azriel had given you full control over every situation, every interaction. Whatever this was between you, you could not get enough.  

“I’d like that,” you whispered into the kiss, feeling his mouth stretch into a smile before he kissed you once more. 

You leaned into him, melting under his attentive touch when someone cleared their throat and he gently broke his mouth from yours. Nesta stood to the side, a pile of books in her arms and a brow quirked. 

But Gwyn… she did nothing to hide her grin, the flush of her cheeks or the happiness that glimmered in her teal eyes. You knew she knew of your story, your trauma. And you knew her happiness came from a place of understanding. 

Understanding what it took to break through the past and live in the present. To move on. To heal. 

“Need I remind you that this is a library, not a brothel.” 

You rolled your eyes at your cousin. “You best scamper off with those books then, Ness.” 

She scowled at you playfully when Gywn breathed a choked laugh. Azriel watched her then, his body stiffening just slightly before you. But enough for you to notice, to feel it. 

“It’s good to see you, Azriel.” She offered politely. 

He dipped his head. “And you, Gwyn. Thank you for helping Y/N with the grimoires.” She brushed him off with a waving hand and turned her bright attention to you with a smile. 

Azriel felt his tension slowly dissipate, watching the way you both seemed to communicate with your eyes alone. You knew, he could tell. And you did not think of him any differently. 

Not one bit. 

The play was wonderful. Well, as much of the first half that you had seen. By the time the curtain pulled for a short break, Azriel’s hands had begun to wander. Beginning on your knee and ending between your thighs. 

He had gotten you seats in Rhysand’s private booth. And when darkness shrouded the theater during the interval, his shadows encompassed you both to hide you away from the public. 

His lips were hot on yours, his tongue licking sensually against your own. Your small hand had wrapped around his thick shaft, pumping the way you had grown to know he liked. And his fingers curled deliciously at that spongy spot within you. 

You did not stop when the curtain opened and the play resumed. Neither did he. Azriel had instead lowered to his knees and pried you thighs open, rolling up the fabric of your dress as he stared into your soul. 

Then his mouth was on your aching cunt and your head was rolling back against your seat. His tongue worked meticulously, licking and swirling, his mouth closing to create suction on your throbbing clit. 

Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging at the roots and fingernails scratching at his scalp. The first time Azriel had tasted you, he had you reach that high three times before stopping. And every time since, he had done the same. 

Though this time, you knew you had to keep quiet. Your spare hand covered your mouth, your teeth biting at the palm of your hand to stifle the moans and whines that threatened to escape. 

Your hips bucked into his face, his guttural hum sending vibrations through your veins. He was a starved male when it came to you, and you feared you would never get used to that hunger. 

His fingers continued to pummel into your cunt, curling and scissoring to stretch you deliciously. The sounds were obscene, wet and quiet but everything was far too amplified. You only hoped his shadows could also offer some form of soundproofing, too. 

“Az…” you barely managed to whisper, forcing your eyes open to watch him. 

He was already looking at you, his pupils so blown in arousal that you could sparsely see the honey you loved so much. You had never experienced such desire before. Even in the other times you had been intimate with him, it never felt as strong or as dire as this. 

Because this had you wanting to damn any consequences. Damn any trauma you had once experienced. You wanted him, every part of his body and mind and soul. You wanted to feel his thick cock stretch you out, fill you until you were crying and pleading for him to ravage you. 

You’d never once felt such primal need, and Azriel noticed the shift in your scent. Noticed how it changed from arousal to a diabolical sense of unravelling. You’d never looked at him with such ferocity before. 

And Azriel feared he would lay down his life in that moment, if you so asked. 

You tightened around his fingers, your legs trembled. You bit down harder on your palm as undiluted pleasure seized your body. As you cried silently, as your thighs shut tight around his head. As he sucked on your clit at the same time his tongue rubbed against it. 

You came harder than you ever had before. And by the way you heaved a breath through your nose, you knew Azriel had reached his high with you. 

With his hand fisting his long cock and his pleasure dripped down his scarred fingers. Perhaps it was that hunger that remained that had you reaching for him… that had you guiding those fingers to your mouth as you cleaned his come with your tongue. 

He mirrored your actions, removing his digits from your cunt and stuffing them into his own mouth to suck them clean. You watched one another, chests heaving as your pussy throbbed and Azriel’s cock twitched. 

You’d go again, you’d force him into that chair and straddle him, sink down on him until he was buried so deep within you, you didn’t know where you ended and he began. 

And Azriel appeared to have sensed your thoughts and shook his head. He pulled his fingers from his mouth, but you kept his in yours. “Not here. I won’t take you for the first time in the fucking theatre.” 

A grin spread across your lips and you released his fingers, now clean as the faint salty taste of him stained your tongue. 

You batted your lashes down at him. “What if I asked nicely?” 

He huffed through his nose, though a smile graced his face. “Don’t tempt me. You deserve more than that.” 

Your expression softened at the kindness of his words. He always knew what to say, his actions always followed his verbal promises. Another thing you had never experienced before. But Azriel seemed to take pleasure in showing you how you should be treated. 

“You deserve everything,” he whispered. 

You reached for him then, for the knitted wool of his sweater and he followed your lead when you met him in a searing kiss. No words could convey what this male was beginning to mean to you. How strongly you felt for him. 

“I only want you.” 

Azriel’s heart remained steady, despite his mind's racing. He would give himself to you in a heartbeat. All you had to do was ask. 

He was about to tell you as much, when a gentle call of his name sounded in his mind. Azriel took a brief moment to compose himself before allowing his High Lord into his mind. 

Apologies for interrupting. He purred. Azriel fought the urge to roll his eyes. But Madja has concluded her research. She’d like to speak with us, we’re awaiting your return. 

You noticed the distant look on his eyes, the one he only sported when Rhysand called for him. Your stomach dropped slightly, not ready to end the night just yet. But the smile on Azriel’s lips suggested it would not be for the worst. 

“Madja has some information to share. They’re waiting for us at the House.”

He had winnowed you almost immediately to the bottom of the ten thousand stairs. Only then did he take a moment to fix both of your flushed appearances and plant a tender kiss to your mouth. 

He had flown you both to the balcony, gently settling you to your feet. Though your arm remained looped with his as you walked into the House proper, where Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian and Nesta awaited with Madja. 

The elder healer offered a smile in greeting as you entered the lounge, and your arm slipped from Azriel’s. 

“You will be pleased to know that I have finally exhausted all avenues for this research. I have some interesting things that I think would help and that I’d like to share.” 

Your heart thundered in anticipation. By the look in Madja’s eyes, you knew you were about to learn everything. She set three old books onto the table, their pages thick and discoloured. They must be at least five centuries old, but you would not be shocked if their age preceded that. 

“I finally managed to trace your heritage back to your ancestors through your blood and hair samples.” She paused, as if waiting for everyone’s undivided attention. 

“You are a direct descendent of Mother Garmelhia. She was High Witch of the Elesendray coven—a coven of earth witches. They were healers, though through her blood, the abilities were not always passed down to the offspring. Your mother was the first in two centuries to present these gifts. Her sister—” she turned to Nesta and Feyre, “—your mother did not possess such abilities. Elain inherited a drop of those gifts, which the Cauldron quickly took, but you—” Madja looked to you again, “—you are blessed with the rawest form. The same as your mothers, but stronger.” 

There was no hiding the silver than lined your eyes. A storm of emotions clouded your vision, your mind. Your mother… your beautiful mother… 

“For some their abilities lay dormant until something triggered it. For example, Elain’s did not trigger until forced into the Cauldron, and even then, her power had shifted when Made Fae.”

You processed her words, everything made sense. Your magic had been buried so deep within you, with your mothers mark. But you wondered if your power would have shown had she not glamoured it.

“So mine triggered the moment I passed the wall into Prythian?” you asked. 

Madja’s tight lips quirked to the side as if in thought. “It would appear something happened when you passed through. And with your Fae heritage from your father, that would have also played a part. Do you remember exactly when something felt differently?”

Your mind carried you back to that night, when Nesta took your hand in hers and guided you past that shimmering veil. When you were shoved to the ground and your hands touched the grass for the first time. You shared a look with your cousin, cocking her head to the side as if she was also trying to pinpoint it. 

“Um… right after we passed through. After that creature attacked us. Everything felt clearer, but still slightly hazy. I could sense things but I didn’t know what. I thought it was just because the land held magic…”

Rhys took a step closer, his hands stuffed into his pant pockets. There was a gleam in his eyes, one that demanded more. “Did you find anything else?”

Madja nodded, reaching for the top book of the pile and flipping it open to a random page. Indeed, the book was old, yet it somehow held the scent of something you had never come across before. Something slightly familiar, yet not at all. 

“Yes… have you ever heard of soul-ties?”

Something in your stomach almost exploded. Azriel took a curious step closer, eyes scanning the pages but they were all in ancient tongue—one that Madja clearly spoke or at least understood. 

When nobody replied, Madja went on. “Within the Elesendray coven, and many others in history, soul-ties were the equivalent of a mating bond. Through the brief history I could find, it is said that a witches soul calls to another. Not just any soul. The other half of theirs.”

“So… like a soul-mate?” Cassian piped up.

Madja nodded and she did not break your gaze. She knew something, something you did not. 

“What does that have to do with my abilities?”

“It doesn’t. Not directly at least. But it is also said that when a witch finds their soul-tie and their souls are merged whole again, it is a tether so unbreakable that it exceeds even the strength of a Fae mating bond. And unlike the Fae mating bonds, if a witch does not accept their soul-tie, they will cease to exist entirely.”

Everything went silent and your heart refused to beat. 

“What are you saying?” Nesta’s tone was not one to play with. 

But Madja took a breath and laid a withering hand over the page Azriel could not take his eyes off. “I believe you have found your soul-tie, Y/N.” 

No. There was no way. You didn’t dare look at Azriel. You couldn’t. You didn’t know what it was that grew between you, you did not know where you stood in that sense. But the relationship you had ran deep. Deep enough for you to fear losing whatever he was to you. 

You begged your power not to act, begged it not to show the fear that began to cripple you. You had already once been bound to a man you did not love, a man that did not love you. You would not be forced into it again, with a powerful male this time who could do unimaginable things if he wished. 

You stuffed that fear so far down you almost choked on it. “How do I know who my soul-tie is? I didn’t think there were any other witches in Velaris?” 

“It doesn’t have to be a witch.” Madja’s eyes bore into your very spirit. “A soul-tie would be someone who endured the same agony as you to trigger an ability, to become who they were fated to become. Nothing is by chance, the Mother forges what is meant to be. Especially for witches.”

You were too overwhelmed, scared. “But passing through the wall triggered my powers? Who else would have done that?” 

You were in denial, refusing to believe that this was to be your fate. But it was Rhysand who took a step closer, his lips parted and eyes clouded. 

“You always had your power, passing through the wall just awoke your senses, because of your Fae father. Your mother’s magic was truly triggered when we burned your mark.”

You watched as Rhysand’s eyes drifted to Azriel, to his hands. Your lungs seized, your chest ached. You could not look at him, could not dare meet his desperate gaze when a lone shadow slinked to your hand and weaved between your fingers. 

“Holy Gods,” Feyre breathed.

Azriel remained still, aloof. For if he moved even an inch, he was sure to crumble. He knew. At that moment, he knew. He’d always had his suspicions, even when you were human. His soul called to yours. The missing half of him.

Rhysand came closer again. “When your stepbrothers burned your hands when you were a child, when you were locked away, your ability to wield shadows was triggered.”

Shadowsinger.

You stared at his hands—those beautiful hands. You had not known of Azriel’s story, had not ever wanted to pry. You never felt the need to ask, never considered his hands were anything abnormal. His step-brothers had burned them. He was a child. 

And your magic… burning the mark to set it free…

It was silent for too long, like it was some sick dream and joke and the Mother only ever intended for you to experience pain and agony in your life. But it made far too much sense for it to not be true. 

You had never felt so at ease with anyone before. Had never experienced such comfort and safety than in his arms. You did not need to pretend with Azriel, you did not need to hide or apologise. You just existed. And that was enough for him. 

Because you didn’t feel a change when you passed through the wall, when that creature died. You felt it when you heard something in the sky. When you heard Azriel. 

You dared a glance at him then, at the male you were destined to be with. The one the Mother made for you. The other half of your soul. His beautiful hazel eyes stared at you with such unyielding clarity, like every ounce of pain he had ever endured was worth it. Because it brought him to this moment. To you. 

It almost seemed too good to be true. That he was for you. That he was your fate. Yet your mind would not allow one single negative thought to grow. No seeds of doubt planted, not even one. Because your soul knew, you knew. 

You had no fear in that moment, staring at him. For Azriel’s own eyes mirrored your every thought. For this first time in his life, he truly felt worthy. His mind did not allow his past to dictate if he deserved that happiness. His heart did not allow a beat to falter out of place. Steady, calm. Yet a storm raged in his soul. As it had done for the past eight weeks in your presence. 

Nothing in his life had ever felt so right before. So meant to be. He damned himself a fool for his past behaviours, for ever chasing or entertaining the idea of another. 

Azriel had never truly understood what it felt like to have a home. Not until Rhysand’s mother took him in. But even then, he felt he did not deserve such kindness, that the Mother did not grant him a home of his own for a reason. 

He had always deemed himself unworthy, such a fragile mindset had taken over his entire life. 

But she granted him you. A friend, a lover, a connection so strong it exceeded even his brothers’ bonds. A soul-tie. The literal missing half of him. He had felt honor many times in his life, had felt wanted and needed and appreciated. 

But up until this moment, he had never felt worthy. 

He did not shy from your gaze, from his family watching the scene unfold. He took a step closer as a tear slid down your warm cheek. His soul sang for yours, bellowed and beckoned and begged. That’s what that feeling had been. His soul had been yearning to reunite with yours the whole time. 

“I do not know how much time you’ll have if the soul-tie is not accepted.” Madja broke through the silence softly. 

Azriel took a step closer, almost reaching you. He shook his head. “That is not something to worry about.” 

Your chest ached, your throat burned. You could not look away from him—did not want to. If you had, you would’ve noticed the lack of your family. Would have seen them fade into the shadows with such admiration and happiness in their eyes as they left to give you both privacy. 

Madja had remained, though neither of you offered your attention. She smiled to herself, and piled the books atop one another again. “When you wish to accept the soul-tie, there is a ritual you must follow. I will be happy to guide you when you are ready.” Her words were white noise in your ears as she retreated.

You were almost shrouded in darkness now, Azriel’s shadows working to cocoon you both in a haze of privacy. Words failed you, unable to conjure even a sentence. He was so beautiful, gazing at you with such longing, as if you’d singlehandedly placed the stars in the sky. 

He was closer now, the toes of his shoes mere inches from yours. You could feel his warm breath on your face, feel a scarred hand reach to cup your jaw and his thumb brushed gently across your cheekbone. You melted into his touch, fighting to keep your eyes on him. 

“Hi,” you breathed. 

A wide smile pulled at the corners of his full lips, a row of white teeth peeking through. Your heart trembled. This beautiful male was yours. Yours.

“You want this?” He was not asking for clarity, no. Azriel had no doubt in his mind. But he would be damned if he did not make it clear that you still had a choice. No matter what, you would always have a choice. 

Your head bobbed in confirmation, a smile of your own tugging at your mouth now. Azriel grinned wider, the tip of his nose bumping yours. 

“Yeah?” he asked in a whisper, and you were giddy with excitement. 

Your eyes fluttered closed as your mouth met his. A kiss so tender and soft that your souls hummed in unity. Azriel did not need to look at you to know that flora had tangled in the strands of your hair, in the strands of his. 

Time seemed to stand still as you kissed him. And the realisation that he would get to do this with you forever… Well, it was something that finally made him thankful for his step-brother's cruelty. 

Because what a beautiful thing it was for this to be his fate.

a/n: so confession time... i truly was considering ending the series here and letting you guys decide for yourselves what they had to do for the ritual of accepting the soul-tie, AND THEN i had the most beautiful idea for it. there will be one final part to this series and potential future check-in blurbs later down the line. i cannot thank you guys enough for the amount of love you have shown this series, i have loved every moment of crafting and writing it and i hope you have enjoyed it just the same x

if you enjoyed it, please consider giving it a like and reblog, your feedback is always appreciated <3

TAG LIST FOR THE SERIES IS CLOSED, PLEASE DO NOT ASK TO BE ADDED!!

[ckret2]

Chapter 84 of human Bill Cipher getting a day pass out of being the Mystery Shack's prisoner: so it turns out Bill and Pacifica have a lot in common! And it's not weird at all! It's—it's very normal. Their childhoods were so normal.

(Since this entire chapter is from the point of view of a character who doesn't know the person she's talking to is Bill, a PSA for those of y'all who missed it. Thanks.)

####

"Okay, that's as much as I can do to help your hair without deep conditioning it," Pacifica said. "Now let's talk about styling it."

They were back in Pacifica's office, with Goldie seated in his folding chair and Mabel sitting in Pacifica's desk chair (slowly spinning it back and forth) as Pacifica lectured them. Pacifica had given Goldie a spare t-shirt to dry his hair with (you could never have too much spare clothing on hand when you were dealing with farm animals), but he'd just loosely wrapped it around his hair and promptly ignored it.

Pacifica said, "You've got this issue where the weight of your curls pulls the top of your hair down and makes it flatten out near your scalp—but your hair's all the same length, so it really flares out near your shoulders. It's called triangle hair and it is not a cute look."

Goldie and Mabel bit their lips and exchanged a look, and Pacifica got the distinct impression that she'd accidentally reminded them about some inside joke she wasn't part of.

Trying to ignore the feeling that she was being left out of something, Pacifica cleared her throat and went on. "So, uh—you can fix it with like, layering your haircut and stuff? But. I don't actually... know how to do that." All her knowledge of curly hair and its care—much less fashionable haircuts—came from fashion and beauty magazines, which covered things like shampoo and flattering styles but assumed you'd leave the actual hair-cutting to the professionals. "So. I can get your curls presentable, and I guess we can figure out a way to pin it that looks nice? But that's the best I can do without an emergency salon trip."

"You sure we can't leave the triangle hair?" Goldie asked innocently. "I think it's cute. It really feels like me." Mabel clapped a hand over her mouth and snorted.

Pacifica raised her brows. "Do you want to feel like you, or do you want to get the guy?"

"Right, of course," Goldie said. "I almost forgot what's really important!"

Pacifica passed Goldie her phone. "Here—I wasn't sure what kind of look you were going for so I saved a few pictures of curly hair styles, let me know if you like any of these." She searched through the collection of makeup on her desk for the bobby pins and hair ties she'd picked up earlier. "The trend this year is for slicked-back styles, braids, and buns—but your curls are so pretty, I'd hate to hide them." 

Mabel leaned halfway across the desk to try to see the pictures too; Goldie's held out the phone to meet her halfway as as he scrolled—and scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled. He said, "Good job narrowing down the list to a modest two hundred pictures."

Pacifica said, "Excuse me for wanting you to have options."

Mabel pointed. "Awww, look at that one with all the little butterfly hair clips!"

"It's like butterflies are eating her brain."

"And they look adorable doing it."

"Too juvenile for me. It looks like something Prisma the fairy would wear," Goldie said. "You should wear it."

Mabel's eyes lit up. "You've got to help me make fifty butterfly hair clips."

"You got it." He closed out of Pacifica's pictures, opened up the browser, and awkwardly typed in a search. "Hey, Alpaca, look at this one."

That was the second time he'd called her that. "Do you actually know my name?"

"Rapunzel." He held up a picture of some seventies movie star with thick, feathery hair that fluffed out around her face like the wings of a panicked swan trying to take off. "Think you can pull this one off?"

Pacifica grimaced. "You'd look like my mom." Except even worse and more old fashioned. (She kept that part to herself.)

Flatly, he said, "Oh no, how will I ever convince a male that I'm a prize worth winning if I literally look like a trophy wife."

That would be just about the only part of Goldie that looked like a trophy wife. (She kept that part to herself too.) "And we'd have to give you bangs."

As she suspected, Goldie grimaced and flipped to another image. At least he knew bang weren't for him. "How 'bout this one?"

It looked like a solid helmet of hair, with the ends uniformly curled outward like the embarrassing forced-whimsical hairstyle of the minions of an insane chocolatier. "Ew. That's about the only thing that could make you look even worse than you already do."

"Pacifica," Mabel said sharply. "Be nice!"

"Sorry!" She'd kept so many parts to herself that she didn't have any spare room to keep that part. "I can't do it, anyway. It would need a flat iron and a curling iron, and I don't have either."

"Can't we get some?" Goldie asked. "Any drug store should have 'em, it's a fifteen minute walk to—"

"I don't use them," Pacifica said sharply.

Goldie's stare was like a heat lamp—or maybe that was just self-consciousness heating up Pacifica's face as he scrutinized her. But after several long seconds, Goldie's gaze turned off her face. She quietly sighed in relief.

"Okay," he said. "Then this one." He showed her another picture. It had curly shoulder-length bangs, which wasn't really in style but fine, but behind them was a bouffant shaped like a deflating basketball with a wilting palm tree sprouting out of it.

Pacifica cringed. It was, unfortunately, doable. A note of pleading in her voice, she asked, "Are you really into this look? Really?"

("I think it's pretty," Mabel muttered.)

"Oh, no way!" Goldie said. "Look at that mess! That's way too much effort for a 'do that looks like she did it drunk in the dark in under two minutes."

(Mabel looked at Goldie like he'd personally betrayed her.)

"But," he went on, "it's what our guy is into, and that's what matters here. Right?"

Pacifica studied the picture dubiously. "You're sure?"

"He went through puberty in the 70s! When his libido opened its eyes for the first time, this is what it imprinted on."

Pacifica bit her lip. Well. At least Goldie didn't think it looked good, but. "Can I at least improve it a little?"

"Oh, please!"

She picked up the comb again and grabbed a couple of bobby pins. "No promises, but I'll do what I can."

Pacifica talked a big game, but in truth, she knew a lot more about the theory of hairstyles than she did about actually styling hair. You don't have to film a blockbuster to be a film critic. So at that point, all she could do was experiment with Goldie's hair as she attempted to approximate the picture he'd shown her. She circled around him as she worked—putting in pins, taking them out, occasionally asking him his opinion.

But although Goldie had previously been a non-stop chatterer, the moment she'd started working on his hair, he'd fallen silent.

He only glanced in the hand mirror she'd given him when she prompted him, and then only to give one-word answers—usually "fine." His shoulders were as tense and his mouth as tight as Pacifica's had been the first time she had to wash alpaca poop off the bottom of a boot. And Pacifica had nearly vommed, so, that was pretty serious.

Why? It couldn't be pain. Pacifica had gotten all the knots out of his hair earlier—and even when she wasn't using the comb, it was like she couldn't even move a lock of his hair without him wincing. She kept wanting to apologize even though she was just doing what he wanted her to.

There was something going on here. It wasn't just how uncomfortable he was with being touched. There was also the way he did an awful job of washing his hair even though he knew how to perfectly well. And how he'd rather let Mabel brush his hair into a frizzy mess than comb it out himself. And beyond all that, the first thing Pacifica had ever learned about him was that he'd gotten his hair melted off and needed emergency help to grow it back. "You... really don't like your hair, do you?"

"I like it fine. It's gorgeous." He was speaking through gritted teeth, and he had his legs crossed with his feet under his thighs, palms up in lap, eyes fixed on the blanket Mabel had made, as though having a staring contest with the triangle creep would help him endure the torture without flinching. "I just—don't like messing with it."

"Which is fine," Mabel cut in. "Because I like brushing it!" She quickly amended herself: "Combing it. We've got like a symbiotic relationship going on."

"Yeah! Star girl's my personal stylist! She does my hair and makeup. I wouldn't deprive her of that honor!"

Pacifica nodded slowly. Right—all that, and he was defensive about not taking care of it.

Not embarrassed because he didn't take care of it, it dawned on her; embarrassed because he couldn't take care of it. She had a sense for those sorts of things—a middle school queen bee had to develop that sense—because that was what you targeted if you really wanted to humiliate someone: something that they couldn't help. That was it, wasn't it? He'd said he was apathetic about his body; he didn't care that his hair was messy. Because if he did care that it was messy, he would have done something about it. Unless he couldn't. Like, a mental block.

As she tried for the eighth time to gather the bulk of his hair into an updo that looked sorta fun and casual without looking stupid, she turned over everything she knew about him—about his hair, his apathy, his shame... the things he'd said to her the moment they met, before they even got started.

It wasn't a logical deduction so much as it was an instinct, and just looking at Goldie it seemed impossible; but still she said, hesitantly, "Your mom made you do pageants as a kid, didn't she?"

Mabel sat up a little straighter, confused; but Goldie turned around to stare at her, dumbfounded. "How— What—makes you think that?"

Oh please. He wasn't fooling anyone, it was all over his face. "You're so weird about your hair. It's obviously trauma from your mom."

Beneath his sunburn, Goldie's burned cheeks somehow managed to flush even darker. He gaped at her, wide-eyed and terrified, like she was a psychic who had just told him how his own parents had died. He croaked, "What?"

Pacifica burst out laughing. "Oh my gosh, you should see your face! Listen, you're clearly familiar with pageant life. And I saw so many curly girls getting their hair mauled by their moms half an hour before going on stage. I don't blame you for being weird about touching it! I had it easy—" she flipped her naturally straight hair, "—but even at that, I can't stand using a flat iron to this day."

Goldie relaxed, apparently reassured that Pacifica hadn't read his mind. He settled back in his seat. "Oh, I dunno, I find the smell of burning hair comforting! It reminds me of home!"

"Ha! Okay, yeah, you do get used to it after a while." She started attempt number nine to gather up his curls. "I wouldn't have guessed when you came in. You don't look like a... I mean... you know. No offense."

"Well, duh, you can't tell now." He gestured at himself, "I lost my good looks. What I wouldn't give to have my old body back..." He sighed wistfully.

Pacifica held back a snort. Oh yeah. More than anything else he'd said so far, that convinced her he really was a former pageant kid. In her experience, every single pageant mom trying to relive her own beauty queen glory days through her daughter said things exactly like that.

Mabel said, "Aww..." She stretched a hand out toward Goldie, couldn't reach him across Pacifica's enormous desk, and with a grunt heaved herself up to lay across the top—knocking over a couple of the cosmetic supplies Pacifica had set up in the process—so she could pat his shoulder. "There, there."

"Thanks."

She slid back into her seat. "Did you really do pageants? You didn't tell me that." A note of betrayal crept into her voice.

"I didn't tell her either—" he jabbed a thumb at Pacifica, "—but here we are!" (Pacifica shrugged unapologetically.) "I've got a lotta backstory you're still catching up on."

"Well, yeah, but—you said you just did..." She grasped for the right words, and settled on, "build-y stuff with pageants."

"I didn't say that," he said breezily. Mabel scowled at him; but shot a look at Pacifica, and just sat back without saying anything, arms crossed, her feet audibly kicking at the inside of the desk. 

He didn't seem as stressed about his hair while he was talking, Pacifica noticed. (Maybe that was why hairdressers were so chatty? Or maybe just because it was kind of weird to stick your hands in someone's hair for an hour in total silence.) She asked, "Which pageant systems did you compete in?"

"None you'd have heard about," Goldie said. "They weren't on this continent and it was like a trillion years ago." Before Pacifica could pry about which continent, he added, "Hey, fun fact! Didja know that the first beauty contest in Oregon was established here in Gravity Falls?"

"Pff, duh, of course I know that," Pacifica said. "It was established by the town founder, my great-great grandpa."

"Close, but no," he said gleefully. "It was established by the real town founder."

Pacifica grimaced. "Him? The crazy undead guy without pants? Ugh, no wonder we're the only pageant with a mandatory bird calls category."

"The first three competitions were actually won by birds! They only added a fashion category to balance out the birds' unfair advantage at birdsong. Quentin resigned from the judges' panel in protest."

"He should've taken the dumb birdsong requirement with him," Pacifica muttered. "They make the kids pageant do it too. I had to get a private tutor to learn how to whistle."

"That sounds fun, though," Mabel said. "I can do bird song! Grunkle Ford taught me some. Listen to this!" She let out an admittedly impressive moo.

"Not a bad cowl call," Goldie said. "You woulda killed it at the accompanying bird costume requirement."

Mabel gasped. "I can make feather wings. Hey, do you think I could compete?"

"Not unless you move to Oregon."

"Aww."

"We can still make wings, though," Goldie said.

Pacifica had never had to deal with the dumb bird costume requirement, thank goodness. That only started in the teen brackets. Which made her wonder—"How old were you when you quit? Pretty young, right? Like, no offense, but if you need teenagers to do your makeup..." If Goldie was living as a guy now, it'd make sense if he didn't wear makeup day-to-day; but if he'd stuck with pageants past like age ten, he would have at least learned how to do his own makeup.

"Ha! You're right. I started when I was young enough that my mom could dust glitter on my butt without getting weird looks! I quit around... equivalent to third or fourth grade in the States? She wanted me to keep going—so I said, 'You want me to perform? Fine then—I'll put on the best performance you've ever seen.' And that's exactly what I did!" Thoughtfully, he added, "But for some reason I didn't win the talent portion. I guess the judges weren't impressed that I could play the piano and set it on fire at the same time."

Pacifica cracked up. "Okay wow—I retired during the talent portion too, but how you did it is way more exciting. The year I was aging out of the 9-11 bracket, I kinda had a meltdown on stage over losing to some girl with a hula hoop? Yeah, I did not win supreme that year."

"You shoulda won talent just for that scream! You hit some impressively high notes." At Pacifica's odd look, Goldie said, "Saw it online."

Figured. That was probably coming back to haunt her in ten years. "It's weird. There's like... two ways pageant girls go—er, girls or guys or... whatever."

"Whatever," Goldie agreed.

"Yeah. Either they make it part of their identity? And keep up the makeup and fashion and everything, sometimes stick with pageants as teens or start modeling professionally? Which is what I did. Or they totally burn out, don't want anythingto do with the beauty industry, and just, like, wear sweats forever."

With a faint air of wounded pride, Goldie said, "It's the bedsheet sarong, isn't it."

"No offense! I'm just saying."

"I'll have you know it's laundry day and Jesús stole my clean clothes instead of my dirty laundry." (Pacifica decided to forgive him for the weird fish smell.) "You're looking at me at a low point, kid. I was actually a pretty snappy dresser up until... lllast summer."

Hearing Goldie call her kid gave Pacifica a little jolt of surprise. For a moment, she'd forgotten she was talking to somebody with an age; she'd started to feel like she was being visited by the immortal Spirit of Washed-Up Former Pageant Children. As if he'd died and stopped aging the same time he retired. "What happened last summer?"

Goldie looked at Mabel. "Yeah, what did happen last summer?"

"Um." Mabel froze. "He... lost it all in a... um... overseas parrot circus venture! Yeah—all the trained parrots escaped before the opening night of the circus and he lost all his money."

Goldie let out a shrill cackle. "I like that, I'm keeping that."

Okay, got it, it wasn't any of Pacifica's business. "I think... this is the best I can do with your hair." She stepped back. "Unless you want to pick a style that doesn't suck."

He gave himself a cursory glance in the hand mirror, immediately lowered it, and said, "Sucky style's fine!"

"Don't say that, you look so beautiful," Mabel said. "You look like a babysitter!"

"Well, it doesn't get much better than that." He dropped the mirror on the desk. "What's next?"

####

Next—finally—was the part they'd actually come here for: the makeup.

"Okay, I tried to get around the eyepatch while I was doing your hair, but you've got to take it off for this part," Pacifica said.

He groaned, but muttered, "Fine, I've put up with this tyranny so far," removed it, and looked at her with his previously-covered eye squinted against the light—which was the point at which Pacifica realized that he had eyepatch tan lines... around his other eye. How???

There was no fixing that before tomorrow. She bit her lips, shut her eyes, pressed her hands together, and took in a deep breath. Okay. She could handle this.

"Why do you even wear this?" She tossed the eyepatch to Mabel—it was one of those cheap costume pirate-y looking patches. "Is this one of the Mystery Shack's gimmicky touristy things? Both your eyes work! And wearing an eyepatch when you obviously don't need it is just tacky."

"I've got a neurological condition! Seeing through two eyes messes up my depth perception," Goldie said. "I get migraines if I don't keep one covered! Which is admittedly the most fun thing you can do to your brain without involving narcotics, but it makes it hard to keep down lunch!"

"Oh," Pacifica mumbled. Maybe she should just get to work before she shoved her foot any deeper in her mouth.

She started by slapping aloe vera on as much sunburned skin as she could reach, handed over the jar with strict instructions to apply more in the morning, and gave him an emphatic lecture on sunburns and sunscreen and skin damage that petered out when he cheerfully started telling her about skin cancer statistics. She changed the topic when he started listing his favorite kinds of skin cancer.

She stripped off the nail polish that Goldie had apparently gotten during one of Mabel's sleepovers, and repainted it with, at Pacifica's insistence, something more "mature." (She vetoed Mabel's suggestion to paint little hearts. She vetoed Goldie's request for gold. She gave him the choice between white French tips, pale pink, or solid red. He chose red.)

She hadn't anticipated that her customer would be in such dire straits that she'd need to shave him, so she didn't have any supplies for that; but she also ordered him to get his legs as smooth as the surface of a balloon as soon as he got home—"And do you think there's any chance this guy you're after will see your pits?" "He already has!" "Hm. Okay. Yeah, uh, get those anyway."—and informed him that she would report him to the police for vandalism if he "shaved" using whatever depilatory cream he'd previously used on his hair.

As she finished plucking his brows, she said, "Okay, I think you're finally in decent enough condition for actual makeup." She stepped back, took in his face, and said, "Barely." She grimaced. "I wish I'd bought a concealer with better coverage. I didn't know the situation was so bad."

To his credit, Goldie had taken her criticism (and occasional looks of horror) like a champ. He simply drawled, amused, "The body rituals of the Nacirema are as elaborate as they are bizarre."

She picked up a couple of the foundations she'd bought and held them up next to the eye that had been protected by the eyepatch tan line, trying to determine which one was a closer match for whatever his skin tone was when he wasn't burned. "Who're the Nacirema? One of the tribes that used to live around here?"

"They're still in the area. Look 'em up."

Pacifica thought the darker foundation was closer; she tested it on his inner arm to be sure. "So, how much makeup do you already know how to apply? Any?"

"I can do mascara, eyeliner, and mascara."

"Riiight. Okay, both of you pay attention to what I'm doing." She evicted Mabel from her desk chair and dragged it around in front of Goldie's folding chair. "Because I will not be coming over to do this tomorrow, so the two of you will have to repeat this yourself. Here." She handed Goldie a mirror so he could watch her work.

Mabel hopped up to sit on the desk next to Goldie. "You have one hundred percent of my attention!" She immediately looked away from Pacifica at the makeup brushes laid out on the desk, picked up a fan brush curiously, and started dragging it up and down her arm. "Ooh. Tickly." 

"Emphasize my eyes," Goldie said. "They're my best feature. You can forget about everything else, but my eyes have to look good."

Pacifica looked at his eyes. Pacifica really looked at his eyes.

There was something wrong with his eyes.

She decided to stop looking at his eyes. "Okaaay, great great great, you've got suuuper long lashes, that's fantastic. We can totally draw attention there. You don't even need fake lashes. And you've got nice big prominent eyes. Kinda bulgy, but that should be easy to hide with eyeshadow. I'm thinking maybe a smokey eye?"

"What about metallics? Like gold?" Goldie asked innocently. "Kind of a retro 'secret agent villainess' look, don't you think! It'd bring out the yellow in my eyes!"

Pacifica said, "You do not want to bring out your jaundice."

"Don't tell me what I want."

"No gold eyeshadow," Pacifica said. "Period. If you want to experiment with color, we can try a smoky eye in burgundy. Burgundy is hot this year."

Goldie muttered something about welcoming a bottle of burgundy right now, then said, "Fine! Burgundy."

(As Pacifica looked through her makeup palettes for the burgundy, Bill leaned over to Mabel and whispered, "Do we have any leftover gold eyeshadow?" Mabel nodded and winked. Bill winked back.)

"What about the rest of your face?"

"Skip it."

"I'm not letting you go bare-faced aside from your eyes," Pacifica said. "But we can do a natural makeup look."

"That's so boring," Mabel said. She was dragging the fan brush over her lips now. "If it looks natural why's he wearing any makeup at all?"

Goldie said, "Because humans are insane about the most uninteresting things."

As Pacifica worked her way through the foundation, concealer—she decided his sunburned skin had enough of a sun-kissed glow that she could skip bronzer—and contouring, she said, "You are... really good at holding still when you try." He'd gone completely still, like a statue. A statue that was making direct eye contact with her soul. She felt a bead of sweat slide down her neck. She wasn't sure he was breathing.

"He's super good," Mabel agreed. "It's kinda creepy."

"Thanks!" And just like that, he was smiling and alive again. "I do a lot of meditating! Gimme a focal point to watch and I can go like two billion years!"

"You didn't learn from...?"

"Pageants? Ha! No way, I was the wiggliest little demon you've ever seen. It drove my mom nuts when she was trying to do my lashes. She used to say 'If you love me, hold still' to keep me in place—but you know how contrary kids are when they're mad! Eventually I got fed up and said, 'Well then, maybe I don't love you!' And she didn't speak to me for three days." Goldie laughed. "Ahh, I had the most dramatic mom."

"Wow, my mom would kill me if I ever tried something like that—especially if it was in public where people could see us," Pacifica said. "She hired makeup artists so I'd struggle against them instead of her. Your mom did your makeup? Did she ever hire anyone?"

"Nooo way. We ran our operation on a razor-thin budget to maximize the profits from my winnings. The name of the game was efficiency!"

"My mom's sure wasn't," Pacifica said. "(Shut your right eye, I've got to get your eyeshadow.) We went through like, fifty makeup artists or something. Sometimes more than one while prepping for the same pageant." She lowered her voice a tad, "A couple times when the makeup artist was a creep, I messed up my own makeup just so Mom would fire them."

"Ha! Suckers. Yeah, that's probably how it woulda gone if my mom had handed me off to a makeup artist. I was not afraid to sic her on adults! We didn't have any hired help when I was that age, but the principal was terrified of her. And if another kid at a competition was getting on my nerves, I'd go crying to her that they pushed me and oh, man, she'd come down on their parents like the asteroid on Chicxulub."

"Me too! There was this girl in third grade who was so... I don't know, just—" she pulled a face, "eugh, you know? I complained to mom about her and got her family blacklisted by the whole town. They had to move out of the state just to get a job."

Goldie laughed loudly. "Now that is impressive!"

Pacifica's gut shifted uncomfortably. Was it? "Other eye now." She didn't speak for a moment as she tried to get both eyes matching. "Actually... it was... kinda scary?"

She'd asked her mom if she could puh-lease get this girl out of Pacifica's class. She'd just expected the girl to be switched to another teacher.

Instead, over the next few weeks, she heard about the girl's mother losing her job, then her father. Her older brother got kicked out of the local Future Lumberjacks of America chapter. One day the girl came to school in tears after being cut from the softball team. A couple months later, the girl's friends—the two that hadn't drifted away from her as her family became pariahs—threw her a tearful goodbye party during lunch with a mall-bought cookie cake; and the next day, she was gone forever.

After that first time Pacifica had complained about her classmate, her mom had never once mentioned the girl or her family. She never asked if Pacifica had any more trouble with her. Not even when they left town. It was as though, after her mom ground them under her heel, they were beneath her notice. Just four crushed ants.

But Goldie was staring at her, frowning in confusion, like she didn't make any sense. "What—scary for the other kid?" he asked. "Sure. It's supposed to be, isn't it?"

Pacifica didn't reply for a second. I'm afraid of how good she was at doing exactly what I asked her to do without realizing I was asking for it—that sounded stupid. Finally, she said, "Don't wrinkle your face like that, I haven't set your foundation yet. It'll make it cake up."

"Your moms sound insane," Mabel said. While they'd been swapping stories about their childhoods, she'd been staring at them, chin in one hand, chewing on the fan brush's bristles. "Were you guys tortured growing up?"

"Pfff, what? No, of course not!" Pacifica said. "My parents would never. You've only seen my mom's worst side, she's not really that bad. I mean—not to me. She's horrible to poor people, but that's different."

Goldie said, "Yeah, my mom was my biggest defender! If anyone tried to hold me back, she'd rip them a new one."

"But—forcing you to do pageants until you have a breakdown?" Mabel said, glancing between Goldie and Pacifica, mouth twisting up like the words tasted sour. "Guilting you into wearing makeup and attacking other parents and stuff? That's nuts."

"It's not like that," Pacifica said automatically, then tried to figure out what it was like.

"Now we're calling a kid's temper tantrum a breakdown? You've got a future career in propaganda, star girl," Goldie said wryly. "It's a mom's job to bring out a kid's potential, right? Sure, it drove me nuts at the time—but kids don't want their potential brought out, kids are lazy!" He shrugged, "Yeah, my parents weren't perfect—they didn't really 'get' me, they held me back from reaching my full potential because they couldn't see what it was—but I'd never have gotten on the road to unlocking my potential myself if they hadn't put me on the right path as a kid."

Pacifica nodded. "Totally! That's just normal mom stuff! My parents are exactly the same—they don't get my alpaca business at all—but there's no way I'd be running a business at thirteen if my mom hadn't pushed me to be the best I can be. Or supporting my alpacas through modeling if I hadn't learned how to present myself in the pageant system. Even mini-golf was just a hobby until my parents got me a coach and started taking me to competitions."

"And I wouldn't be the huge success I am today without those early lessons in public speaking!"

Mabel shot Goldie a meaningful look. He pointed at her. "Don't say a word. I've had a bad year, you can't judge me by that. Anyone could've lost their parrots in a freak accident."

"And some kids had it way worse," Pacifica said. "Some parents would hit their kids or scream at them for messing up their routines or getting distracted? Those girls never lasted long, you can tell if a contestant's just going through the motions because she's scared. I was never treated like that. My pageant coach taught my parents to use a 'warning bell,' when they rang it that was my warning to stop goofing off and focus on practicing or listen to them or whatever. They'd pay me in chocolate if I got back in line."

"Ha!" Goldie smacked the desk, "Oh wow, that's hilarious! Pageant coach Pavlov. My parents would have loved that when I was in the toddler competitions."

"Right?!" Pacifica laughed. "Now I'm like, wow, I used to be bribable with a piece of chocolate? Kids are sooo easy to manipulate."

"But hey, it's a good life lesson: the occasional reward and the fear of punishment is a lot more effective at keeping people in line than actual punishments."

Pacifica nodded thoughtfully. "Wow. That's so insightful."

"See?" Goldie beamed at Mabel. "Pageants teach kids all kinds of useful things! Ambition, poise, charisma, self-confidence, social skills..."

She grimaced. "Yeah, but... all the restrictions and pressure and trauma and stuff? That really sounds bad."

"I think you're just bitter that you can't enter the birdsong contest."

She kicked his arm. "I'm serious!"

He pushed back her shoe and waved her off dismissively. "It only sounds bad to you because you were never in the pageant world! It's got its own rituals and expectations, of course it looks weird to outsiders."

"And everyone judges pageants so much more harshly than other competitive sports—which is what pageants basically are," Pacifica said. "Like, pageants and competitive mini-golf took just as much practice, just as much coaching, just as much time and money—but in real life, knowing how to make myself look presentable and talk to adults has helped me way more often than knowing how to knock a ball into a hole. Mini-golf only saved my life once."

"Charisma will get you everywhere," Goldie agreed. "It's the most effective form of mind-control you can do without psychically rewiring someone's neurons."

"Basically! But getting a medal at the Sportlympics has everyone talk about how skilled and hard-working and dedicated you are, and getting a tiara in a national pageant gets people who have never even watched a pageant calling you a bimbo. Like, what?"

"Blatant double standards!" To Mabel, Goldie said, "Both your parents work in Silicon Valley. Their priority is intelligence and grades instead of looks and charisma, so that's why you and your brother get pushed in school—but it's all the same! Parents push their kids to be successful whatever way they know how."

Mabel stared into space. "Huh." She fell silent, gnawing on the fan brush's handle—pondering whether her parents worrying about her so-so grades was comparable to the pageant moms desperate for their daughters' straight hair to be straighter and curly hair to be curlier.

Smugly, Goldie went on, "If anything, the pageant circuit was more useful than school. I—"

"(Stop moving around, I've got to do your other eye.)"

Goldie obediently leaned forward and shut his other eye. "I went from pageants straight into public speaking. I had an entire career before I was out of school. Everyone loved me! I was a natural in the spotlight!"

"Really?" Pacifica said dubiously. She could buy that he might have been a competitor as a kid, but honestly, he seemed pretty creepy to her. Enough confidence could carry you pretty far, but...

He rolled his open eye. "Don't take that tone with me. It was before you were born! And like I said—I've lost my looks. I used to be..."

He trailed off, staring down at his nail polished hands like he didn't recognize them.

He muttered, "I used to be so much better than this."

Mabel reached out and rubbed his upper arm comfortingly.

Sometimes Pacifica caught her mom staring in a mirror, studying her face with an expression somewhere between nervous and depressed, gently touching her fingertips to the thin lines beginning to appear around her eyes and mouth as though she were examining gruesome wounds. Her mother had always said that looks are everything; and even though she didn't talk about her feelings directly, from the way she sometimes snapped at Pacifica to keep up her skincare—moisturizer, sunscreen, hydration, don't frown too hard—Pacifica thought maybe she wasn't worried about Pacifica's face so much as her own.

Goldie only had the faintest traces of the start of wrinkles, unnoticeable if Pacifica hadn't just spent the past few minutes plastering foundation on his face. She wondered how old he was. She wondered whether he had the same fear her mother did: that his body was letting him down, slowly dying all around him.

You don't go through the child pageant world without learning two things: everyone wants you to look and act older than you are; and the older you get, the less anyone wants you.

"I've got to do your lips," Pacifica said, picking out a couple of options: a red so bright it was nearly orange (totally in this year), a nice glossy nude that ought to be a close match to Goldie's natural lip color. "Did you want to stick with the natural look, or...?"

He glanced up from his hands at the offered lipsticks. "What the heck," he sighed. "Let's make it red."

Pacifica nodded. "Pooch your lips out for me, like this." And that was the last they spoke for a while.

####

(Here's your regular TBOB report: no actual plot was changed due to TBOB. I added in a few lines referencing it: the imagery of Priscilla grinding normal people beneath her heel is meant to be reminiscent of Pacifica's giant nightmare on TINAWDC; the "meditating" for specifically two billion years is a direct reference to the barber pole, although I'd already headcanoned that Bill can meditate/dissociate for absolutely vast quantities of time; I already had dialogue where he goes on the importance of charisma and how much everyone adored him as a kid, but I tossed in another sentence or two about charisma just because of how strongly he emphasizes it in TBOB; and originally I had dialogue where Bill went on about what big supporters his parents were, even though he privately feels like they didn't get him—all I changed was deciding to make him admit to some of those feelings out loud, since it's something he says outright in TBOB. I've imagined that he tends to swing between "they were the best/they were the worst" based on how he's feeling at the time with no neutral ground in between—whiiich lines up pretty well with what TBOB gave us.

And unrelated but I spent way too long researching makeup & hair trends in the 70s and in 2013. I had no idea orange lipstick was hot for a while. My idea of doing makeup is painting my nails once every six years.

Hope y'all enjoyed, and I'm looking forward to hearing y'all's thoughts! I've been eager to dive into this aspect of Bill's backstory and Pacifica's POV for a while.)

[diavolaangelica]

This is what happens when you elect corruption. You fell for his bullshit and now you are in the hot pot with the rest of us. If you think this targeting of all illegals for deportation is not going to have real economic consequences, think again. America's dirty little secret of their love affair for cheap non retaliatory labor that they don't have to pay properly or give benefits to is what is costing Americans jobs... not the illegal. It's greed. Do you know the other acronym for "FEMA" when disaster hits? "Find Every Mexican Available." Who do you think rebuilds this country when disaster hits? Who do you think has had a long history of sending their military here to help too? Any guesses? Mexico! If you want to start blaming the Mexicans for everything wrong in this country then you need to take a long look in the mirror and ask yourself if you aren't part of the problem too, because you blindly believe everything bad you've heard from those abhorrent politicians who have only one mission today... distract you from the ugly shit they are actually doing to this country. The opioid crisis didn't start in Mexico, it started right here in the united states with big pharma pushing their highly addictive drugs on people. Doctors were paid to prescribe Oxycontin, so they were handing it out like candy. People really need to start aiming their ire toward the greedy bastards that have no real interest in the American people or how we get by, because all they want is to line their pockets any way they can. I know many of you think you want all the illegals out, but I wonder, if you hate them so much, why do you love their food so much and why the fuck do you celebrate Cinco de Mayo? When I was in college, I was working in grocery store deli. It was a big chain back then. I don't remember who was in office at the time, but I remember local news casters warning people to stay away from places where large groups of people congregated like the mall, shopping areas, and farmers market, because immigration was out picking people up. I remember going to work one day and they had a big ass light navy green and white immigration bus that looked like a prison bus parked in the parking lot to try and snatch people up. The raids didn't last very long and in that month, the grocery store took a big hit due to lack of customers, overtime paid to people who came to work to fill the void for employees who were not coming to work out of fear they would be arrested even though they were legal, and loss of product that couldn't be sold before expiration. The shit Trump is doing right now has real economic consequences, you may ]not see it right now, but you will... we all will, and it's not going to be good. He's already started off on the wrong foot, and of course he is incapable of the slightest empathy for the victim's family members of the plane crash, instead he would like to blame Obama and Biden... someone needs to remind him the HE is the one at the helm it is his responsibility and his duty to take accountability. Or should we be asking the neo-nazi shadow president Elon Musk to take accountability? Other people are writing his executive orders and he's just signing them. He is absolutely clueless of half the shit he is agreeing to right now, because he doesn't read shit and he doesn't want to hear shit, he'd rather be golfing... but let's just keep pumping out those meme coin scams.. for those who have lost all on his coin keep this in mind, 80% of the money made off that coin went directly to him... that is almost unheard of in the crypto scam scene. Usually it's lower because it's spread out between many people... but I digress... tldr we are fucked!

The First Felon could never be hired. DEI standards laugh at reject hacks like Trump.

[potatobugxo]

Hii! Can I request platonic headcanons of doey with a toy reader whos a child, so they could be just like him but could be the youngest

I hope its no bother! Have a lovely day/night! Thank you!

of course! I hope u have a lovely day too 💚

warnings: mentions of cruelty against children (it's poppy playtime cmon) doey being an older sibling/parental figure to reader!

-when doey found you you were trapped in the prison with the other miniature toys

-you were scared and alone and balled up in the corner of your cell, crying softly to yourself when doey approached you

-"hey, there, kiddo, are you okay?" doey asks, his deep voice soft and soothing

-you wipe your eyes and look up at him, frightened by the large doughman at first

-"it's alright, I'm a friend!" doey says. "you don't have to be alone here anymore. I can take care of you."

-you reluctantly take his hand, and he wipes the tears from your eyes with his thumb

-doey takes you back to safe haven where the other toys he rescued are gathered

-when you start to see other toys that are just like you, you start to calm down, knowing they arent going to hurt you like the others

-doey makes sure you're settled in and tucks you into one of the beds so you can get some rest without having to fear for your life

-it takes you a long time to get used to the other toys, the horrors of the prison still haunting you

-you follow doey around most of the time, clinging to him for a sense of safety

-doey always makes sure all of the toys in his care are taken care of, especially you

-even though doey presents a more paternal front, he's still a kid on the inside, and having someone like you follow him around is like having a little sibling and he loves you very much!

-he notices you're a lot more immature than the other toys are, including him, and he wonders if you were only a few years old when the doctors turned you into this toy

-it breaks his heart to know that and fuels his rage toward the doctor and other scientists, but also fuels his urge to protect you and keep you safe

[yarnabee]

THE DOCTOR HEADCANNON — BEING HIS PLAYTHING.

harley sawyer ( the doctor ) x reader

tags/warnings: sfw (15+), light gore, torture/impact, power imbalance, degradation, abusive behaviour, posessive behaviour, kidnapping i suppose

sawyer is a HUGE jerk to everyone, including to his own little precious plaything, you. of course, such a cold, dense body made out of metal wouldn't make sense if it had a heart, wouldn't it?

besides.. your timid reactions to his sick, little experiments were what piqued his interest in the first place. what a lovely sight it is to see a flesh roaming around his prison like a helpess, pathetic rat who lost its way home. whether you writhe, yelp, whine, sob, or scream.. it's all melody to his ears.

he loves purposefully letting you escape from his lair, making you think that there's still hope to escape his hellish prison. just as you thought you were free of his grasp, he'll pin you, his beloved trophy, down—his mechanical figure hovering over you, eyes daunting as it pierces towards your cowardly ones, squeezing your neck tightly with his iron first, making sure that you knew there's no use fighting someone much stronger than you are. oh, how he loves watching the glint of hope fading from your pupils—dulling them with fear instead. he'd purposefully taunt you, mocking you with his laugh as it echoes through the hallways, "you really thought you could escape me, hmm? what an interesting thing you are, little rat."

oh, how he loves turning every single thing into a game that he knew you'd lose from the very beginning. it's amusing to see how you'd react time to time, whether you try to fight back or whimper out of fear, he feasts on it nonetheless. he'll purposefully make you play hide and seek with him, taunt you with his creaking footsteps, then having his way with you once he got his fingers wrapped tightly around you—dragging you into his lair once again as your fights and cries means nothing to him. "don't try to fight, little rat. i know you're at least smart enough to understand why."

don't get him wrong, though. just because he's able to leave cuts and bruises all over your delicate skin doesn't mean any of those filthy creatures roaming outside has the right to leave a scratch on you, not even a single one. oh, how sawyer wouldn't even think twice to rip appart the limbs off those past experiments who still roams in the area, who dares to touch you without any permission. you're his plaything, and only his. no one else.

the doctor wants you to DEPEND on him, just like how yarnaby depends on him and obeys him like a God. he wants your pathetic self to see him as YOUR lifeline, as he purposefully brings the necessities you need such as food and medicines, his mechanical joints placing them gently next to you without saying anything. afterall, he needs his little lab rat on good condition to play with, no?

at times where he's not running any 'experiments' and 'games' on you, he always kept you inside of his lab—no contact is allowed without his permission. he'd occassionally let yarnaby roam around and get used up to your presence, but he won't let you or it get too attached to each other.

he barely speaks to you, his answers are either mockery or straight degradation. you never really ask him anything about his motives too, he never liked it when you were curious. "say, little rat, i'd be amused if you hadn't learn what happens to curious little rats who gets too nosy."

a little fun fact; the doctor can easily destroy you if he wanted to. he always lets you know through his grips—how he's controlling it steadilly, letting you know that if he puts just the littlest more effort into squeezing you, you'd have your bones crushed within seconds—and he makes sure that you always remember that at all times.

"now, little rat, go on and amuse me. let's see what else i can get out off you."

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Ghost Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series masterlist

Summary: You were trying to move on with your life and clear your head about Spencer from a safe distance, but the whole plan goes out the window when you hear his screams.

Words: 5,8k (I went crazy).

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of jail, gun, violence, alcohol. the reader is wearing a dress, and is slightly injured (nothing serious, just a bruise). nightmares. hurt/comfort. so bittersweet. painter!reader. post prison reid. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I'm finally back! This chapter cost me quite a bit due to lack of time (I'm now officially a university student) and my obsession with making it raw, emotional, and coherent with everything that has happened to Spencer. Really, one of my biggest fears is falling into caricature and making it all seem very out of character, so again, I hope this makes sense to you.

You weren’t the type to go out partying. Nights spent under the haze of neon lights and thumping bass didn’t appeal to you—especially in a city like this one, where shadows stretched long and secrets whispered from every corner. You had your reasons, too. Spending time with an FBI agent who was far too eager to spill the sordid details of his cases left you carrying a permanent thread of suspicion, the kind that made you eye even the janitor’s mop bucket a little too long. But, despite all that, you knew there were moments when you had to relent. When your best friend practically dragged you from your own isolation, insisting on a night out, you could dust off an old dress, slip into heels that pinched just enough to remind you you were still human, and survive the night.

Tonight had been one of those moments.

As you stepped into your apartment, you closed the door carefully behind you, mindful not to wake your cat. The faint jingle of your keys hitting the small table near the door sounded unusually loud in the early morning stillness. The clock on the wall read half past three, and a wave of exhaustion began to creep in, though your mind was too restless to fully embrace it. You glanced toward the worn armchair in the corner, where your cat lay curled in a contented ball. She stirred briefly, opened one green eye, and then decided you weren’t worth the effort of waking up in that moment.

You let out a soft breath and looked around the room. Memories of the night played back in your head as you took off your shoes and went to the kitchen for a glass of water to make you feel a little alive again.

It had all started as an attempt by your friend to pull you out of the orbit of your own misery. “You need this,” she’d said earlier that evening, tugging you out of your chair and into the kind of outfit that made you glance at yourself twice in the mirror, unsure if you still recognized the person staring back.

“Just this time,” you’d agreed.

But, surprisingly, all the dancing and drinking in the bar had been weak against the power of your emotions. Maybe that was because you barely paid attention to the songs they played or the fact that you hadn't even touched the drinks the bartender served you. You had spent most of the night with your chin in your palm, staring into your glass and telling your friend how much you missed Spencer, how the silence in the hallway felt heavier now. And she listened to you patiently, even as the music boomed around you, offering soft, soothing words that you only half heard.

Now, in the stillness of your home, it felt a little foolish and even pathetic. You leaned against the counter, the cold granite grounding you. The sudden and soft shuffle of Mittens broke the silence, and you glanced down to see your cat staring up at you, her green eyes luminous in the dim light. She yawned, then rubbed against your leg, as if to remind you that you weren’t entirely alone. A pretty nice gesture.

You leaned down to scratch her behind the ears, and your thoughts went back to your neighbor. You thought about how he used to smile at you, just barely. You thought about the low timbre of his voice when he greeted you in the hallway, as if he wasn't used to never being heard. He always seemed to carry the weight of something unsaid, something you were afraid to ask. Maybe that's why you were so fascinated by him since the first day. Or maybe it's just because he never looked at you like you were trying too hard, not even on the rare nights you went out in a dress and heels.

As you straightened and turned toward the living room, your eyes caught the faint outline of his window through your own. The blinds were down, but the light was on. It was late, much later than usual for him. It tugged at something inside you, a curiosity laced with longing.

Your cat leapt onto the couch, curling into a soft ball of fur, and you sat beside her. Pulling a blanket over your legs, you let your gaze linger on his window. Was he pacing again, restless like you? He was thinking about what happened between you two yesterday? Could he be regretting everything?

You certainly didn’t know what possessed you, but your phone was in your hand before you could stop yourself and think more than a second about it.

Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe it was the late hour. Maybe it was just the weight of wanting someone you couldn’t seem to reach, no matter how close you were. Maybe it was because he was supposed to be your nice and honest Spencer after all. But whatever it was, the message was already halfway typed before you could stop it.

“Are you awake?”

You stared at the screen for a moment, the question hanging there like a fragile thread, one tug away from unraveling everything. You could feel your pulse in your fingertips, the weight of the message sinking into your chest. With a shaky exhale, you pressed send and regretted it instantly.

But he didn’t respond. Not instantly.

You leaned back against the couch, letting your head tip against the cushion. The blanket pooled around your waist, your cat purring softly beside you, oblivious to your unease. You told yourself to stop looking, to let it go. Maybe he wasn’t near his phone. Maybe he’d seen it and didn’t know what to say. Or maybe—your stomach tightened—maybe he didn’t want to talk to you at all.

But the light in his room was still on. It has to mean something. Please let it mean something.

It felt completely ridiculous to fixate on that tiny detail, but you couldn’t help it. You kept wondering what he was doing in there. Was he working on something, hunched over a desk with his brows furrowed in concentration? Was he pacing the room, thinking of everything, just like you? Or was he simply lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, as lost in his thoughts as you were now?

The longer you stared, the more you started to imagine him there and wishing to be there like you used to do, running your fingers through his hair and just enjoying the silence. Now, you could almost see him, the faint silhouette of his figure moving behind the blinds, like a ghost that refused to stay hidden.

Your phone suddenly buzzed in your hand, and your breath caught, but it wasn’t him. Just a notification from some app you’d forgotten to turn off, and in that moment you hate it completely. You let out a shaky laugh, half at your own foolishness and half to fill the silence.

Outside, the city was starting to move and advance again. A car passed by, and its headlights cut through the darkness. In the distance, a siren wailed, high and short. It was a reminder of how small you were in the big picture, of how trivial your problems might seem compared to everyone else's. But still, your eyes drifted back to his window, making that the biggest problem in the world.

The light hadn’t flickered again, but it was steady, constant. You told yourself to stop watching, to turn off your own light, and just continue your way to your bed. But something rooted you there, some stubborn hope that he’d notice you watching, or that he’d respond to your message, even with something small.

But yet, nothing came, and all your hope started to disappear slowly.

Maybe it was time to let him go, to stop acting like a lovesick puppy following in his footsteps, and most of all, to stop trying to give him a coherent reason for being distant. Maybe you weren't welcome in his life anymore. Maybe the gun incident was just what he would do for any neighbor he thought was in danger. Maybe you weren't as important as you thought you were.

After a moment, you decided it was best to go to bed, so you pulled the blanket up to your chin, the weight of the day slowly slipping away. But then it began. At first it was so faint you might have thought it was part of your imagination, just a murmur, a low sound carried by the stillness of the night. But it didn't fade. It grew louder, sharp, jagged, and unmistakable. A choked scream broke the silence of your apartment, raw and desperate, like someone drowning in their own breath.

Your heart jolted in your chest. The sound was different this time—familiar, but more frantic. It was a chorus of broken sobs and harsh, muffled shouts, followed by a sound you couldn’t quite place but which churned something so dark in your stomach.

And then, the scream.

It wasn’t just a noise. It was a cry born of suffering, guttural and aching, twisting in ways that made your blood run cold. Your eyes snapped open, wide and alert, and your body froze in place. The world around you seemed to fade, the hum of the city outside distant, irrelevant. There was only that sound. That scream.

It came again. Another strangled, desperate cry echoed through the walls. And this time, you knew.

Spencer.

Without thinking, you grabbed your keys from the bedside table and moved quickly toward the door. You weren’t sure why you were doing it, why you were stepping into the unknown at this hour, but it felt like the only thing to do to make sure he was okay. You’d heard him through the tiny walls before—quiet murmurs, little things, but nothing like this. This felt like he was caught in something bigger, something that worried you immensely.

The hallway was dark, empty, and your footsteps echoed too loudly in the silence to wake up all the neighbors. Every sound felt amplified, like the whole apartment was holding its breath with you. You didn’t knock. You didn’t stop to think. You just shoved the key into the lock, the cold metal pressing into your palm as you twisted it, your breath caught in your throat.

You stepped inside.

The apartment was bathed in the pale glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds, casting long, distorted shadows across the floor. Everything felt unnervingly still, too still, the silence almost suffocating in its weight, amplifying every sound that dared break it. His door was slightly ajar, the sliver of light spilling out like a silent invitation, beckoning you in. Drawn by the echoes of his suffering, you moved toward his bedroom, your body moving almost on instinct. The door opened just wide enough to allow you a glimpse.

What you saw made your heart stutter in your chest.

Spencer was tangled in his sheets, his body thrashing violently beneath them, his movements frantic and desperate as if he were trying to escape some invisible force. His face was contorted in agony, his brow furrowed so tightly it seemed the pain had etched itself into his very skin. His chest rose and fell in shallow, jagged breaths, the effort so intense it seemed to burn through him, his body quivering with every painful inhalation. He was caught in the grip of some terrible nightmare, one so vicious it stole his ability to breathe, to think, to fight.

You could see the whiteness of his knuckles, his fingers clenched tightly around the edge of the bed, the skin stretched taut and trembling with the strain. His whole body was rigid, muscles locked in a battle against the unseen terrors his mind had conjured. Tears streaked down his face, mingling with the sweat that had gathered along his brow, the rawness of his cries reverberating in the stillness, thickening the air around you.

“Spencer?” You whispered, barely recognizing your own voice as it trembled in the room. You reached toward him, your heart pounding in your chest, but he didn’t respond. He was lost—completely lost—in whatever dark place his mind had pulled him into, and you didn’t know what to do. “Spencer, wake up,” you tried again, your voice desperate, thick with the urgency of the situation.

His eyes were squeezed shut, the lines of his face tight with tension, his lips trembling with the words that came next, words broken and heavy with pain.

“Please…don’t do it…” he gasped, his voice breaking on the words, filled with so much pain that it made your chest tighten. His hands reached out, grasping at the empty air in frantic, helpless motions. Like he was trying to hold onto something—anything—that could pull him out of the darkness.

You felt the heaviness of his plea in your bones. The torment in his voice was unbearable.

“No, no, no…” he whispered, the words barely audible, but they hit you with the weight of something deep, something far beyond just a nightmare. He was begging, pleading for something that you couldn’t see, couldn’t understand. His body jerked, still trying to pull away from something that wasn’t really there. “Leave me, please, leave me.”

“Spencer!” You called again, louder this time, your hand on his shoulder, your voice trembling with urgency. You shook him, trying to pull him back from wherever his mind had taken him.

In the heat of your panic, you thought it was the right thing to do, thought you could snap him out of it. You thought you could reach him.

But then, in an instant, everything went wrong.

The second your hand touched his shoulder, his body jerked violently, more forceful than before, and without warning, his fist shot out. It connected with your left cheek with such brutal force that your head snapped back, the sting of the blow exploding across your face. For a moment, everything went dark, the pain so sudden and sharp that it left you breathless and disoriented, your body instinctively reeling from the shock. A whimper escaped your throat involuntarily, as the world around you tilted, your vision blurring as you pressed your hand to your cheek, the sting still radiating across your skin.

But he didn’t seem to notice. He continued to thrash beneath the sheets, his body trembling violently, his cries still trapped in that nightmare. You gasped for air, trying to steady yourself, trying to make sense of what had just happened. You’d been trying to help, trying to pull him from his terror—and instead, you’d been struck.

For a heartbeat, there was only the harsh rhythm of your breathing. And then, Spencer’s eyes snapped open, wide and wild, and it was as if the world around him collapsed into focus. His breath hitched in his throat, still shallow, but the frantic terror began to give way to confusion. His eyes flickered across the room, distant and unfocused, and then they landed on you.

In that instant, everything seemed to slow. He blinked, his eyes glazing over in disbelief as they locked on your face, lingering for a moment on the red mark blooming on your cheek. His lips parted, his voice catching in his throat, his expression morphing from confusion to something far worse—horror.

“Oh my God…” He whispered, his voice trembling with fear and guilt, his whole body shaking. “Oh my God—did I—?”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t find the words to reassure him, not in that moment.

He pushed himself up from the bed, his body unsteady, shaky with the tremors of both fear and guilt. His eyes never left your face, locked onto the evidence of his panic etched across your skin. “No. No, no, no,” he stammered, his words coming faster, more frantic, as if trying to deny the reality of what had just happened. “I hit you—I—”

“Spencer,” you started, but your voice was soft, almost hesitant, the lingering sting in your cheek making it hard to speak.

He didn’t hear you. He was already out of bed, nearly tripping over himself as he scrambled toward you. His hands hovered in the air, trembling with the weight of his guilt. “I didn’t mean to! I swear! I—I didn’t know—” His voice cracked, and his hands hovered near your face, but he didn’t touch you, not yet, too afraid that his very presence would cause you more harm. His eyes were glassy, filled with unshed tears. “I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

“Spencer, stop,” you said, your voice firmer now, despite the ache in your chest. “It’s okay. It was an accident.”

But he wasn’t listening. He backed away from you, running a shaky hand through his hair, pacing in agitation, his whole body wracked with guilt. “No, it’s not okay. I—” His voice broke, the words dying in his throat.

You stepped closer to him, ignoring the throbbing in your cheek, reaching out to take his hand, hoping that this simple touch might anchor him in the midst of his storm. At first, he flinched, his body reacting to the contact as though it burned, but then he froze, and his gaze locked with yours.

“Listen to me, please,” you said softly, gently forcing him to meet your eyes, to hold your gaze. His bloodshot eyes were filled with shame, his face a mask of regret. “Look at me. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.”

His brow furrowed, his gaze flicking to your cheek once more, his voice barely a whisper. “You’re not okay. I can see it—I did that.” His hands trembled as he pointed to the mark on your skin. “I shouldn’t have—”

“You were having a nightmare,” you interrupted gently, your voice tender, yet firm. “You didn’t know what you were doing. It wasn’t your fault…I shouldn’t have touched you like that when you were in that state.”

“No, it’s all in me…I’m the one who did this.” He choked on his own words, his chest rising and falling with the effort of holding back the sobs that threatened to break free. “I’m the reason you’re hurting.”

You felt the weight of his guilt like a crushing force. It felt suffocating, like the walls around him were closing in, and you couldn’t stand seeing him like this—lost in his own self-loathing. You wanted to reach him, to show him that it wasn’t his fault, that his nightmare had taken hold of him, not his own hands.

But it wasn’t just the nightmare that had gripped him; it was the way he saw himself now. A man who hurt others without meaning to, a man who couldn’t escape the damage he had caused. You had been there before, watching him battle his inner demons, and you knew how much this guilt could eat away at him if left unchecked.

You watched him struggle, his hands curling into fists at his sides, his head bowed like he couldn’t bear to look at you any longer. The weight of his guilt was tangible, suffocating, and you had to do something—anything—to stop it from consuming him.

“If it were me,” you murmured, searching his face, “if I had been the one thrashing, if I had been the one to hit you, would you be standing here telling me I was a terrible person?”

Spencer blinked. His lips parted, his breath shaky, and you could see the internal war waging behind his eyes.

“I—” He swallowed hard, his fingers twitching in yours. “That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Because I know what’s inside my head. I know what I’ve seen, and I—” He cut himself off, inhaling sharply, his entire body shuddering. “I don’t trust myself not to hurt people.”

That was the most honest thing he'd said to you in three months, and he instantly regretted it. The look in your eyes says too much, and almost all was pity.

“That’s not fair,” you told him, voice steady. “And you know it.”

He didn’t respond. He can’t because you were right.

Instead, he turned abruptly, running a shaking hand through his hair, muttering, “Wait here. Just—just stay.”

Before you could respond, he was gone, disappearing into the kitchen. You heard the faint sound of running water, the clink of something being opened, and then the hurried shuffle of his footsteps as he returned, a small hand towel in one hand and a plastic bag filled with ice in the other.

Without a word, Spencer knelt in front of you, his movements careful, deliberate, as if afraid you might flinch. He gently wrapped the ice in the towel, his hands trembling slightly, and looked up at you, his expression unreadable.

“Let me,” he murmured, his voice soft but heavy with emotion.

You nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Slowly, he raised the makeshift ice pack to your cheek, his movements tender, almost hesitant, as though he feared he might hurt you again. The coolness of the ice was a stark contrast to the warmth of his hand, which hovered just beneath your jaw, steadying you.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort.

“No,” you whispered. “Not anymore.”

He exhaled shakily, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction, but his gaze remained fixed on your face. His thumb brushed against your skin absentmindedly, just below where the ice rested, and the gentleness of the touch sent a shiver down your spine.

“God,” he said, his voice breaking, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s really not that bad.” You spoke softly, trying to cut through his panic. “If I’m being honest, Mittens has scratched me more times than I can count.” You lifted your arm, showing the faint, nearly invisible white lines crisscrossing your skin. “She’s a little terror sometimes, but I love her anyway.”

His eyes flickered to the marks, but the tension in his expression didn’t ease. His brows furrowed, the crease between them deepening with uncertainty. “But that’s different,” he murmured, his voice hesitant, like he was afraid to argue but couldn’t stop himself. “A cat scratching you isn’t the same as—” He swallowed hard. “As hitting you.”

You smiled faintly, the kind of smile that carried more weight than it should—small, knowing, resigned. “It is the same,” you said, so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Because I love her no matter what she does by accident. And I…”

The words got stuck in your throat. I love you.

But you couldn’t say them. Not now. Not when he was looking at you like he was the monster under your bed, the thing you should fear, when all you could see was the boy who had once held your hand in the dark just to make sure you weren’t afraid.

You just watched him.

Watched the way his jaw was clenched so tightly it could shatter. Watched the way his hands still trembled, despite his best efforts. Watched the way his brows furrowed in that deep, pained way that made your chest ache.

And then, in the silence, you spoke.

“You do realize that when we used to sleep together, I kicked you, like…constantly, right?”

That startled him. His eyes widened, his brows pulling together in confusion. “What?”

A small, tired smile ghosted across your lips. “You don’t complain much, but I know I do. I kick in my sleep. I shift around. I always end up tangled in the blankets, stealing all the covers.” You let out a soft, almost self-conscious chuckle. “There was one night you woke up because I kneed you in the ribs. Hard.”

A flicker of recognition crossed his face, and you saw it—the moment he obviously remembered.

His lips parted, his breath hitching slightly. “You—yeah.” His voice was barely audible, but it had lost some of its sharp edges. “You kicked me so hard I nearly fell off the bed.”

You nodded. “And did you get mad at me?”

His brows furrowed. “Of course not. You were asleep.”

“Exactly.” You tilted your head, ignoring the way the ice sent another sharp pulse of cold through your skin. “I never meant to hurt you, but I still did. Just like you never meant to hurt me.”

He inhaled sharply, his eyes flicking between yours, something raw and hesitant creeping into his expression.

“It’s different,” he said, but the conviction in his voice was weaker now.

“Is it?” you challenged softly. “I know you, Spencer. I know who you are.”

Oh no, you didn’t know him. Not really. Not anymore.

His breath shuddered, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, his eyes searching your face like he was looking for something—proof, maybe, or forgiveness. Maybe both.

Slowly, carefully, you reached for him again, this time taking his hand in both of yours. He let you. He didn’t pull away.

“You’re not a violent person,” you whispered. “You are not the things that have happened to you years ago. You are not the things you’ve had to do to see in your work. You are not the nightmares that try to tell you otherwise.”

His fingers twitched beneath yours, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly.

For the first time since he had woken up, his shoulders sagged—just slightly, but enough for you to see the weight of his guilt beginning to lift, piece by piece. Even though he knew that if you knew what had happened in the last three months, those words would not have come out of your mouth.

“I would never hurt you,” he whispered, like a prayer.

“I know,” you whispered back. “That’s why I’m still here.”

Tears welled in his eyes, spilling over before he could stop them.

Without thinking, your fingers lifted, brushing against the sharp line of his jaw. The warmth of his skin seeped into your fingertips, grounding you both. You had done this before—when the weight of the world had pressed too heavily on his shoulders, when the ghosts in his mind grew too loud to ignore. You had kissed his tears away in the past, stolen moments of comfort from the chaos.

And so, you did it again.

Leaning forward, you pressed your lips gently against the corner of his eye, where a fresh tear lingered. The warmth of his skin felt almost feverish beneath your touch, as though his entire body was caught in the grip of a storm. Your lips brushed the salty trail of his tear, and another followed almost instantly. Without thinking, you kissed it too, your lips lingering a moment longer, offering a tenderness that neither of you had allowed yourselves in so long. The sweetness of the moment almost made you forget the ache in your chest and the bruise on your cheek.

He shuddered beneath your touch, a sharp breath catching in his throat. You felt the tension ripple through him, the way he stiffened for just a second—caught between wanting to pull away and wanting to collapse into you.

And then, as if it were inevitable, your lips brushed against his, just a breath away. You could feel the heat of his skin, the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingers. You were so close, closer than you’d been in so long, closer than you’d dared to let yourself believe was possible.

Your heart pounded. His did too.

His lashes fluttered, his gaze locked onto yours, searching, hesitant.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. The words were barely audible, spoken like they might break if said any louder. “Tell me to get away from you.”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

And for a fleeting second, he was just a boy, and you were just the girl next door. No past, no pain, no history—just this.

Or maybe not.

The reality crashed back in, and all the things you didn’t know came back to his mind.

The ice pack in his hand had started to burn from how tightly he was gripping it, and the cold sting jolted him back to the truth he was trying so hard to ignore. His gaze darted to the bruise on your cheek, and in an instant, everything shifted.

He wasn’t just a boy.

He was an ex-convict. Someone dangerous. Someone broken. A liar.

And the only thing he could give the girl next door was more pain.

Spencer flinched as though struck, his entire body going rigid as he ripped himself away from you. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his chest rising and falling too fast, as if he were surfacing from deep water. The ice pack slipped slightly in his grip, like it had suddenly become too heavy to hold.

“I can’t,” he whispered, his voice trembling, the words choked with anguish. His eyes darted to the mark on your cheek, his expression twisted with guilt. “I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have even—God, what am I doing?”

“Wait—” You reached for him again, but he was already retreating, shaking his head in frantic, jerky motions.

“No,” he muttered, his voice fraying at the edges. “No, I can’t—I shouldn’t even be near you.” His fingers tightened around the ice pack like it was a lifeline, like it could somehow build a wall between you. “You shouldn’t let me touch you. Not after what I just did. What I did yesterday. What I might do.”

“You were dreaming,” you tried again, your voice barely above a whisper.

“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped, but there was no anger in it. Just raw, unfiltered pain. His whole body seemed to sag under the weight of it. He turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at you any longer. “It doesn’t matter why it happened. What matters is that it did. I hurt you.”

He did it even when he was so afraid that someone else would do it.

“It was an accident.”

“But it was me.” His voice rose in despair, his hands clenching at his sides. “I did it. My hands. I can’t—” He gestured wildly at your cheek, his breath hitching. “I can’t undo that.”

You didn't say anything.

The room felt impossibly small, as if the walls were closing in with every passing second. The silence between you stretched taut, heavy with unspoken words and the weight of something neither of you had the strength to name. The air was thick with the faint scent of coffee—bitter, stale, clinging to the space around you. Your gaze drifted past him, landing on the nightstand beside his bed.

Coffee cups. So many of them.

You didn’t count them, but the number didn’t matter. It was the stains at the bottom that told the real story—the dark rings of dried coffee, layer upon layer, marking the passage of sleepless nights. Some of the cups were only half-empty, abandoned mid-drink, as if exhaustion had finally won for a brief moment before panic dragged him back into consciousness. Others were drained completely, the last dregs of caffeine clinging stubbornly, as if trying to hold on to something already lost.

It wasn’t just coffee, though.

Books stacked haphazardly, some opened and left facedown, pages creased from where his shaking hands had clutched them too tightly. Papers covered in his cramped, hurried handwriting, words scrawled over and over as though writing them down might keep the memories from slipping through the cracks. A pen, its tip snapped, the ink dried into a small, angry blotch on a forgotten page.

And then, at the edge of it all, the only thing untouched—the single glass of water, still full, still waiting. Like it had been set aside with the intention of being drunk but never was. Because he hadn’t stopped long enough to remember he needed it, even with his wonderful memory.

He had been trying not to sleep.

The realization struck like a blade slipping between your ribs, slow and deliberate, the pain blooming in your chest before you had time to brace for it. You inhaled sharply, the sound barely audible over the steady hum of your own heartbeat. When you looked back at him, you saw it—the exhaustion carved into his features like cracks in porcelain, the dark circles beneath his eyes deep enough to tell their own stories. His hands were trembling, his fingers curled into fists at his sides as if he were trying to hold himself together, piece by piece, before he shattered completely.

This wasn’t just sleeplessness. This was obsession. This was someone running from something, from himself.

And you hadn’t even noticed until now.

“Spencer…” You hesitated, searching for the right words, but everything felt too small, too inadequate for the storm raging inside him. “What’s going on with you?”

He flinched, like you’d struck him, but didn’t answer. His fingers curled around the ice pack again, knuckles white with tension. His jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt.

You stepped closer, your heart hammering in your chest, but you didn’t move to touch him. Not yet. Not until he let you in. “This isn’t just about tonight, is it?”

Still, nothing. No answer, no hint of recognition. His eyes remained fixed somewhere just beyond you, a million miles away, a stranger in his own skin.

You tried again, your voice softer this time, as though the gentleness might coax him out of his silence. “When was the last time you actually slept?”

That got a reaction. His gaze flickered to you, but only for a second, before he tore it away, staring somewhere over your shoulder like he could pretend he wasn’t here at all. His silence spoke volumes.

Your chest ached. “Spence.”

“I can handle it,” he murmured, but there was no conviction in his voice.

“You’re not handling it,” you countered softly. “You’re barely holding yourself together.”

His lips twisted into something bitter, the words tasting like acid as they spilled out. “That’s nothing new.”

The bitterness in his tone made your stomach twist. You took another step forward, closing the distance between you. “Talk to me,” you pleaded, voice gentle but firm. “Please. Whatever it is—whatever’s been keeping you up at night, whatever’s making you pull away—I want to know.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You don’t.”

“I do.”

“No, you really don’t.” His voice cracked, and when he finally looked at you, his eyes were haunted. “Because if you knew—if you really knew—you wouldn’t be standing here.”

Your heart stopped.

“What does that mean?” Your voice was barely a whisper.

He didn't answer, he just kept looking at you like you were made of glass, as if one wrong word would break you entirely. But that wasn’t it, was it? No—there was something deeper, something raw and frayed at the edges, something desperate.

He wasn’t looking at you like you might break.

He was looking at you like he might.

Then you understand something: Spencer Reid wasn’t someone to be afraid of, because he was afraid.

Just like you had been since he left you in his bed three months ago, with a promise that felt more like a lie with every passing day.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: I finally made this! So send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[the-uninformed-zennial]

Okay so I wanna talk about the ecosystem of a fandom space like Fable/Bound SMP and those that extend off of it.

(long post below)

So one of the things that kinda stands out to me is that many of the popular ships are just canon. Like… off the top of my head the only two popular ships that aren’t necessarily canon in Fable are Kaleidoscope (Midas x Malitae) and Prison Duo (Centross x Icarus). But even one of those has been hinted at being canon by Sherbert in a few streams so like???

Looking at this from the outside it’s almost worrying. But the thing is, I think it has to do with three different things that are all unique to the Fable/Mer/Bound (and adjacent) fandom(s) and might actually be the sign of a really warm and welcoming community (as the Fable & adjacent fandoms have always been imo).

Firstly, the medium. If these were not lore-heavy, highly improvisational, live-streamed stories the fandom wouldn’t be able to provide feedback and the creators wouldn’t be able to react to said feedback in time to adjust. Think about Hermitcraft, it’s highly improvisational, yes. But lore-wise it’s not super heavy and thus all ships kinda teeter on the edge of being canon or not canon. Likewise smth like Whitepine where it’s recorded beforehand (and I think scripted??) doesn’t give the creators the flexibility to adjust the content in the same way the fandom is moving as quickly as the fandom moves.

Secondly, the fact that the creators interact with the fandom. Hi, hello, I’m living proof of this cause if I hadn’t gotten picked up by Heyhay and Art I never would’ve gotten to become one of said content creators. But this goes far beyond that. This has to do with the fact that they listen and interact and bounce ideas off of their fan base. Even if it doesn’t always feel like it, the opinions and ideas you guys share out here do influence the story, even if it’s just confirmation that you guys are picking up what the creators are laying down. It still serves as a sounding board to see how well things are coming across, and speaking as a creator myself (albeit a newer one) I find it incredibly helpful.

Thirdly, the size. Obviously if this venn-diagram of fandoms was as large as say Hermitcraft or QSMP the content creators simply wouldn’t be able to keep up with the fandom and many ideas would get lost in the jumble. Even just with how large Fable got at it’s peak, there came a point where it was nearly impossible to keep up with the amount of fan art and theories that were being made. So I think this point kinda feeds back into the second, that having a smaller size helps the content creators keep up with the feedback they receive from their art and lead to the fandom having more influence on the story than anyone really realizes.

These three things work together to create a space where people get to feel heard and seen. One of the most enticing things about being a community member for me was having that ability to influence the story, to talk to the characters themselves, to poke them about things I wanted to know the answer to. And when they responded?? It was so cool! I remember I used to keep a tally of little things in the world that I had affected because of messages that had been sent during live chat. It wasn’t ever anything big, but sometimes it’s the little things that count. That’s why, as a creator now I try really hard to interact with community members. I know I’m obviously not one of the big creators in this space, but I still want to help you guys feel seen and heard, because that’s where so much of the magic of being a part of this fandom space comes from imo. And if I can help recreate what helped me fall in love with this fandom space even a little bit, I’ll do what I can.

Anyway, I’m just super grateful to this community and the fellow creators within it. I have been so lucky to be able to get to experience this fandom from both the community member and creator side and honestly it has just been one of the most overwhelmingly positive experiences of my life, from both sides of the spectrum. I know things like that are fickle. I know fandoms and people are always growing and changing and maybe that won’t always be the case. But I just wanted to say I really appreciate the community that has been built here and all the work that goes into keeping it a positive and safe space. So, thank you guys 💕

[00valentina-writes00]

Ambessa with a reader who like sunk out or something and then when she finds out like spanking or something 🤩

✞⛧ A Lesson in Obedience ✞⛧

An: I hope- I hope this is what you wanted-

Warnings: spanking, humiliation, ambessa is kinda mean tbh, forced marriage (love this trope tbh)

The Medarda estate loomed behind you, its towering walls and gilded halls nothing more than a prison in your eyes. The marriage had never been your choice—it had been a transaction, a political move to secure alliances, to strengthen power. You were just another piece on Ambessa Medarda’s board, another conquest she had claimed without breaking a sweat.

But you were no soldier, no willing subordinate to her iron will. You wouldn’t spend another night suffocating under her gaze, her control.

The moon was high as you slipped through the estate’s gardens, your heart pounding in your chest. You had planned this for weeks, watching the guards’ rotations, memorizing the pathways. It had been easy to charm one of the younger attendants into loosening the locks on a lesser-used gate. Almost too easy.

And then a gloved hand wrapped around your wrist.

The grip was like iron, unyielding and utterly certain. A slow, amused chuckle sent shivers down your spine.

“Did you really think you could escape me, little wife?”

Ambessa’s voice was like velvet lined with steel, smooth yet carrying a weight that made your stomach drop. You wrenched against her hold, but it was laughable, really. She barely had to exert any effort to pull you back against her. The scent of leather and steel surrounded you, and you knew then that there was no running from her.

“Let me go,” you hissed, but it came out weaker than you intended.

Ambessa exhaled a slow sigh, as if you had disappointed her. “You embarrass yourself, trying something so foolish. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t anticipate this?”

Her fingers tightened around your wrist, and you winced. She wasn’t hurting you, not really—just reminding you of the difference in strength between you.

“You will come back inside. Now.”

You knew better than to fight, though it burned at your pride. Ambessa guided—no, dragged—you through the corridors, her pace unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world to deal with your little rebellion. The guards averted their eyes as you passed, either too well-trained or too fearful to acknowledge your disgrace.

By the time you reached your shared chambers, your pulse was a frantic thing in your throat. The doors shut behind you with a finality that sent a shiver through you.

Ambessa turned to face you, dark eyes sweeping over you with a mix of amusement and disappointment. “Strip.”

Your breath hitched. “Excuse me?”

Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You disobeyed me. You tried to abandon your duty, your place. You will be punished for it.”

You took a step back, but she was already reaching for you, undoing the clasps of your outer garments with swift efficiency. When you made a feeble attempt to stop her, she caught both of your wrists in one hand.

“Do not make this more difficult than it has to be.”

Your skin burned with humiliation as she guided you toward the chair by the hearth. You struggled—of course you did—but it was pointless. Ambessa sat, and in one smooth motion, she pulled you over her lap, your body draped over her thighs like a child.

Heat flooded your cheeks. You had expected her to be angry, to yell, to berate you for your foolishness. But this? This was something else entirely.

Her palm rested against your lower back, steadying you as her other hand ghosted over the curve of your ass. “You act like a child,” she murmured, voice dark with promise. “Perhaps I should treat you like one.”

The first slap landed with a sharp crack, the force of it making you jolt forward. A startled gasp tore from your lips before you could stop it.

Then another. And another.

Your skin stung, a slow, smoldering heat spreading outward with each strike. Ambessa’s hand was unrelenting, her strength making it impossible to ignore the growing ache.

“You thought you could simply leave?” she mused, her voice infuriatingly calm. Another sharp slap made you bite back a whimper. “You thought I would allow that?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowing the humiliating noises bubbling in your throat.

But Ambessa was nothing if not patient. She continued, methodical in her punishment, ensuring that you felt every ounce of her displeasure.

By the time she stopped, your body was trembling, your breath uneven. Your pride was in tatters, your ass red hot and sensitive.

Ambessa traced a slow path over your marked flesh, a quiet hum vibrating in her chest. “There.” A soft chuckle. “Now, perhaps, you will think twice before trying something so foolish again.”

She lifted you effortlessly, settling you back on her lap your legs straddling her hips. You hissed at the contact, the burn of your punishment a constant reminder. Ambessa’s fingers found your chin, tilting your face up to meet her gaze.

“Look at me,” she commanded, and despite yourself, you obeyed.

Her expression was unreadable, but there was something else there—something deeper than just discipline.

“You are mine,” she murmured, her thumb brushing against your lower lip. “And I do not let what is mine slip away so easily.”

A shudder ran through you, though whether it was from fear or something else entirely, you couldn’t say.

Ambessa leaned in, her breath warm against your ear. “Next time, little wife, if you want to run… you best be prepared to suffer the consequences.”

[magicalmutants]

I’m All Run and You’re All Fight

Two years

You knew what day it was as you lay awake in bed. You knew it was the middle of the night, that if you turned and looked at the clock, it would say 3:45am. Wide awake thinking about him. You wonder if he thinks of you too.

It had been two years since you had been roused from a fitful sleep to be told that your world was fissuring into something broken and ugly. You squeezed your eyes shut as you tried to block out the memory.

“He’s gone. Wiped out the whole village. He’s not coming back.”

You sit upright as you hold your head in your hands. Trying to shove those memories back into the little box you contain them in somewhere in the back of your mind. Somewhere where they couldn’t hurt you. Breathing shakily, you reach into your nightstand and pull out the pack of cigarettes and lighter you keep there and climb out of bed to pad softly over to your window.

You hold the cigarette between your lips as you light it, the harsh taste of burning tobacco filling your mouth. You wrinkle your nose, always forgetting how much you despised this brand. But menthols taste like kisses and summer and a life you’re desperate to forget. These will have to do.

“Here, since you’re so desperate to follow Shoko to an early grave. Try one of these, they kinda taste a little better,”

“You smoke them too! Besides what if I like these ones?”

“You don’t. You always pull a face.”

So much of who you are is an amalgamation of everyone you’ve ever loved. The way you take your coffee because that’s just the kind that Shoko brought for you when you were exhausted from studying. The way you still cut your hair the way that celebrity you idolized when you were a teenager used to cut hers.

But so much of you had been shaped by him. His ghost always floats in the corner of your eye, just out of reach. You’ve buried him, feeding the corpse that you stuffed full of memories to the night inside your heart. A cold place. A dark one. A dead one. And still he persists, still he lingers in the shadowy reaches of your sense of self. The parts that are jagged and bleeding from how hard you’ve tried to sever them off. They say the body holds memories that the brain forgets, and if you could peel back your skin and go bleeding, raw and bloodied into the world, vile and unrecognizable, you think you would. You would forget yourself and become something entirely different; something entirely separate from him. Could you still be yourself if you replaced every single part of your soul that he had touched? At what point was the ship of Theseus no longer the Argo when every part of it had been replaced?

_____________

Suguru loved watching you when you were like this. Pretty frown on your face as you tried to block out the memories he knew were trying to break through the prison where you had confined them. Here is where you were different: he let them wash over him, relishing in the pain they caused him. He loved the way it felt to miss you. The chest-splitting feeling that made it hard to breathe and brought that lump to his throat that he sometimes hoped would suffocate him. The nausea at the feeling of some cavernous, gaping hole in his soul, somewhere where his heart would be. The anxiety that he felt, knowing he could never fill it. His torment and your pain were the thorns that decorated the crown on his head. The halo that left him scratched and bloody.

He watched as you swore, he could almost hear the whisper of your voice on the wind as you put out the half smoked cigarette and threw it out the window before slamming your fist into the frame.

There you were.

His violent girl.

Suguru had always been in awe of how easily violence came to you, and how hard you tried to hide it under your soft spoken words and tender smiles.

He remembered the first mission you had ever gone on together in your first year, teeth bared in a snarl as blood dripped out of your nose.

He remembered the moment he noticed the flash in your eyes as the corner of your lips ticked upwards into something that looked more like a smirk.

He remembered how divine you looked as blood and gore flew around you, the air seeming to crackle as you danced at the epicenter of a terrible storm of death and cursed energy. Goddess of rage and terror. Goddess of beauty, because after all, how could you know beauty without knowing terror?

And he remembered how suddenly you stopped. How your eyes softened and you asked if he was okay. How you had sounded almost bashful.

“Where have you been hiding that?”

“Don’t be stupid,”

“Why are you embarrassed? You were beautiful,”

Maybe you were destined to be a perfect paradox. Suguru walked a path of violence, forcing step after step, knowing each one made the rot inside him fester a little more. You tried to bury violence deep inside you to quell the rage that had threatened to consume you all your life, burning up your insides and begging to be let out.

Two sides of the same coin, two people with the same curse, wasn’t it Shakespeare who said these violent delights had violent ends?

Your head snapped up and Suguru felt the blood freeze in his veins as your eyes seemed to lock directly onto him.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Is that what you think of me?”

“I don’t think of you,”

“I do. I think of you every minute of every day,”

“Is that supposed to make me feel something?”

“You might not understand, but I’m doing this for you. I’m saving us, all of us,”

“Ha. And when you’re done saving everyone, and all you’re left with is whatever stares back at you from the mirror, Suguru, who will save you then?”

He remembered the torment in your eyes as the violence you spent your life concealing threatened to burst forth, he caught some of it in the harsh sound of your laugh as you spat venom at him.

He still didn’t have an answer for you. When all was said and done, and his hands were covered in blood that he could never wash off, and the decay that putrefied his insides befouled the rest of his body, and all he was left with were the words of his mother and the cold look in your eyes, what would he do then? Saviors had always suffered their torments, but he was no saint. The devil walked by his shoulder and forced his mouth open every time he consumed another curse and guided his fist every time his knuckles split against another face.

Crack.

You had closed your window and gone back inside. Suguru took a deep breath and tried to mask his disappointment with smugness. You still loved him, of that he was sure. So he would come back next year to make sure, and perhaps one day you wouldn’t slam the window closed when you sensed his cursed energy. Perhaps one day you would confront him. Perhaps one day you would finally let loose the fire of the rage that you had always used to cleanse foul things. Perhaps one day he would be worthy of being purified by it. Suguru had once dreamed of getting down on his knees and asking for a life with you. Would it not be so much sweeter to die at the feet of the only person who had seen flowers grow where he saw only rot?

A/N: concepts of this have been floating around my drafts ever since I screamed with @gothsuguru about Ethel Cain (ty for matching my freak Kairo <3) and tonight I finally had the time to finish it ! A very late happy new year to you all, my loves, I hope you’re looking after yourselves <3

[animeangelriku]

one piece au where instead of doflamingo killing rosinante on minion island, law gets out of the chest and vows to become the third corazón as long as doflamingo spares his brother. they’re both taken back into the family, with rosinante as a prisoner and with law continuing his training for his future role as doflamingo’s right hand man.

after they get to dressrosa and doflamingo takes over, viola meets law and realizes they’re both in the same boat, working for someone they despise in order to keep their loved ones safe, so they become, if not friends, at least allies. law takes any chance he can get to sneak away to rosinante’s cell and spend time with him, just being in his company. rosinante obviously clings to any moment with law he can have, but he warns law to be careful. if doflamingo finds out, they could both be in serious trouble.

meanwhile, doflamingo realizes that he can use law and rosinante’s attachment to each other to his favor, punishing rosinante whenever law steps out of line and therefore keeping him under his thumb and extinguishing any rebellious spark that may arise in him. of course, that doesn’t mean doflamingo leaves rosinante alone otherwise; his brother’s betrayal is still a crime that cannot be paid in anything other than blood.

law is resigned to be under doflamingo’s control for the rest of his life, because at least rosinante will be alive and as safe as law can keep him. but then law catches doflamingo torturing rosinante and realizes that they will never be free from doflamingo as long as he lives. so law starts to scheme and plan for a future in which he will be strong enough to take on doflamingo and defeat him.

law is officially named the third corazón when he turns 22, the same age rosinante was when he took the mantle. this means that while he is on sabaody when shit goes down two years later, he doesn’t intervene, but he does see luffy punch the celestial dragon and takes note of him. originally, law is at marineford under doflamingo’s orders, but he still saves luffy “on a whim” and goes radio silent until luffy wakes up.

(he definitely did not save luffy because luffy also has the middle name “d.” it’s definitely not because he knows the devastation of losing a sibling after promising you’d keep them safe. it’s definitely not because rosinante firmly believes that a new dawn is coming, and luffy seems to be at the head of said new dawn. it’s just “on a whim.”)

of course, upon law’s return to dressrosa, doflamingo punishes rosinante for law’s insubordination. law sneaks into rosinante’s cell later that night and apologizes, but rosinante tells him that all that matters to him is that law is okay, and that if law ever wanted to run away, on his own, that’s okay, rosinante understands, law doesn’t have to worry about him. enraged, law asks if rosinante believes he could be that selfish.

“sometimes,” rosinante says, “i wish you were.”

and law snaps and breaks down in tears. rosinante holds him against his chest and pets his hair as law screams and cries and curses doflamingo and all the donquixote pirates.

the next day, law is resolved to bring down doflamingo and kill him. he’s still not strong enough, but he’ll get there, and when he does, he and rosinante will be free, and they’ll travel the world together like rosinante said they would. law tells viola of his mission, and viola shares that the tontattas are planning a rebellion, so they join forces and decide to lay low until the moment is right. law keeps his plans secret from rosinante; the less he knows, the less he is at risk. and also, law just doesn’t want rosinante to worry about him more than he already does.

law still goes to punk hazard, though he does so as doflamingo’s corazón, and when he runs into luffy and the straw hats, he drops to his knees and begs for his help, figuring that luffy will agree as payment for law saving his life. luffy agrees, even before law tells him what he needs help for, so law still has the realization that the straw hats, and luffy especially, are insane.

punk hazard is slightly different, in the sense that law is playing double agent, but his duel with vergo still happens, except that he gets rid of vergo’s den-den mushi so he doesn’t have the chance to call doflamingo and tell him of law’s betrayal. as far as doflamingo knows, everything is still going according to plan in punk hazard, and law and vergo are on their way back to dressrosa.

law returns to dressrosa with the straw hats and meets in secret with viola to tell her he brought reinforcements. they need to act now, today, before doflamingo realizes anything, or they’ll lose their chance. he begs viola to keep an eye on rosinante and to free him and take him out of the palace if anything goes to shit.

at first, things seem to be going exactly as they planned, but then luffy disappears (because he’s in the colosseum fighting for the mera mera no mi), law gets caught by doflamingo and chained to the heart seat, doflamingo vows to kill rosinante in front of law, and all hope seems lost.

just as law is cursing himself for failing (and most of all, for failing rosinante), the tontattas (and usopp) knock out sugar, the toys turn back into humans, luffy, viola, and kyros burst into the palace and behead doflamingo’s string clone, and the rest goes pretty much the same as in canon for the most part, including the colosseum’s participants joining and aiding luffy in fighting the donquixote family executives.

one of the things that changes is that before doflamingo drags law back to the palace, rosinante is rescued by viola, who has no other option but to tell him what’s going on. after having several small heart attacks, rosinante leaves in search of law and finally manages to catch up to him on the rooftop, where law and luffy have been fighting doflamingo, trebol, and bellamy. with rosinante keeping trebol occupied, law gains a bit of an advantage in the fight.

and then doflamingo saws off law’s arm.

trebol gains the upper hand against rosinante, so he and doflamingo still beat the shit out of law, and then doflamingo tries to get law to perform the perennial youth surgery on him in exchange for a favor while rosinante yells at him not to, unable to do anything else because trebol has immobilized him.

law agrees to doflamingo’s deal, and the favor he asks?

“take back all the pain you took from cora-san these past 13 years. beg for his forgiveness, and then let him go.”

(and since he’s still a little shit, he also tells doflamingo to lick the asses of every single citizen in dressrosa. because of course he does.)

doflamingo, furious and enraged at law still continuing to choose rosinante over him, shoots law.

rosinante screams. doflamingo shoots law again and again and again and again and again and rosinante can do nothing except scream and cry and beg doflamingo to stop, please, doffy please stop don’t hurt him doffy stop please please doffy please please PLEASE—

rosinante rushes to law and holds him in his arms and pets his hair and calls law my boy, my boy, my sweet, darling boy and cries and cries and cries and cries

he kisses the crown of law’s head, lays law down as gently as he can, and lunges at doflamingo

doflamingo avoids his attacks easily, grinning that cruel fucking grin of his while rosinante snarls i’ll kill you, i’ll kill you, i’ll fucking kill you, until doflamingo stops playing with him and ties him up in his strings.

luffy gets back to the roof, and law defeats trebol, and luffy takes law and rosinante to the sunflower field with robin. rosinante is the one carrying law instead of cavendish, and law shambles them both to luffy while he recovers to use his haki again, and when luffy punches doflamingo through the ground and splits the island in two, rosinante pulls law into his arms and bursts into tears. law hugs him back with his one good arm and sobs quietly into his chest. the marines take doflamingo away, and for the first time in 13 years, law breathes easy.

[gatheringbones]

[“In the dungeon, the dominatrix was a paragon of high-femme adornment, training submissive men in the supposedly organic wisdom of her gender. In reality, I was trying on this kind of glamour and ultrafemininity for the first time.

Two things helped me to fall in love with mani-pedis and skin creams and click-clacking around in dramatically slanted stilettos in my 20s, despite rejecting these sartorial amusments growing up. One was that I was making cash money to do it, which was much more motivating than the Seventeen magazines and peer pressures of my adolescence. Second, I was surrounded by beautiful naked women encouraging me to develop my own style. Most of my colleagues were much more experienced with makeup, hair, lingerie, jewelry, heels, nails, lotion, and perfume, much more confident in products, styling, shapes, and colors than I was. Some of them were sweetly excited about my ineptitude, eagerly turning me into a doll they could experiment on. I smelled the sizzle of flat irons as they tugged at my hair from behind, I squeezed eyelash glue nervously along the rinds of falsies as they timed me, I sat on the cold linoleum and snapped their garters into place every day for weeks until I could do it with my eyes closed. As their hands and tools stroked my body, conditioning me in more ways than one, I felt an ASMR buzz all over. If I felt objectified, it was as an exalted precious object, like a car being tuned up under my hood, my exteriors waxed until I shined.

A colleague turned to me out of the blue one day, snapping, “What is your skin care routine?” When I sheepishly replied that I had none, she marched me into the bathroom, sternly showing me how to cleanse, moisturize, and always wear sunscreen. I have done this every single day since. That’s all it took for me to learn to care for myself in this way. A little feminine superiority.

If this sounds familiar, it should. Despite being assigned female at birth, I was just as enchanted as any dude could have been by confident pros guiding me into a realm of prettiness, and I needed every bit as much coaching. I would get femme trained by my colleagues, and minutes later I would lead clients into session rooms and train them to be femme too.

I’m hardly the first person to observe that drag is drag no matter your resting gender, your genitals, your orientation, your motivation. Not to put too fine a point on it, but most sex workers know we are drag artists. Much in the same way that pro wrestlers exaggerate their own masculinity, the dominatrix is a femme maximalist entertainer. The fact that a cis woman can feel like a drag queen speaks to the performative nature of gender expression, of both drag as an art and cross-dressing as a fetish. By and large, my cross-dressing clients didn’t want to be women. They wanted to be bimbos! They embodied their own ideas of insatiable sluts and campy cartoons. Maximalist girls, exaggerated girls, megawatt girls. They wanted satin corsets, jewel tones, iridescent glitter, fishnets, freesia body spray. They spoke like Betty Boop and did their best to stiffly dance along to Prince songs. They saw this glamour as sparkling dynamite to bust them out of the prison of their toxic masculinity, even if just for a few hours, even if only superficially.

I didn’t find these fantasies a reminder of the awful pressures of girliness I had initially rejected; gender-bending in the dungeon showed me that I had been positioned to see femme all wrong. The bimbo is an archetype, a shimmering human invention waiting to be embodied by anyone who cares to summon her. It’s the choice to play with gender as an adult, as opposed to a lifetime of imposed messaging about what kind of gender you can and can’t be, that generates the erotic pleasures of cross-dressing.

I enjoyed being bullied into girliness by my fellow pro-dommes, so I empathized with our clients, regardless of the gender trajectory that led us to femme power play. All of the qualities that we expressed as feminine—from soft clothes to luscious scents to sucking cock—had belonged to all of us the whole time. I get why a cis dominatrix wouldn’t want to participate in forced feminization. I also get why many trans people, trans women in particular, find the existence of transvestitism to be so painful. When you have to fight so hard every day for the fundamental dignity and civil rights of your gender, it can be agonizing to see someone treat that gender as frivolous. Cross-dressing clients were often annoyingly reductive, like young adults on rumspringa, gorging themselves on the sugar high of femininity after being denied it for so long. It was clear to me that some of these fetishists liked cross-dressing sessions because it happened to be the variation on humiliation that their submissive tendencies had alighted on, emasculation being one of a hundred ways of having your social status lowered by a dominatrix. Others would have liked to wear dresses and bubblegum-flavored lip gloss more often, including in situations where they weren’t necessarily aroused. Still others weren’t actually cross-dressers at all, but closeted or crypto-transgender women. The kinky space was the only one they knew where they could be themselves using what they saw as a safe, private, and limited method. Some of them would transition eventually, and some would keep that part of themselves compartmentalized their entire lives. All three of these categories of person deserve the space to explore their gender expression through erotic fantasy.

Some cross-dressing fetishists are cis. Some trans women are butch. Some drag artists are straight. There’s no one way to do or be any of these things, and while we can experiment with identity through art and erotics, we shouldn’t conflate persona with personhood. Most importantly, trans people of all kinds deserve an existence that is both sexually liberated and not constantly sexualized. I would love to report that we have reached the point in the gender revolution where cross-dressing is redundant because there is nothing to cross. But erotics are still a viable way for us to explore who we really are, or would like to be.”]

tina horn, from why are people into that? a cultural investigation of kink, 2024

[laurentidal]

9B

When Noelle broke her ankle, she could never have imagined all the ways her life would be changed. She saw her time stuck in her apartment as a prison sentence. She was far to sociable to be locked up like this, needing her friends to come and take her out or bring her food.

On the third day, she began to find entertainment by watching the people in the apartments across the street. Many left their binds open. She never had, but now she felt she needed the light. She gave their windows numbers, not knowing their real names. 4B was a fan of westerns. 6G was something of a whore. Noelle would never admit it, but she’d touched herself watching that blonde get her back blown out.

Then there was 9B.

9B was a little odd. He was a good looking guy, but he rarely had women over. A workaholic, she’d assumed. But then the blonde from 6G walked into his window one day and Noelle was riveted. Then the TV came on. A great big spiral. Black and white. Cheesy. Simple.

Captivating.

She watched the spiral spin, unseen from her window. She watched the man take the blonde’s top off, and it was like she hadn’t even noticed. She just sat there on the couch staring at the screen. Noelle was also staring at the screen now. She found she was more interested in that than the woman who’d stood then sat on the man’s sizable cock. She rode him reverse cowgirl so her eyes could stay fixed on the spiral.

Just like Noelle’s eyes were fixed on the spiral.

“Noelle?” a voice called from the hall. She didn’t answer. She focused only on the spiral.

“El?” the voice asked again. Finally, her friend James stepped into the bedroom. “I’ve got the Chinese for dinner,” he said.

Noelle focused only on the spiral.

James looked at what she was staring at and the dots began to connect. “Noelle, can you hear me?”

“Yes…” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I can hear you.”

“Noelle are you hypnotized?”

“I am hypnotized.”

James reached out and slid his hand under her shirt, finally feeling the breasts he’d been fantasizing about throughout their entire friendship.

“Noelle, listen carefully.”

Ten minutes later, Noelle blinked and awoke. She was topless now. When had that happened. There was a knock at the door, and she rose to answer. James was outside. Nice, sexy James. Now she was happy she hadn’t put that shirt on first.

“James!” she said excitedly, feeling her pussy moisten like it always did in his presence. “Come in. And with food. Wonderful.”

She closed the door behind him.

“I’m a little short on cash right now, though. Would you take a tit-fuck instead?”

Thanks for reading! If you are a fan of my work, consider buying me a coffee. Any contribution is insanely appreciated. 💖

[starredblood]

NOWHERE GIRL

PART TWELVE

kang sae-byeok x fem!reader

synopsis: when ji-yeong goes missing you and sae-byeok go on a fever dream goose chase.

wc. 4.1k

warnings: a bit of physical altercation and the usual angst TT

(nowhere girl masterlist)

Your first day after cutting ties with your parents officially was dull. But in the best way. Your entire day was just waking up to head to school and then you headed straight to the art gallery. The workaholic trait both your parents have finally rubbed off on you, it’s addicting to stay away from home so you can’t bear the thoughts that try to consume your mind.

But now that the day is officially over, you enter the apartment. It’s so quiet and dark once you enter, it frightens you all the time.

You groggily remove your shoes and rip off the buttons on your button-up shirt, ready to let sleep overtake you.

When you finish doing to night routine and put on your comfiest pajamas you throw yourself onto the bed and let your muscles finally get some rest.

It was only eight o’ clock but were so tired that you didn’t even do your usual phone scrolling down a social media rabbit hole tonight.

The loud banging coming from the entrance door distrusted your half lulled state. You gasp yourself awake and press your palm to your beating chest. At first you thought you were experiencing a nightmare but the banging continued. It was like whoever was standing on the other side wanted to tear the door open.

As you descended down the stairs you take a deep breath before looking into the peephole. You cross your fingers hoping that danger isn’t lurking next to your apartment.

Your heart skips a beat when you see that it was Sae-byeok all along. Without further thinking you open the door with a great speed.

“Hey, are you—“

“Ji-yeong never came home since she left yesterday.” Sae-byeok says, her voice shaking horribly.

Her body was stiff, pale in the face, and she looks like she had seen a ghost.

Your stomach twists up hearing the news. “W—What?”

“Please, help me.” she begs, her deep voice replaced by something small and desperate.

“Yeah, of course.” you say without further hesitation. “But, Cheol—?”

“I dropped him off with my neighbor.”

You nod. “Let me get my jacket.”

It takes you less than a minute to head out the door. You didn’t put too much thought into the fact that you still had on your pajamas or that you were sporting your indoor slippers.

“Can you track her on your phone?” you ask her once you both ran out the building.

“Yeah, but it says she’s offline.” Sae-byeok says, running her hands through her short unruly hair in exasperation. “Fuck, I’m scared what if Deok-su actually got to her?”

“Come on let’s think before we jump into the worst conclusions.” you reassure her, reaching to grab her arms to prevent her from ripping her hair off of her scalp. “You said she had to do something important yesterday, right?”

Sae-byeok’s eyes move around rapidly, trying to collect her thoughts quickly as possible. “She went to visit her dad in Daejeon prison. I—I called but they said she left last night.”

“Maybe she got lost or something and could be wandering near the prison?”

“Could be.” Sae-byeok says, breathily. “But Daejeon is a big city how the hell are we going to find her?”

“Let’s think of a way to get there first and we’ll move on from there, okay?”

Sae-byeok, who’s at this point hyperventilating, doesn’t seem convinced but she doesn’t have a better plan than that so she just nods.

You pull out your phone to find the directions to the prison. “That’s a pretty far commute. We have to take the subway then the bullet train. That’s the only method of transportation she could take to go that far.”

“I—I can’t afford a twenty dollar ticket.” Sae-byeok mutters.

“Just pay me back by buying me a meal one of these days, okay? Let’s go!” you say, yanking Sae-byeok’s arm and running on foot to the nearest subway station.

After the twenty minute subway ride, you got dazed by the complicated maze that was navigating the railway for the bullet train. Running around like headless chickens, Sae-byeok finally figured out the location of the bullet train that was departing in five minutes.

“I should’ve brought water bottles.” you say, out of breath. You sink down in a seat after successfully making it the last second inside the bullet train.

Sae-byeok’s heavy breathing was loud beside you. She presses the back of her head on the seat and stares at the ceiling possibly still in fight or flight mode.

“It’s an hour train ride what if—what if we can’t make it on time?” Sae-byeok whispers, her eyes shinier than usual.

You’re in disbelief that her of all people would cry so you convince yourself that it was just the reflection of the light perfectly hitting her irises.

You check your phone’s map again. “We could look around any late night spots near the prison like…like restaurants, or motels, or convenience stores. Oh, do you have a recent photo of Ji-yeong?”

Sae-byeok is unresponsive. You shot your head up and saw that her eyes are shut tightly and her lips quivering. So you go and place your hand gently on of top of one of her trembling ones, waiting for her to look at you.

“If we can’t find her tonight we will report her missing to the police but let’s stay hopeful, okay?” you reassure her. “Ji-yeong is strong and resourceful.”

Sae-byeok still remains silent, the stress of losing her best friend is overwhelming. You understand that this is a weight too unbearable to sit on and that Sae-byeok isn’t going to be rationally thinking until Ji-yeong is found safe and sound.

Your head began throbbing due to dehydration and the stress of coming up with a thousand scenarios to what might’ve happened to Ji-yeong.

Back in high school, Ji-yeong was always known as a rebel child often defying her elders. You would often hear stories about how she used to like wandering around the neighborhood in the middle of the night smoking and drinking because her home life was unbearable. There was a point in your life when you judged her for it. But when she came to your doorstep the summer before senior year, you welcomed her in after seeing the look of distraught on her face. Like she witnessed something unimaginable to the human psyche.

Ji-yeong never revealed why she ran away from home but you had the rumors and the various hints she left. And with the piece of viable information Sae-byeok gave you, you probably have a few assumptions never to be spoken aloud. It astounded you how much grit and determination she had to keep trudging forward. And you are sure that if she truly got lost in the streets of Daejeon, that she would find a way to maintain herself. But you just hope that she isn’t scared shitless right now.

“This is it.” Sae-byeok low voice breaks you from your looming thoughts. She nudges you in the ribcage to get off your seat.

“The prison isn’t far from the station. So, I guess we can start looking around here.” you say a once you both get off the train station. “Maybe she’s in a train lobby or somewhere with customer service.”

After an hour, you guys searched every section of this large train station. You knocked out on very stall and talked to any workers that were still around this late at night but not a single sign of Ji-yeong was seen. Your legs are cramping up but you try shaking the feeling away.

You could visibly see the hope in Sae-byeok’s eyes die down with every minute that passes by. That’s when you suggest to look around the nearby areas.

The streets of Daejeon was bustling with activity as it was a Friday night and it was time for partygoers to arise from hibernation of the weekday. However, it wouldn’t be too hard for Sae-byeok to spot her with her height difference compared to yours. Her eyes dart around the crowds of people like an eagle.

After last nights rain, the air was hot and humid and you already began sweating profusely not to mention being surrounded by other peoples clammy bodies. You were feeling delirious and your heart couldn’t stop racing but try to hold it together. Deep down you know Sae-byeok needs you to be the calm one in this situation.

“There’s a motel nearby, let’s go ask there.” you suggest and lead her to where the map is suggesting you should go.

A ten minute walk lead you guys to the small motel secluded in this bright lively city.

“Hi, ma’am,” you greet hurriedly at the clerk. “our friend is missing, do you know if you’ve seen this girl possibly rent a room here?”

Sae-byeok whips her phone out and shoves the picture of Ji-yeong at the clerks face, startling her.

“Sorry, I haven’t here and I’ve been here since noon.” the worker says after inspecting the photo carefully.

“Fucking hell.” Sae-byeok groans.

“Thank you, ma’am.” you quickly bow and lead Sae-byeok out the motel, ignoring the scowl growing on the motel workers face.

“What’s your great plan now, huh?” Sae-byeok scoffs.

“Hey, I know this is a high stress situation but don’t lash out on me right now, okay?” you snip and go back to your phone.

Sae-byeok paces back and forth in front of you while your fingers rapidly type other possible motels nearby you can ask.

That’s when you hear Sae-byeok mumble your name and tug the hem of your sleeve. You look and question at the person she’s pointing at.

“Is that Ji-yeong’s purse?”

Sae-byeok’s face turns stone cold, but her dilated pupils tell a different story. She looks like she’s ready to pounce on whoever she’s glaring at. You swallow thickly peering ahead and look at the homeless man lying against the wall of a closed shop. He’s layered in multiple blankets and beside him is a bright orange flap purse you vividly recall seeing before.

“It—It looks like it.” you mutter. Now, it was time for you to panic.

Next thing you know, Sae-byeok is on the other side of the street and on top of the man who desperately tries calling for help.

“Sae-byeok!” you cry out and run in the middle of heavy traffic to get across. When you make it Sae-byeok has her pocket knife pressed on his neck.

“You’re seriously asking for help right now when you stole my friend’s purse?!” she bellows, her grip on his coat getting tighter as she shakes him violently. “What did you do to her?!”

The man starts vibrating in fear, his eyes popping out of his skull. “I—I—I stole it earlier today from a lady at—at—“

“Hurry up and say it!”

You glance around nervously, a few people in their cars and passerby’s are throwing looks and you’re scared one of them might get the police involved.

“At the train station!” he answers fast.

Sae-byeok adds more pressure to the pocket knife on his skin. “You’re lying, fucker.”

“No, I swear! I ran—she chased me all the way to the supermarket but she ended up losing me there. I—I swear please!”

“Is it, Local Food Farmers?” you ask him after searching the nearest supermarket.

“Yes, yes that one! That’s the last place I seen her yes!”

Sae-byeok throws him back on the ground with mighty force, making him land with a thud. She snatches the purse back and pulls you to run away from the scene she just caused.

“I don’t see any cash on here.” Sae-byeok growls, rummaging through Ji-yeong’s purse. “I should go back and—“

“Hey, stop it!” you hiss, pressing a firm hand on her chest to prevent her from turning back around. “Fighting a homeless man isn’t going to help us find Ji-yeong faster.”

Sae-byeok sighs in defeat and continues walking, still inspecting every item in Ji-yeong’s bag.

Of course, the supermarket was closed a long time ago and nowhere around the vicinity were there any signs of Ji-yeong as all the surrounding shops had been long closed as well besides a club down the road. While you were biting your nails, anxiously trying to find a solution on your phone maps, Sae-byeok’s sinks down on the edge of the sidewalk and burys her face on her hands.

“She’s nearby, Sae-byeok. You have her purse so we know she has to be here.” you say reassuringly, bending down to pat her back. “It’s so obvious now what happened. When she left she got mugged just as she was about to go to the train station and I bet her phones probably dead too so she’s trying to find a way to contact us.”

“If her phones dead wouldn’t she ask for someone else’s to call me?” Sae-byeok says muffled as her face was still covered.

She was right but you didn’t want to agree to make her more nervous. So, you pry her up and suggest walking around the block one more time. You didn’t want to admit it but you were also starting to lose hope.

“It’s midnight.” you sigh. “Should we go to the police?”

Sae-byeok removes her hands off of her face and becomes expressionless, like she was trying to dissociate from the situation. It was starting to worry you more.

“I think it’ll be more beneficial if we go—“

You stop mid sentence and gasp at the feeling of a cold sticky hand touching slight skin on your waist.

“What’re you doing out here in your pajamas, hon?” slurs a drunken man. You whip around to face a business man whose outfit is sloppily thrown on. He stumbles backwards to eye your entire body before skidding to get closer to your face. “Looks like you’re trying to make it to the bedroom quicker.” he reaches over to grab your arm.

Your flight or fight response kicked in and you use all your strength to hit him square in the face. Immediately, you felt awful watching how he stumbled backwards and landed on his rear end. You don’t know why your brain made you feel so guilty, he deserved it.

“Fuck that hurt!” you wince clutching your bruised knuckles.

“You little bitch I think you—you fucking broke my nose!” he stammers, dropping his bottle of alcohol to clutch his nose. The club goers down the block began watching and recording the commotion, you could hear their murmuring. “I’ll teach you—!”

The man tries getting back up to lurch towards you again until Sae-byeok goes and kicks his chest causing him to fall back down on the sidewalk. She grabs your non injured hand and quickly drags you both away from the scene.

“Where are we going?” you whine, your knuckles still throbbing in pain.

“A convenience store to get an ice pack for that.” she says, throwing you a quick frown. “I think I saw one down here.”

“But the police station is on the store side!”

“You’re injured—!”

“We are going to waste time, Sae-byeok!” you say, putting your foot down. She scoffs at your stubbornness. “Hey, don’t look at me like that! The pain will go away—“

“Your hand is all red!”

“It’s not like I broke any bones!” you protest and start walking the opposite way and hope that the man you just punched isn’t still there. Sae-byeok tries to pull you back but you swat your arm back. “Stop it! If it still hurts after we go to the police station then we will go to a convenience store, okay?”

“Ugh! Why are you being like this?” she barks back. “You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.” she grumbles lower but you heard it clear as day.

You huff in frustration and keep marching to the police station with her stomping angrily behind you.

There was heavy tension between the two of you the entire walk to the police station. You felt bad for throwing a fit when Sae-byeok was trying to help, but her last comment to you pained you a little and got in the way of you apologizing.

“Hello ladies, how may I help you?” says the police officer unenthusiastically at the front desk.

You send Sae-byeok a glare, hearing her mutter how annoyed she was with you again. But you quickly clear your throat before speaking.

“Hi, sir, we’d like to report a missing person. Her name is Park Jiyeong and she was last seen near here last night after getting mugged by a homeless man.” you explain, forcing a tight lipped smile.

The officer doesn’t respond right away and gives you an odd look. He turns around in his swivel chair and whistles over to one of his co-workers.

“Hey, Officer Lee, didn’t you arrest a young lady last night named, Park Ji-yeong?” he calls out to the worker.

“What?!” you and Sae-byeok say in unison.

The co-worker, in the middle of his meal, pauses mid-chew and nods casually before going back to eating.

“What did she do?” you say, appalled.

“Fought a homeless man and injured one of our officers—accidentally I think is what my partner said but let me figure that out.” he says with a sigh and stands up from his seat. You and Sae-byeok exchange worried glances. “To bail her out one of you needs to fill out the paperwork. Take a seat in the waiting room first and I’ll have you fill it out.”

When you both sat down in the waiting room, Sae-byeok starts shaking her legs uncontrollably, clearly freaking out. You bite your lip trying to decide whether you should try to talk to her or not. But you decide against it, feeling like you’ll only irritate her more than she already is. At least you stopped thinking about your swollen hand.

When the officer comes back you stand up to go fill the paperwork.

“Do…” you hesitate speaking as you read over the paperwork. “Do we have to pay any bail money?”

“Although she elbowed the officer by accident. However, legally speaking she needs to await trial,” he explains. That’s when your body starts leaving your soul. “but it’s been a long day so just fill that paperwork out and…stay out of trouble.” he raises a brow at your bruised hand which is of course your dominant one that you’re singing the paperwork with.

“Oh my god, yes of course officer thank you thank you we will!” you beam and deeply bow before finishing off the paperwork grinning ear to ear.

“Ji-yeong!”

After twenty more minutes of waiting, Sae-byeok throws herself on top of Ji-yeong once she arrived at the waiting room, squeezing her tightly. This reconciliation made tears brim from the corner of your eyes, you couldn’t believe it just yet.

Ji-yeong looked a mess. Her mascara completely smudged, her hair was tired up messily and she had a faint scratch mark on her chin. However she had a huge smile of relief seeing you both in front of her—you are sure she thinks you two are a figment of her imagination as well.

“About fucking time.” Ji-yeong sighs in relief. “I can’t wait to charge my phone and catch up on my—“

“Why the hell didn’t you call me?!” Sae-byeok queries loudly. Your breathing pauses when you actually saw a tear roll down the stone faced girls cheek.

“I don’t know your phone number but I asked the officer to look up your bakery and call them but no one answered and I could only make one call!” Ji-yeong whines, rubbing the sides of her temples. “My dad is a heartless monster, I got robbed, they threw me in jail and now you’re yelling at me…So, can we just go home so I can go to my room and cry?”

“Have you eaten anything yet though?” you frown. “Do you want to get something here on me?”

“No, let’s get out of here I want nothing to do with Daejeon anymore!”

“You’re fucking unbelievable.” Sae-byeok hisses, wiping her tears furiously with the end of her sleeves.

“I’m sorry,” Ji-yeong frowns. “to both of you. Thank you for coming for me though. I—I was starting to believe for a second that no one would actually come looking for me.” she mutters softly. You can’t even imagine to have the braveness Ji-yeong possesses. She starts sniffling but trying her best not to become teary like you two are. “Can we go now please?”

No one muttered a single word the entire ride back home. It was hard to process the events that unfolded and every so often you would check up on the girls who sat in between you, dazed in their own thoughts. You are sure they both share the same migraine you are suffering through right now.

By the time you all arrived at their apartment it was three o’ clock in the morning. The girls didn’t question your presence once you entered inside with them. It was like you never left back in March.

Sae-byeok enters two minutes later with a groggily Cheol who she was cradling like a baby over to their room. You hear Ji-yeong slam the door to her room loudly while you were heating up water on a pot to make tea to help calm any unsettled nerves.

“You still remember where everything is?” you heard Sae-byeok’s faint voice behind you. You turn and see her leaning against the doorframe of her room.

“Nothings changed here.” you mumble. “You want tea right? I’m making for three.”

Sae-byeok nods and starts approaching you. For some strange reason, your muscles start to get tense when she leans against the kitchen counter getting awfully close to you.

“I don’t think, Ji-yeong will want anything right now.” she says, looking sullen again. “We should give her space—she went through a lot.”

“Yeah, you’re right…”

You quietly pour the boiling water into the mugs and dip the tea bags inside.

“Your hand…is it still swollen?” Sae-byeok asks, timidly.

After remembering the small argument you two had earlier, your heart sinks. The hurt you felt by Sae-byeok’s words came back.

“A bit but it’s nothing.” you mumble and then sigh in defeat knowing that there’s no way around avoiding the awkward tension. “And I’m sorry—“

“Do not even finish that sentence. I’m the one who should be sorry. We were both frustrated and scared and I said things I didn’t mean.” Sae-byeok says firmly. “So, I’m sorry.”

“…You’re forgiven.” you say quietly and you hear Sae-byeok let out a breath of relief. Did she think you weren’t going to accept her apology?

“And you’re sleeping here tonight, right?” she asks you after you pass her a mug.

You finally look at Sae-byeok and notice how her eyes shifted now. What was once a look of fright and desperation is now replaced with security and comfort. They’re completely softened over.

“You’re finally letting me stay here? I never thought I’d see the day.” you say sarcastically and she rolls her eyes playfully. “Joking. But yeah if that’s okay with you? It’s already late so...”

“I’ll get you a blanket and pillow then.” she announces quietly and heads back to her room.

When you made your way to the living room couch, you managed to hear Ji-yeong’s muffled cries making your stomach knot. You wanted to head over to her and try to soothe the pain she must be in, but Sae-byeok knows her better and if she says to give her space then you need to do that.

A minute later, Sae-byeok comes back with the pillow and blanket. You mutter a thank you and was ready to call it a night but to your surprise she sinks down beside you. She takes a few sips of her mug before clearing her throat.

“By the way, you can take a shower and borrow something of mines for now I know we both did a lot of running and sweating tonight.” she says in her casual flat tone of voice. “I know you hate my taste in clothes but—“

“I never said hate. I told you to experiment.” you scoff with a playful smile on your lips. “I would love to take a long hot shower right now so thank you for offering.”

Sae-byeok nods and finishes the rest of her tea to your bewilderment as yours was still piping hot.

“I…don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t there to help me. So, thank you for that.” she says, sincerely.

You are too nervous to look at her. Thats when your stomach began to flutter with butterflies, a common sensation you began feeling nowadays. “Of course.” you gulp.

“And it was admirable seeing how calm you handled—well everything.“

“Admirable?” you laugh.

“I don’t know that’s the best way I could describe it.” she shrugs, scratching the back of her head.

“I punched a guy so I don’t know if calm is the best way you should describe of my behavior.”

“That pervert deserved it.” she says, scoffing when she replays that moment in her head. “Also, was that your first time ever punching someone?”

“Yeah and hopefully my last because that seriously did hurt at first.” you say, pouting at your slightly swollen knuckles.

Sae-byeok snorts a your comment and rises up from the couch. “Okay, I won’t keep you up any longer I’ll go get you the clothes and a towel.” she pauses abruptly to look down at your feet. You look at her, puzzled. “By the way, nice bunny slippers.”

“Oh, fuck off!” you hiss, your face turning bright red.

🏷️: @monroesturnns @knfthxv @jumpedthenfell-13 @peelover25 @karli6 @kissedberries @bitchybananaflower @laurenkenss @saebyeokbliss @everly-summers-solace @we1rdth0ughts

[wandascrush]

The fisherman’s tale

Part 7 of my DIWK series! Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x f!reader, Wanda Maximoff x f!reader, Avengers x f!reader

Warnings: angst, drugging, mistrust, lies, prison, anxiety mentions, despair

A/N: Should I make these chapters longer? Tysm for the love on this series! (Sorry for any typos btw, edited this very late at night)

tag: @casquinhaa @esposadejoyhuerta

Your throat tightens like a noose, squeezing the air from your lungs until breathing feels like something you have to earn. The room shrinks, the walls pressing in, colder and darker than they were just moments ago. You can’t stop staring at Wanda’s hands—trembling, like the journal burned her, like you might burn her. 

And maybe you already have.

   Natasha’s eyes find yours—sharp, searching, unforgiving—and there’s no refuge in them. No mercy. Just betrayal. Real and raw, cutting through the air like shattered glass under bare feet. You want to move, to do something. But your body won’t cooperate. You’re frozen—pinned by their gaze, by the weight of everything that’s gone to shit.

  You try to swallow, but the lump in your throat is immovable, thick with guilt and shame and something dangerously close to fear. Not the kind you’re used to—the kind you can fight through with clenched fists and adrenaline—but the kind that turns your stomach and makes your knees weak. 

Your fingers curl into trembling fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms, like maybe pain will pull you back to reality. But nothing can ground you now. Not when Natasha’s eyes are glistening with tears she refuses to let fall with a quivering chin. Natasha Romanoff doesn’t cry—not in front of you. Not now.

You part your lips, desperate to say something, anything that could hold back the tidal wave you see rising in her chest. But what could you possibly say?

“Please…” Your voice is hoarse, unfamiliar. “It’s not… it’s not what you think. You guys know me. You’re my team-”

The words taste hollow, pathetic. They fall between you like glass, cracking on impact. “Natasha, you know me.”

Stark breaks the silence. Bitterness seeps through his words. “We’re not your team- and you’re not a damn Avenger.” 

You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to break free, trying to outrun this moment. Everything you sacrificed. The danger you were put in. The mental exhaustion you faced. For this? For rejection? For pain? For rage? For Fury to bail on you when you need him most? 

Without a word, the team moved silently out of your room one by one. It’s like they were communicating telepathically. Wanda glanced back at you before walking out, “Gonna bring you some water. Then we’ll figure out what’s next.”

It felt like hours while you sat holed up in your room, hearing mumbling and arguing from the living room. When Wanda came back she had a black hoodie on and red, damp eyes, with a small glass of water in her hand. She sat next to you on your bed, silently handing it to you. 

“Please Wanda you have to let me explain,” when you reached for her hand she flinched, moving back like you were a disease. 

“Just drink, Y/N.” She sniffled.

“Maximoff-,” as you brought the glass to your lips, brown eyes watching you, you saw how she winced at the nickname. 

After taking a few sips you started to feel a little better, until something funny happened. When you looked up at your best friend, she was looking back at you with a pitiful gaze. The world before you started to swirl and suddenly your body felt extremely heavy. In an instant you could no longer keep yourself upright. 

That’s when you realized- Wanda Maximoff had drugged you. She laid your limp form down on the bed, taking the glass and handcuffing your wrists together. You were too weak to protest. 

“Wh…where are you taking,” it took all of your strength to continue speaking, “me?” The last word fell short on your lips. 

Green eyes peered down at you, “Where you belong.” 

The last thing you saw was a black bag going over your head.

   When you awoke, the sterile scent and dim lighting told you all you needed to know. The Raft. Your heart sank- this was the worst outcome, you were sure of it. Drugged, imprisoned, and alone. And where the fuck was Nick Fury? 

  The days blurred together, each one an endless cycle of isolation, cold mush food, and regret. The faces of those you cared for haunted your thoughts, etched into your memory. And the one who put you up to this, who said if it ever got too dangerous he’d pull you out? Yeah, he was nowhere to be found. The Avengers seemed to forget you with a snap of their fingers. The small tv kept in the corner of the  lunch room played newscasts over and over again about your “disappearance” from the Avengers and the “ongoing search” for you. 

The mighty heroes held a press conference, and as always, Tony was the first to go up and speak. His suit was dark navy, signature sunglasses on. 

“It is with great distress that we officially announce the disappearance of Agent Y/N L/N-  Avenger, former highest rank SHIELD operative, special intel spy,  and beloved member of our family. These are never before seen circumstances, and we’d appreciate New Yorkers help with any outstanding  information. The U.S. government is conducting a country wide and international investigation at this moment,” Tony stepped back from the mic, ignoring the buzzing questions from countless reporters.

The Black Widow, dressed in her typical unitard, stepped up to the mic somberly, “Agent, wherever you are- know that we will not rest until you’re found. You’re a hero- the world needs you, the world misses you.” 

You’d been a dedicated shield agent practically since highschool, and recently a dedicated Avenger,  sworn to protect society at the highest level.  No matter the cost. But now, here you were. Living with the dirtiest of fucking criminals while your colleagues played martyr. And your girlfriend called you “Agent.”

The Raft was always cold at night. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones and wrapped itself around your chest, leaving you breathless. You had spent weeks in that cell, staring at the same blank walls, hearing the same distant echoes of guards’ boots and the occasional sound of a far-off door sliding open. Time became meaningless.

 Most nights, you didn’t sleep. How could you? Tonight was no different, except for the faint, rhythmic tapping you suddenly noticed from the far end of the hall. It was quiet at first, like a whisper against the cold metal walls, but it grew louder, more deliberate.

Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap.

You sat up on your cot, the thin blanket slipping from your shoulders. A rat scurried by your cell. “Hello?” you called out tentatively, your voice hoarse from disuse.

No response. Just the tapping. You strained to listen, your eyes narrowing as you tried to discern its source. Then came the smallest hint of a voice—a low murmur, barely above a whisper. It sent a shiver down your spine, not because it was menacing, but because it was deliberate. Purposeful.

“Awake, are we?”

The voice was calm, almost amused. You whipped your head toward the source, squinting through the dim light. A shadow moved in the cell across from yours, just out of reach of the weak, flickering light. All this time you forced it had been empty. You couldn’t see much—just the faint outline of someone seated, elbows resting on their knees.

“Yea, kind of hard to sleep while your tap dancing over there.”

A small chuckle sounded. 

“Who are you?” Your voice was steadier now.

“That’s the wrong question,” the voice replied smoothly, its tone laced with something you couldn’t quite place. “The better question is: do you want out?”

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. Weeks of isolation, of pain, of being treated like the enemy—those words hit you like a lightning bolt. “Out?” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

The shadow leaned forward slightly, just enough for you to catch the faint glint of eyes. “You’ve been here long enough to know you don’t belong. And yet… here you are. Doesn’t that burn you up inside?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The silence spoke for you.

“Thought so,” the figure said, leaning back into the shadows. “They’ll be changing shifts soon. When they do, there’ll be a window. Small, but enough.”

“Enough for what?” you demanded, stepping closer to the bars. They were cold around your fingers. 

“For us to leave,” the voice said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Every instinct screamed that this could be a trap, some cruel game designed to test your loyalty—or your desperation. But something about the way this person spoke, their calm certainty, made you hesitate.

“Why would you help me?” you asked finally, your voice low.

A faint chuckle echoed through the hall. “Let’s just say I have a soft spot for people who’ve been screwed over. And you? You’ve been screwed over royally.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling around the cold metal bars. “And why should I trust you?”

“Trust me?” the shadow repeated, amusement lacing their tone. “You shouldn’t. But if you stay here, you’ll rot. Or worse, they’ll come back for you and finish what they started. Your choice.”

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, and the figure melted further into the darkness of their cell. You backed away from the bars, your pulse pounding as a pair of guards passed by without so much as a glance in your direction.

When the footsteps faded, the voice returned, softer this time. “When the shift changes, be ready. I’ll handle the rest.”

The shift change came like clockwork, and with it, the faint hum of the security systems momentarily rebooting. You sat on the edge of your cot, every muscle in your body tense. The voice hadn’t spoken again, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d imagined it. But then, a faint click echoed through the hall, followed by a low, sharp whistle.

Your cell door slid open with a soft hiss.

You shot to your feet, your heart racing as you stared at the open doorway. Across the hall, the shadow moved again, stepping out of their cell with the same eerie calm. They were taller than you expected, their face obscured by a hood and the dim light.

“C’mon,” the voice said, gesturing for you to follow.

You hesitated for a split second before stepping out, your bare feet hitting the cold metal floor. The figure moved swiftly but silently, their movements precise and deliberate. You followed close behind, your mind spinning as they led you through a maze of corridors, each turn more disorienting than the last.

“Who are you?” you whispered again, your voice barely audible.

“Someone who doesn’t like seeing people thrown away,” they replied cryptically, not breaking stride.

They bypassed security cameras and guards with an ease that made your skin crawl. Whoever this person was, they weren’t just skilled—they were practiced. A professional.

When you reached the final door, the figure stopped, pulling something from their sleeve—a small device that emitted a faint, high-pitched beep. The door clicked open, revealing the night sky beyond. Cold air rushed in, biting against your skin, but it felt like freedom.

“This is where we part ways,” the voice said, stepping aside to let you through.

You turned to face them, your chest heaving as adrenaline coursed through you. “You’re just letting me go?”

The figure nodded. “Your fight isn’t here anymore. Go finish it.”

You hesitated, searching their shadowed face for any clue, any fragment of their identity. But they didn’t move, didn’t speak further, and the darkness seemed to swallow them whole.

“Thank you,” you said finally, your voice strong.

They inclined their head slightly, giving you a gracious nod. 

Just as you were walking into the night, parting ways with the figure, it stopped, turning to you, “Funny, isn’t it? Saving the world, one betrayal at a time. When the Avengers come for you, and trust me they will, don’t let them fool you into thinking you were the only one to fall out of line.”

”You won’t tell me who you are, will you?”

“I’m what you’d call an ally.” 

And with that you two separated, the door hissing shut behind you. When you turned to look back, the figure was gone, leaving only the question that would haunt you for years to come: Who were they?

You swam for miles in choppy water before finding an old fisherman’s boat, climbing aboard and playing the part of a stranded swimmer.  

“Young lady, what are you doing all the way out here? No, no this won’t do, can’t have you dying on my boat,”  The old man shuffled back and forth, getting water and crackers to replenish you.  You collapsed onto the deck, muscles screaming and legs numb. 

  You thanked him with a silent nod, barely able to lift a cracker to your mouth after you quite literally swam for your life. It took three hours to get back to shore, and every now and then the man gave you a curious glance. 

After awhile, he broke the silence, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like- oh what’s her name, that Avenger girl?” his old hands pinched the bridge of his nose, “Oh c’mon now, of course I’m forgetting.” 

Silence. You ate a few more crackers and rubbed salt water out of your tired eyes. 

“Oh! Y/N something, you know who I mean!” the fisherman looked back to you 

“Oh yeah, all the time,” you croaked, taking another swig of water, “it’s uncanny really.” 

By the time you got to shore, relief ran through your veins like a drug. As you prepared to get off, he stopped you, catching your arm, “You take care of yourself, eh? Whatever you’re running from…don’t let it catch you.” 

You froze.

“It won’t.” You gave him a small smile of appreciation before hitting solid ground. 

There were only three goals in mind: Find a phone, call Natasha, clear your name. 

In that order. 

[confused-squishy]

Got another Jason x Danny idea

DPxDC

What if Jason and Danny had met in the infinite realms and fell in love? For the somewhat short amount of time together, they grew inseparable. Unfortunately, one day, Danny had noticed more and more of his subjects disappearing. So he informed Jason he would take a trip to the Earth realm to see if he can find any information about the missing ghosts.

Jason waited and waited for Danny to come back. But he never did. Jason hadn't thought much of it since many ghosts had started returning. Claim King Phantom had freed them from their prisons. Until a little girl who looked exactly like Danny had come to the infinite realm a sobbing mess.

Danny had been captured by the GIW helping her escape and had instead taken her place. Jason's heart broke hearing her tell him what happened. Apparently, Danny's parents from when he was alive had caught her and used her as bait for him. They waited for him to show before trapping him in a thermos he had once used to release ghosts back in the infinite realms.

Dani or Elle, as she also likes to be called, had been heartbroken and felt so guilty that he had been caught saving her. Jason did all he could to cheer her up and promised her that Danny would care more about her being alive than anything else. He had heard how much she meant to Danny, and Jason was happy to finally meet her. He just wished it was under better circumstances.

It was only after Jason had arrived back in Gotham and accidentally came across a GIW base that Jason realized something. He held a paper that had a picture of Danny on a metal table. His chest cut open, and his insides on full view. Jason realized these people were the ones with not only his king but his Danny. So Jason searches the entire base for anything only to come out empty-handed. So Jason promised to find every GIW base and find Danny. No matter what.