#but I had to research types of mechanisms

[elfwreck]

"Get yourself some new experiences" doesn't mean "spend thousands on travel" or "force yourself to be social in ways that make your skin crawl" or "visit a museum or art gallery and experience Real Culture, you heathen."

It means what it says. Do something new to you.

Play a few types of video games outside of your regular genres. Pick a topic of passing interest - maybe something you saw on a Tumblr post - and do a deep dive: read the wikipedia page about it, about a couple of noteworthy people related to it, track down some academic articles enough to know what the serious discussions are about. (Not necessarily enough to understand any conclusions.) Read a genre of book you don't normally touch: Romance, or classic fiction, or military, or spy stories, or a historical biography, or a celebrity pop trends book. Eat a type of food you haven't tried before. Watch a movie you've seen in gifsets on Tumblr that's outside of your normal genre interests. Learn to play a TTRPG. Browse Kickstarter on a topic you're interested in; put $1 each towards three or four campaigns and read the newsletters. Learn a small hand-held musical instrument. (You don't need to learn to play it well; this is just for you to try something new and different.) Make a recipe for a food you've heard about but have never eaten. Build something with legos. Or clay. Or take up origami. Or sew yourself a hat.

I have a friend who tries to learn a new low-tech "survival" skill every year.

Make yourself into someone who knows the world is huge and complex and you can still touch parts of it.

(grabs you by the shoulders) you have to make room for new experiences in your life. you have to go through the unpleasant work of leaving your comfort zone, even if just for a few minutes at a time. because if you don't, your brain will trick you into stagnation. you will start to believe that the world can barely fit you in it. but that's not true. it's the opposite way around. you can fit the whole word inside of you. your task is only this: to welcome it with open arms

[pokemonfrommemory]

He’s free!

[hermaeusmorax]

What have you done?

CHARACTERS: Jayce x reader, slight Viktor x reader (more platonic!)

SUMMARY: you, Jayce and Viktor share history. You're arguing with Jayce about his actions in the Undercity. Reader is described having a metal arm!

WARNINGS: SET IN SEASON 02 EPISODE 06 SPOILERS AHEAD! this is very angsty, descriptions of death and bodies, gets steamy in the end (minors DNI!), enemies to lovers type shit (my jam!)

A/N: okay so this is my very first piece after a 4 years HIATUS (hiii haha), anyways, fucked up Hexcore!Jayce is just sooo *twirls hair*

"What have you done?" You scream as you blindly lunge towards Jayce, a random weapon tightly clutched in your hands — no doubt discarded by some, now dead, Noxian soldier. You could barely see an inch in front of you due to the surging chaos, but you were sure about Jayce, you would never mistake him, his silhouette, his scent.

It had been months since Jinx's attack on the Counsil. Months since Viktor emerged out of the Hexcore changed, taking you to Zaun with him and leaving Jayce behind. You were a chemist, Viktor's childhood best friend that stuck by him since the very beginning. You and Jayce had a brief, intense, spark. It happened before him and Mel, before it became hard to grasp his attention, being Piltover's golden star and everything. It hurt when you left him, standing at the laboratory, his pleading brown eyes boring holes into yours and Viktor's backs. But Viktor was right, your paths, your visions, had long strayed, being held together only by lasting affection.

In Zaun, at Viktor's — The Herald's — growing community, you acted as a chemist again. Helping the newly cured zaunites, researching to improve their lives as much as possible. You had been specially busy since Vander's arrival, severely mutilated by Viktor's former teacher and in desperate need of help. You were working in your makeshift lab, absent mindedly humming a familiar tune when hell broke loose.

A loud, sharp sound echoed, followed by more crashing sounds and piercing screams. Smoke rose in the air, making it almost impossible to inhale. For a split second you could hear Viktor's voice in your head whispering, "Jayce", you ran as fast as your legs permitted, desperate to locate the origin of the sound, to locate Viktor. When you finally did find them, you wished you hadn't. The starking image of his limp and dead body made your breath hitch, mind speeding so much to make sense of things it made you dizzy. Blood rushed to your ears, making a deafening ringing sound, you rubbed your eyes, squinting to adjust, then you saw another figure, a tall and dark frame.

Jayce looked, different, but your brain had no time to process that information as you grabbed the first weapon you could find thrown on the floor, lunging at him. "What did you do?" "How could you?" "I hate you!" you breathlessly shout, aiming for Jayce's head with your stray weapon, then again, you never were much of a fighter, that was Jayce's job. The last thing you heard before the world went complete black, was his voice, a cry of your name, sounding so broken and lost.

"Sorry for knocking you out like that. I hope your head's not hurting too much." you heard Jayce's soft voice, distant at first as you were regaining consciousness, then close, right at your ears. You slowly woke up, blinking the throbbing pain away you were at last able to recognize your surroundings.

Jayce had brought you to your old laboratory, right at Piltover's heart, where you had last seen him, where you had left him. You were sitting in a chair, your mechanical arm resting on the table beside you, laying alongside dirty, well-worn tools. "I fixed it. Your arm. It looked broken and I-" Jayce blurted out, stopping with a nervous chuckle when you looked at him. "My technique might not be as delicate as Viktor's but it's fixed, working. I promise!". When Viktor's name left Jayce's lips, a haunting image of his corpse flashed in your mind, compelling you to leap forward and forcefully grab Jayce's collar, gripping so tight your knuckles turned white, drained of blood. You were trembling horribly, fueled by an ugly mixture of grief and hatred, your words came out hoarse, stinging like a whip.

"You promise? Ha! You killed him Jayce! You- you just disappear and then when you finally come to us, you go and kill him? What's wrong with you? I don't know you anymore, you've become someone else entirely and I- No!" you were panting, tears angrily threatening to spill "That's too gentle for you, you're a murderer, Jayce, a monster!".

Jayce's mind was racing, spinning with the force of your words and then it finally snapped. "Shut the fuck up!" he tore your hands away from his shirt, holding your wrists and pulling you close, pressed up against his chest. "You have no idea Y/N! You can't possibly begin to understand what I was put through!" "I was in there, while you and Viktor were out here playing house!" "I kept my promise!".

Jayce's eyes were red, frantically shaking looking into your own, in desperate search of something. He was so close, you could feel his heartbeat and his breath fanning your face, his scent was attacking your nostrils mercilessly, engulfing you in his presence. Like this you could almost see the old Jayce inside there, somewhere — untainted, full of promise — the one you fell hard for. All it took was a single look from him. A single, meaningful, glance down to your mouth from his so pretty brown eyes. He was so, so close. Next thing you knew you and Jayce were in each other's arms, kissing so forcefully it almost broke skin. Kissing like your very lives depend on it, like you'll die of asphyxiation if you stop.

Jayce hoisted you up the table, sending tools and papers flying, both of you couldn't care less right now. He positioned himself in between your legs, leaning some of his body weight on you, forcing your back to meet the cold surface beneath. "Jayce!" you breathed out, talking into his mouth, gasping for air and breaking the kiss for a second too long. Your hands, firmly resting on the back of his neck, wandered to the hem of your shirt, fidgeting with it, trying to lose it. Jayce noticed and made quick work of your shirt, hurriedly sliding it over your head and tossing aside to a forgotten corner.

"Don't stop" you huffed against him again, voice dripping with want, you struggled blindly to unbuckle his belt, too busy reciprocating his fervent kisses to bother to look down. "I got you" Jayce urged, going crazy with the way your lips felt on his, even more addicting than he remembers. He reached down, tugging off your pants and underwear in one precise motion. Your senses were completely overwhelmed, all you were able to think, see, hear, smell and feel was Jayce.

You were both pouring everything into this kiss, into this very moment. Bleeding years of bottled up love and regrets into each other's systems. Even still, you harbored feelings for him, and him you. Despite the hurricane of emotions and thoughts swirling inside your head, a small, nagging voice coming from the darkest dephts of your mind, kept quietly chanting "What have you done, Y/N?"

[swappedandtrapped]

Swapping Research - Part 1

Starting to try and use AI for translations to English. I don't like it, but writing in English is exhausting.

Part 2 here Part 3 here

Marcus Chen gripped the bathroom sink, staring at his reflection in the fluorescent-lit mirror. "Trapezium, trapezoid, scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform…" The naming of hand bones did little to slow his racing heart. Organic chemistry in thirty minutes. Dr. Zhang's infamous molecular mechanisms exam.

The bathroom door banged open. Tyler Reeves filled the doorframe, six-foot-three of basketball glory in team outfit, a crumpled paper in his hand.

"Thought I'd find you in here." Tyler's voice echoed against the tiles. "Pre-exam ritual?"

"I was trying to make sure I remember everything for the exam," Marcus said, straightening and adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. "Some of us can't coast through life on jump shots."

Tyler's smile disappeared. He held out the paper: a formal notice from the university. "They said I'm on academic probation. One semester to get my GPA above a 2.0 or I lose my scholarship."

Marcus scanned the notice. "I told you to drop Evolutionary Biology. You needed to start with—"

"Not the point, Marcus." Tyler ran a hand through his too-long hair, his usual confidence replaced by a mild sense of desperation. "I need help. Not tutoring. Something… different."

"I have an exam in 30 minutes, and my med school interview next week. Whatever this is—"

"My cousin Alex," Tyler interrupted, lowering his voice as someone entered a bathroom stall behind them. "She's doing this neuroscience PhD thing. Consciousness… transfer. Temporarily."

Marcus stared at him. "You're describing science fiction."

"It's real. She's been mapping neural pathways, testing it on rats. They're… they're switching brains, Marcus. She needs human subjects." Tyler leaned closer, voice urgent. "Twenty-four hours. That's all. I just need to know what it feels like."

"What what feels like?"

"To have a brain that works right." The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. Tyler glanced around, then continued quieter: "I don't really like to talk about it. I'm dyslexic. Bad. Words swim around, flip backwards. Dad refused to get me tested.

Marcus remembered high school, Tyler recording lectures instead of taking notes, always asking to study together but never reading aloud. The pieces clicked into place.

"Tyler, I'm sorry, but consciousness transfer? It's just not possible."

"It's real. She's proven it. Just twenty-four hours in your body. To read and prepare without feeling like drowning, so I can maybe actually get something into this thick skull" Tyler's eyes held a desperation Marcus had never seen. "Please. I'm out of options."

Marcus thought of his carefully planned week, his interview preparation, his parents' expectations. "This is insane."

"One day. Then everything goes back to normal. I promise.

---

Alex Nguyen's "lab" was a repurposed storage room in the neuroscience department basement, filled with humming equipment that looked cobbled together from different decades. Monitors displayed brain scans in pulsing colors..

"The procedure is non-invasive," Alex explained, her undercut hairstyle severe under the fluorescent lighting. She adjusted electrodes on a strange helmet apparatus. "Consciousness mapping uses quantum entanglement principles to create a temporary neural signature exchange."

Marcus eyed the setup skeptically. "This can't possibly have IRB approval."

Alex's eyes flicked to Tyler, then back to Marcus. "We're in the theoretical testing phase."

"She means 'no,'" Tyler translated.

"The risks are minimal," Alex continued, typing rapidly on a keyboard. "Temporary disorientation, mild synesthesia, possible dream disturbances. The transfer nullifies and reverses naturally after approximately twenty-four hours."

"Has anyone done this before? Human subjects?" Marcus asked.

Alex's slight hesitation told him everything. "You'd be the first complete transfer. But the animal studies are promising. Rats with trained maze behaviors maintained those memories in their new bodies."

"This is crazy," Marcus muttered, but didn't leave. Something in Tyler's desperation had touched him. The vulnerability beneath the confident facade.

"Please. I wouldn't ask if there was another way." Tyler said quietly.

Marcus thought of their childhood: Tyler defending him from bullies in elementary school, the effortless way he navigated social situations that left Marcus paralyzed with anxiety. Maybe he owed him this.

"Twenty-four hours," Marcus said firmly. "Then we switch back, no matter what. I have that interview next week."

Alex gestured them toward two reclined chairs. "You'll be unconscious for approximately thirty minutes during the transfer. When you wake, you'll be in each other's bodies."

As Alex attached electrodes to his temples, Marcus felt panic rising. "Wait. How will we prove this actually worked? That it's not suggestion or—"

"Tell me something only you would know," Alex suggested. "Something you can repeat back afterward."

Marcus thought for a moment, then leaned over to Alex and whispered, "I secretly watch 'RuPaul' when I'm stressed."

Alex grinned. "The drag show? Seriously?"

"Don't judge. Tyler, it's your turn."

Tyler hesitated, then whispered something that made Alex's eyebrows rise.

"Didn't expect that," Alex said. "Ok, now that that's done, are you Ready?" Alex asked, hovering by the switch.

"No," Marcus admitted.

"Do it anyway," Tyler said.

The electricity began as a gentle hum at the base of Marcus's skull, spreading outward. Panic fluttered in his chest as the room blurred. His last thought was a desperate recitation—trapezium, trapezoid, scaphoid, lunate—before darkness pulled him under.

---

Marcues' consciousness returning felt like being yanked from deep water. He gasped, his body feeling impossibly wrong: longer limbs, different center of gravity, a dull ache in the right knee. His stomach heaved, and he barely managed to turn before vomiting on the floor.

"Easy," came Alex's voice. "Disorientation is normal."

Marcus looked up, vision swimming, and felt a primal horror unlike anything he'd experienced. Across the room, his own body was sitting up, looking at its hands with wonder. His face, but not his expressions, not his movements.

"Holy shit," his voice said from his body, Tyler's inflections all wrong in Marcus's mouth. "It worked. It actually worked."

Marcus tried to stand and staggered, unfamiliar muscles responding differently than expected. He reached up to adjust glasses that weren't there, fingers touching unfamiliar features. Tyler's features. His new nose, his soft lips, his beard scruff…

The violation went deeper than he'd imagined. Not just wearing someone else's skin, but inhabiting their flesh completely, feeling their physical pain, seeing through their eyes.

"Twenty-four hours," he managed to say, Tyler's voice emerging from his throat. "Not a minute more."

His own face looked back at him, wearing Tyler's crooked smile. It was real. Marcus wasn't in his own body anymore. And the raw, visceral wrongness of that fact threatened to drown him completely.

[strawberrykidneystone]

straight to the point

sevika x female reader

summary: sevika wants a new piercing and wanders (has researched thoroughly before coming) into your shop

a/n: google search how to get another tattoo without disappointing my grandma

tags: piercer!reader, needles, flirting, kinda ooc sevika (?), a little sweet awkwardness

ao3 version

as far as cleanliness standards go in zaun, your shop was heads above the back alley piercers and tattoo shops. for one, you never reused the same needles and you had an autoclave that you used to sanitize the jewelry you offered, as well as the questionable jewelry that your clients brought in.

safe to say that most of your clients were high end criminals who could spare the coin to get the best experience possible in the undercity.

in your tiny corner shop, you were the main piecer and you cycled in various tattoo artists. a lot of them started by tattooing on the streets and developed their own styles, giving them the proper equipment helped them make masterpieces that you’re sure even the prissy piltover citizens would be impressed by. the building itself was pretty small with the shop downstairs and your apartment upstairs. you had a display desk up front with a dinky antique register sitting against the wall that didn’t open half the time. there were two main salon-type chairs in the room facing toward each other, with a small room in the back for more intimate placements of tattoos/piercings. the leather on the chairs were originally a neon pink that faded into more of a peach with patches over scratches on the chairs and ink stains. the walls were covered in graffiti, you invited in local kids to paint around and express themselves; which basically meant that your walls were covered in jinx propaganda right now. you wouldn’t believe the amount of people who came in for new ear piercings and cloud tattoos who also had blue hair.

today was a bit quieter than usual, you had no appointments and your tattoo artist gotten done early today so you were busy going over your books while leaning on the counter on your elbows. the bells of your door jingled and you looked up, locking eyes with the most gorgeous woman you’d ever seen. she had a very short haircut above her ears, a mechanical arm that had a green… head? attached to it, piercing grey eyes, and a very strong build. swallowing thickly, you smiled warmly at the tall woman, “hey there, how can i help you?”

she trudged up to the counter as though she was unsure if she actually wanted to do this, her eyes glued down into the display case, “i’d uh, like a piercing please.”

you nodded along and tilted your head, trying to follow her eye line as to which piece she was looking at, “well you’re definitely in the right place for that, what are you looking to get?”

she met your eyes again, god it was like looking up at the sky during a storm, a nervous sigh leaving her lips, “what would you get?”

the question startled you a little, people usually come in and know exactly what they want. you hummed and studied her face, wondering what would look good with her proportions.

“hmm well for you, i would get either a medusa piercing or a labret,” you suggested and pointed to the middle of your cupid’s bow and underneath your bottom lip.

she attentively watched your finger like a cat following a laser and subconsciously licked her lips. her eyes lingered on your lips long enough that it brought a blush to your cheeks, how the hell were you going to get through this appointment in one piece? she shook her head and snapped out of it, glancing down at the case once again, “could i see what it would look like?”

“of course,” you nodded and pulled out a case that had an array of studs with different ends, base colors, and backs. she ended up picking out a silver disk stud and you couldn’t help but notice how her ears turned a little red when you praised her, “good choice.”

picking up the middle of the piercing with a clamp, you held it up to her and turned the desk mirror towards her. she softly took the clamp from you, brushing her rough hands against yours, the small touch making your heart flutter like a pair of butterfly wings. she inspected the stud in the mirror and curiously held the silver jewelry above her lips and below. you couldn’t help but watch as the stud passed over her full lips, lips with a dark gloss shining off of them that you’d love to mix with your current lipstick-

fuck stop that, remain professional.

you took a deep breath to refocus and plastered on your least horny smile, “either one calling your name?”

she clicked her tongue and stood back up to her full height, her brows knitted together in concern, “i can’t decide which one to get.”

“you’d look good with either one, plus you can always get one now and the other later,” you mused, kicking yourself to bring your mind back to down to the ground.

she hummed and looked down at you, her eyes trailing from one eye to the other, down to your lips, and back up, making a triangle.

you were so fucked.

“i’ll get the labret sweetheart,” she said definitively and handed the clamp back to you, the pet name rolling off her tongue so naturally it made your knees weak.

you mindlessly nodded and took the clamp from her, sliding over a clipboard with your liability paperwork on it with a sparkly pen.

she raised an eyebrow at the pen, but picked it up anyway, vaguely scanning over the words as she signed and dated her name at the bottom. you quickly busied yourself with sanitizing the stud she picked out in the machine and setting up your station with all the proper tools. you could feel her eyes watching you, a surge of confidence flowing through you at the nickname she called you, so you made an extra effort to swing your hips side to side as you moved around your station, bending down to pick up a plastic bag that you “dropped”. you heard her suck in a sharp inhale, a grin tugging on your lips as you straightened back up. walked back over to the counter, you glanced over the paperwork.

“sevika, that’s a pretty name,” you practically purred out, fluttering your lashes at her.

“yeah? you got a name to go along with your pretty face?” she quipped, a half smirk on her black lips.

“i guess you should know the person who’s about to shove a needle through your face, i’m y/n,” you smiled and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.

“a lovely name for a lovely lady,” she complimented and raked her eyes across your body.

you giggled shyly and shook your head, tilting your head towards the chair behind you, “c’mon back pretty girl, let’s get you pierced.”

she followed you back to your station and sat back in the chair, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. after snapping on a pair of your favorite colored gloves, you prepped the back of the piercing to go into the hollow needle once it was through and grabbed a marker.

standing directly in front of her, practically standing between her thighs, you had to force yourself to look back into those piercing grey eyes.

“i’m going to make a small mark where the piercing will go and then you can check the placement, is it okay if i touch your face?" you asked softly, a shy blush tinting your cheeks.

sevika gulped and quietly nodded, this time averting her eyes from you. you softly pinched her chin between your fingers and turned her head to face you directly. you leaned forward and mapped out her bottom lip to find a true middle and pressed a small dot onto the skin beneath her full lips, feeling her hot breath fan out on the back of your hand. quickly pulling back to stop yourself from kissing her, you practically shoved the hand mirror into her hands and barely squeaked out, “if you want to move it, it’s no problem!”

you took a step back and looked to the side of the room to give her some decision time, trying to ignore how beautiful her lips were and how desperately you wanted to kiss them. she carefully admired the mark in the mirror and hummed, nodding in approval, "looks good to me."

"perfect," you chirped and took the mirror from her, explaining the process of the piercing very briefly as she nodded along, brushing her short hair out of her face when a few strands got stuck to her eyelashes. god, you wish you were the one pushing her hair back.

you cleared your throat and picked up the piercing clamp, turning to her with a smile, "go ahead and open your mouth for me."

she did as you asked and looked up towards the ceiling as you placed the clamp in position over her bottom lip with the dot you made on her skin earlier. you gently positioned your hand holding the clamp vertically and grabbed the hollow needle from your station, lining it up with the dot.

"go ahead and take a deep breath in for me dear," you said calmly, getting into the zone as you focused in on doing the piercing correctly despite the handsome woman in front of you.

she inhaled deeply through her nose and once you were sure that she had taken a deep enough breath, you directed her, "and go ahead and breathe out."

as soon as she started to let the air out of her mouth, you pushed the needle through her skin and pulled the clamp down, holding her bottom lip open towards you.

"good job, worst parts over," you praised, earning an amused huff from sevika.

you let go of the needle and put the back of the piercing into the hole, pulling the needle back through the way it came with the jewelry sticking out in its place. you screwed the top disk onto the piercing and removed the clamp, admiring the slight puffiness of her bottom lip. holding up the mirror to her again, you smiled brightly as a sense of pride flowing through you, ''whatddya think?"

sevika held the mirror up and admired the new piercing from every angle, a satisfied smirk gracing her lips, "i love it."

you giggled and cleaned up your station, disposing of the needle and putting the clamp in the sanitizer machine. sauntering over to one of your cabinets and pulling out a small blue bag, you put together a goody bag with saline solution, aftercare instructions, and piercing floss for later on.

walking back over to her and holding out the bag, you couldn't help the smile on your lips as her fingers brushed against hers, "for it to heal properly, no smoking, drinking, kissing, or uh oral sex for at least 3 weeks."

one of her eyebrow cocked at the last rule before a decisive smile came to her lips. she followed you back up to the counter and paid for the service, leaving a hefty tip.

“so, could i take you on a date in 3 weeks?”

you blinked at her owlishly, processing what she just asked you. quickly regaining your composure, you asked nonchalantly, “is that for a kiss or for oral sex?”

“both if you’re lucky.”

the two of you laughed and you agreed, scribbling your number down on a stray piece of paper. when she held out her hand to take it from you, you held up a finger and folded the paper in half, sealing it with a kiss that left a mark from your lipstick.

she blinked in surprise as you pressed it into her hand with a wink, “a preview for 3 weeks from now.”

sevika chuckled and shook her head, pocketing the paper, “you little minx.”

you giggled and waved as she left, checking out her ass as she walked out of your shop.

this was going to be the longest 3 weeks of your life.

a/n: writing fan fiction is crazy like why am i watching multiple labret piercing videos to describe the process right

part 2

taglist: @maneskinwh0re @archangeldyke-all

[h109zone]

closer than you think—nsfw

synopsis. zayne was away on a trip that was cut short, due to the research's goal having been fulfilled earlier than expected, yet you have unintentionally given him a surprise. how else will he handle the sight of his wife in such a state?

pairing. Zayne x afab!reader

requested by. dawnbreakerbrokeme 

words. 3.2k

warning. porn with a lil plot, married life, zayne's a lil ooc, dom!zayne, fem!masturbation, light choking, slight humiliation/degradation but no slur, use of sex toy, rough turns soft, use of sir. also not beta read.

a/n. yuurrrr !!!! sorry i took forever to make this, i was busy and also was hella depressed lmfao, but im back tho. the plot to porn ratio in this is like 30:70, also idk why i made them married... it works tho lmfao. nevertheless, i still hope you enjoyed it!!!

minors do not interact. re-read the warnings before reading, as after clicking “keep reading”, i am not responsible for the media you consume.

This ended sooner than expected. 

Zayne thought to himself as he was approaching the train station, dragging his wheeled suitcase behind him, as he securely placed one of his hands in his pocket. The sterile-in-appearance station scents itself with the smell of mechanics and the baked goods of designated cafes scattered around, with potential passengers and employees roaming around to catch their stop or see if things are in top shape. 

The doctor was away for a medical research conference being held at an esteemed university in a different city—not far enough to take a plane, yet not close enough to drive to, hence the train was the optimal option—which they had invited him to, thanks to his impressive credentials. The trip was supposed to last for a few weeks, yet the mission ended within 10 days, which oddly yet pleasantly caught the young doctor off guard. 

Why pleasantly? To make it short and simple, he could go back to you, his loving wife. You were everything to him; you were his kryptonite, his confidant, his best friend, his carrot repellent, the icing to his cinnamon roll, you were the heart that pumps out his blood, you’re as precious as stones—simply put, no amount of similes and metaphors could ever descibe your status in his life. Naturally, he is more than ecstatic than one could be, at least in his way—it’d be a miracle if you spot him smiling widely. Nevertheless, he’s more than happy that it was cut short , and the train ride is only less than three hours, too long but better than hourslong drive, anything to see his darling again.

 He hasn’t informed you that he’ll come in earlier than expected, as he wanted to surprise you, which is not on brand, but he thought to use his “man of few words” quality, plus the constant excuse that this research is “taxing,” which wasn’t a lie by any means if we’re talking in technicality, but would it be true honesty if he simply just wanted his wife to not know if his early arrival? After all, these types of events are rare to come, so might as well take this chance.

Meanwhile, back home, there you were, waiting for the day your husband comes back. He has told you of his “busy” meeting, which you completely understood. You have always known that your husband is a workaholic and that work is one of his main priorities, after you, of course, which you highly admire. However, even with things you love can have a limit; your husband’s physical absence has taken its toll on you, and it is starting to appear on the surface. 

You missed every aspect of Zayne in both physical and emotional ways. You missed his warmth towards you, you missed his snarky remarks, you missed his caring nature, you missed having yourself lying on his chest while cuddling, you missed the feeling of your fingers entangling his soft raven hair, you missed staring into his green eyes as he looks down at you. You also have missed being on your knees for him, begging him to have him all in your mouth, you missed his struggled and choked up whimpers before he ravishes you on the spot, you missed the feeling of his cock sheathing inside you as you sat on him. You missed him in a way, like you have been deprived of his touch for so long.  

You feel very pathetic with this first-world problem you were having, but how can you blame yourself when you have a man like him? Ever since he has gone on that god forsaken trip, you craved him even more than you thought. It didn’t help that you two had had sex on he day of his trip, but you still craved him since then. You would resort to phone calls and sexting, but his work was too tiresome, so you couldn’t get any action out of him digitally due to feeling sympathy for him. 

So what choice do you have? You only got your desires and your dominant hand to do a quarter of the job. It’s gotten so bad that you have ordered in advance as soon as Zayne informed you, in fear of a situation like this were to happen, since you are completely aware of his workaholic tendencies. You two were not anti-sex toys, but weren’t up to it since you two were able to satiate your hunger, even with a simple dry hump with heavy make outs does the job exceptionally well, surprising the both of you.

Nevertheless, you did it, and it just so happened that your toy arrived yesterday. It was a vibrator with a contemporary look that claims that it could snug well around your clit and could “reach you to heaven faster,” so you were curious and bought it for the time being before it arrived right at your feet. You’ve already given it a cleanse and sanitized it, as you prepared your room to set the mood like you would if your husband were here; however, for today, it's just you and your toy—unknowing of what’s to come eventually.

You’ve lit up candles and worn your new set—the one Zayne bought recently that you wore once—as you’ve dimmed the lighting and closed the curtain. The sweet yet sultry scent of roses and vanilla permeates the room, while the warm glow of the fiery candles fills the space. The aura of your bedroom has created a sensation of seduction and concupiscence as your desires started to conquer your system. 

Your mind wanders with mental images of you and your virile husband has sent you over the edge. You lie across the mattress as you allow your imagination to take over, images of Zayne’s immense and dominating body lying on top of yours, his hands roaming over beautiful islands in your figure, as he whispers praises with his hushed voice while his lips ghost over your skin.

You spread your legs as you allowed your imagination to run wild, fondling your breasts as you were picturing your husband playing with them, pinching your nipples over the sheer material of your bra. This sensitivity you were exhibiting was prevalent, and while it wasn’t enough or as quick without Zayne’s talented skills in making you aroused, it was enough for you to feel a dampness between your legs. 

You began teasing yourself with your dominant hand wandering south onto your laced panties, rubbing from the exterior. You shuddered at how your fingers’ light touch created a slight buzz through the fabric, feeling the slick forming even outside the underwear—a scenery you only wish Zayne could see at this moment.

As you continued your languid rubbing, you glanced at your vibrator that lay beside you and pondered as you examined it, almost like you were second-guessing your purchase. You weren’t a frequent user of sex toys since you’ve been with Zayne, it shocked you when you realized that his cock did a sensible and much better job than your old dildo that you would pathetically ride to reach your peak, which your husband—and even when he was a boyfriend and a fiance— has helped your reach there even faster. 

However, desperate calls call for desperate measures, and since your husband’s not here, you’ll give in to old habits just to reach that peak again. After you’ve stripped off your panties, you pressed the button that’s in your toy, and it vibrated instantly in your hand at a swift motion. The default setting was not super fast, where it was overwhelming, but it wasn’t too slow for it to be rendered broken, feeling yourself clench. You sighed before you placed the toy right around your clit, making you gasp at loud volume, letting out versus amid your breathy moans. 

You’ve only let go for a few seconds to catch your breath, and you haven’t had a vibrator in a while, so the feeling of vigorous vibrations was too much at the start. Once the feeling of unfamiliarity turns to the opposite, you’ve continued your journey to the solo trip to the ninth cloud.

Meanwhile, Zayne has already arrived at Linkon and is currently sitting in the taxi’s back seat. He was looking down at his phone, debating whether or not he should continue with this surprise. He looked back at his messages that were sent to you, where he had mentioned that he would be busy for a few hours. He thought that this could help him not leak any of his surprises onto him. You only replied a simple “okay” with a heartbreak emoji, with no protest or objection, the emoji unintentionally represented his actual heartache at your simple response. 

He sighed as he placed his phone back to his pocket, as he glanced at the flowers that sat next to him like passengers, a bouquet of your favorite flowers with colors representing your aura and personality, he didn’t arrange the beautiful sets but he saw it and it was calling his name to give it to you. He smiled at it as he sniffed the flowers, its sweet aroma tickling his nose, the scent reminding him of his home, of you. 

The driver could see Zayne’s aloofness crack as a small smile peeked through, causing the old man driving to smile and shake his head. 

“Young love,” he muttered to himself. 

“I beg your pardon?” Zayne snapped himself out of his world and went back to his cold self. 

The driver could only chuckle whimsically, “nothing, son… nothing” 

— 

Minutes passed, and he’s already at your shared home. He paid, and he and the driver shared their farewell. As the car drove away, Zayne was left with his suitcase and his rapidly beating heart. He felt like a teenager once again trying to ask his date for prom, even after years of being together, and along the way, you two have already gotten married. You still don’t have any children since it was too soon, having you two only been married for a year now, but whenever you two are in the near vicinity of each other, it's like your infatuation towards each other was brought on again, fluttering each other’s hearts.

Zayne walks up to your home with excitement and anticipation. 

“Hello, my love—” Zayne’s announcement of greetings was cut short due to the eeriness of his home. Zayne praised himself for diligence and his eye for detail, because from a stranger’s perspective, one would not guess any abnormalities in the interior, but as the resident of your home and lover of yours, Zayne could tell. 

There was an indent in the leather couch, and an open bag of chips was abandoned on the coffee table, threatening to spill over the wooden surface and rug. You were definitely in the house, and what further confirmed it was when Zayne closed the entrance door, a faint sound of moaning echoed in the living room—your moans, to be more specific. 

Zayne’s heart began beating faster as his mind entered into a war of conflict, persuasion, and betrayal. He never doubted your loyalty, but he couldn’t help that it was getting tested at this moment. He was long gone, and you were naturally needy for his affection, but that didn’t mean you were going to step out and harm the foundation that you and your husband had built for a long time, right?…

Right? 

Zayne was not having it, yet he had to calculate his steps—violent and poor planning confrontations can wreak havoc worse than any volcanic eruption—thus, he had to approach the situation assertively yet calmly, as he always does. 

He places the bouquet to the side as he walks steps that a slick home intruder would envy at how subtle and quiet they are, and each step he takes, your whimpering sounds heighten their volume while his stomach sinks even further down in anxiety. 

He took notice of the door being slightly opened, not enough for you to notice, but enough for Zayne to peek through. Zayne’s fist unclenched as he went through at least ten different emotions all at once, but the main one was relief; no other person was the reason for the moans you were producing. 

However, that relief quickly changed into something else, something much more intense as he noticed what exactly you were doing. The rapid sight of you squirming and moaning out your husband’s name and strings of curse words has changed Zayne’s intentions for his return immediately. He took notice of the new object in your hand, which he had never seen it in either of your guys' inventories, which further made him want to do his impromptu plan.

He opens the door abruptly, with a crossed arm, his stand-offish stance has created a presence so strong that you’ve opened your eyes at the source. 

You gasped as you sat up, unbelieving of the sight you saw in front of you. 

“Oh my god, Zayne, you’re back—“ 

“Why’d you stop?” Zayne interrupted you with his cold, unemotional tone. The sight of Zayne looking unimpressed at the attempt to relieve yourself left you feeling like you wanted a gaping hole to come and swallow you down… but at the same time, you were ready for the wrath that he was about to unleash on you after unintentionally neglecting you for so long. 

—

It was an intense exchange, in one second Zayne, was standing in the door, mossy green eyes were replaced by the dark blown pupils filled with intense emotions that could suck you in like a black hole. The next is now your depraved husband lying behind you, clothes discarded across the room, his neck around your throat, forcing your head to face him while he hungrily clasps his lips onto yours with a fervent kiss. The toy was being held by the scarred hand of Zayne as he placed it right at your clit, this time at a speed you couldn’t handle. 

“Z-zayne~” You whined against his lips as you threw your head back. Your legs were shaking and threatening to be closed shut, but Zayne ignored your protest and instead he gripped the back of your thigh even further with his free hand, placing your knee up to your shoulder. You began shaking underneath him, yet Zayne made you stay out, making makeshift restraints with his body. 

As soon as he felt you getting closer with your announcing and shuddering, he would pull away the toy instantly, leaving you whining with an unsatisfied ache. 

He takes a look at the toy before he throws it away, gripping you even closer to his chest and roughly spreading your legs. You yelped at the sudden maneuver, and you started wailing as soon as Zayne began using his hand at your sopping pussy, his fingers spreading your lip, revealing you even more than you already are. 

“I know you wanted me so bad,” he gruffly whispered into your ears, nipping while his fingers teased the entrance with a little swirl around like it's a seductively secret code to enter, “so why didn’t you tell me, huh? Why didn’t you tell me you need me?” 

even though you were fogged up with pleasure, you still coughed a response, “I-I didn’t want y-you t-to—fuck~ leave you—“ your words were cut as Zayne’s nimble middle and ring fingers insert themselves inside your hole, finally opening up greet him with openness and warmth. 

Zayne’s other hand gripped your throat once again, forcing a lustful yet furious eye contact while his fingers started to move in and out of you in violent and rough intervals, “I don’t care. Next time, instead of wasting time on your toy, come to me, do I make myself clear?” 

You thought that the question was rhetorical as Zayne’s finger moved in sync with his words. Each time it gets rougher and rougher, so you could only wail as his longer fingers reached places your fingers couldn’t. However, Zayne’s fingers halts inside of you while the hand on your neck grips even firmer, “I said do I make myself clear?” 

You panted as you nodded while choking up, “yes, yes, you do, sir…”

The ‘sir’ was accidental, but oh, did it do wonders to Zayne’s psyche, and his cock too, of course. Zayne pulled his fingers away, making you whimper due to the emptiness, before it was replaced by a gasp as he flipped you to your stomach, head hitting the pillow. He prepped you with his fingers, but he still wanted to stretch you out more. He takes a good look at your ruined pussy, he barely did anything and yet you were starting to drip out your essence down to the sheets. 

Oh, he can’t take it anymore.

You attempted to get up, only for you to feel an immense stretch, as Zayne didn’t hesitate to insert his tip inside you, uncharacteristically so.

He let out a breathy growl with the languid start when he inserted his inch little by little. No matter how many times you have had sex, you were still beautifully tight for him, and with this new side of your husband, who were you to complain? 

You moaned into the pillow as Zayne got deeper and deeper inside of you. Zayne can only look at your arch and how pathetically you were gripping the pillow to restrain your voice from escaping your room. 

He starts pulling you up by the stomach, and he begins thrusting upwards at a sudden, quick pace. You squealed as a result, and you tried your best to conceal it, but Zayne refused and urged you to stop your attempts to quiet yourself. 

“No, no, I need—mmh~ Need you to stop—“ he stops to allow a pleasured breathy moan escape his lips, “need you to stop… need—neighbors to hear—fuck!”

The ever-so-quiet doctor has flipped a switch on you as his head kisses your G-spot over and over again, sending both of you over the edge. 

The peak is drawing closer and closer, and the overwhelming warmth is approaching. You began to clench everywhere while your legs started to judder in the overwhelming feeling, yet Zayne showed no signs of stopping. 

You were seeing white as fireworks began to erupt all across your system, from your brain down to your stomach, while your eyes gave out as you rolled your eyes back due to the fierce climax your husband just gave you.

He pulls you in for a fervent kiss as he slows down, giving you time to calm after the extraordinary orgasm he gave you. However, that didn’t last long as he pulled away and pushed your back down to the mattress. His cock was slicked from your honey and his combined, angry and vigorous red tip stood as he teased and rubbed your pussy with it.

“If you think that I’ll stop, think again…” He whispers, as he places his hands between your head, “I need to make up for missed times…” 

“I missed you so god damn much”

You have no idea what has gotten into your husband, but had you known that a sex toy got him like this, you’d do it over and over again.

ⓒ 2025 all works done by H109zone do not repost, translate, modify, or plagiarize my work.

[writingwithcolor]

Not all Second-Language Speakers are Made Equal.

@waltzshouldbewriting asked:

Hello! I’m writing a story that features a character who’s first language is not English. He’s East African, specifically from Nairobi, Kenya, and is pretty fluent in English but it’s not his primary language, and he grew up speaking Swahili first. I’m struggling to figure out if it’s appropriate or in character to show him forgetting English words or grammar. From what I’ve researched, English is commonly spoken in Nairobi, but it wouldn’t be what was most spoken in his home. For context, this is an action/superhero type story, so he (and other characters) are often getting tired, stressed, and emotional. He also speaks more than two languages, so it makes sense to me that it would be easier to get confused, especially in a language that wasn’t his first. But I’m worried about ending up into stereotypes or tropes. For additional context: I’m monolingual, I’ve tried to learn a second language and it’s hard. A lot of how I’m approaching this comes from my own challenges correctly speaking my own, first and only language.

Diversity in Second-Language English

You seem to have an underlying assumption that second language acquisition happens the same for everyone. 

The way your character speaks English depends on so many unknown factors: 

Where does your story take place? You mention other characters; are they also Kenyan, or are they all from different countries?

Assuming the setting is not Kenya, is English the dominant language of your setting? 

How long has your character lived in Kenya vs. where he is now? 

What are his parents’ occupations? 

What level of schooling did he reach in Nairobi before emigrating? 

What type of school(s) did he go to, public or private? Private is more likely than you think. 

Did his schooling follow the national curriculum structure or a British one? Depends on school type and time period. 

Does he have familiarity with Kenyan English, or only the British English taught in school? 

Is this a contemporary setting with internet and social media?

I bring up this list not with the expectation that you should have had all of this in your ask, but to show you that second language acquisition of English, postcolonial global English acquisition in particular, is complex. 

My wording is also intentional: the way your character speaks English. To me, exploring how his background affects what his English specifically looks like is far more culturally interesting to me than deciding whether it makes him Good or Bad at the language. 

L2 Acquisition and Fluency

But let’s talk about fluency anyway: how expressive the individual is in this language, and adherence to fundamental structural rules of the language.

Fun fact: Japanese is my first language. The language I’m more fluent in today? English. Don’t assume that an ESL individual will be less fluent in English compared to their L1 counterparts on the basis that 1) it’s their second language, or 2) they don’t speak English at home. 

There’s even a word for this—circumstantial bilingualism, where a second language is acquired by necessity due to an individual’s environment. The mechanisms of learning and outcomes are completely different. 

You said you tried learning a second language and it was hard. You cannot compare circumstantial bilingualism to a monolingual speaker’s attempts to electively learn a second language. 

Motivations?

I understand that your motivation for giving this character difficulties with English is your own personal experience. However, there are completely different social factors at play.

The judgments made towards a native speaker forgetting words or using grammar differently are rooted in ableism and classism (that the speaker must be poor, uneducated, or unintelligent). That alone is a hefty subject to cover. And I trust you to be able to cover that!

But on top of that, for a second language speaker, it’s racism and xenophobia, which often lend themselves to their own ableist or classist assumptions (that those of the speaker’s race/ethnicity must be collectively unintelligent, that they are uneducated or low class due to the occupations where they could find work, or conversely that they are snobby and isolationist and can't be bothered to learn a new language). Intersections, intersections.

If you want to explore your experiences in your writing, give a monolingual English speaker in your cast a learning disability or some other difficulty learning language, whatever you most relate with. And sure, multilingual folks can occasionally forget words like anyone else does, or think of a word in one language and take a second to come up with it in the other language. But do not assume that multilinguals, immigrants, or multiethnic individuals inherently struggle with English or with multiple languages just because you do.

~ Rina

[hollyskywalker]

Ghosts Don’t Knock

It was an offhand comment that helped Dick realize his brother had no clue.

Jason didn’t want his help. He made that abundantly clear when Dick jumped into the fray of the fight. “Go to the manor and play house or something!” his little brother had grunted before knocking one of The Penguin’s men out with a swift punch.

Half an hour later the two found themselves sitting on a rooftop overlooking the streets of Gotham. Jason had calmed down somewhat. Fist-fighting a few dozen goons was probably therapeutic to him or something.

Dick was just glad Jason didn’t seem to be planning to run off. Not yet at least.

He took a deep breath, preparing for the upcoming conversation. “What you said earlier…”

Jason huffed. “What about it?”

Dick bounced on the balls of his feet, a nervous gesture giving away just how reluctant he was to ask. “You do know…I mean- I assume you did your research on- what I mean-”

“Spit it out, Dick.” Jason grunted, eyeing the fire escape and, okay, Dick probably should get to the point before Jason takes off but this has been a painful subject for a long time now.

Here goes nothing. “You do know we’re children of divorce, right?”

Silence.

Jason didn’t move but Dick saw the flicker of confusion in the boy’s- man’s eyes.

“We assumed you knew, but maybe we shouldn’t have but you seemed to know a lot about what we’ve done- or haven’t done I suppose- after you- since-” Dick’s rambling cut short when Jason turned to face him fully.

“The fuck you mean divorce?”

Dick smiled half-heartedly that probably looked more pained than anything. “Mum left dad.”

Jason blinked and Dick waited patiently as the younger one processed the information.

“I-” for the first time since he came back Jason seemed speechless. “Fuck.”

Dick frowned a little disbelievingly. “You really didn’t know? It was all anyone seemed to be able to talk and write about for ages. She moved out and served dad the papers through her lawyer. You haven’t-” He hesitated. “You haven’t gone to see her yet?”

He’d been back from the dead, or Red Hood was, for months now. Jason was always more a mama’s boy and she claimed not to have any favorites but her smile was always softer when directed at Jason.

Jason shook his head. “What happened?”

“Life,” Dick said.

The end of yours, he didn’t say.

To say Dick was confused would be an understatement. He’d thought that the first thing Jason would after getting back to Gotham would be to seek her out and have an ugly-cry-worthy reunion.

Did she even know Jason was back?

Bruce might have told her, but the man was also a trainwreck when it came to her. She turned the serious, stony batman who struck fear into criminals into a bumbling schoolboy with the hint of her smile.

Now Jason was the one shifting from one foot to the other uncomfortably.

“Is she okay?” he asked quietly, and for a second Dick saw his little brother from years ago. The one Dick would tease about clinging to their mother’s skirt like a little kid. It’s all so familiar that he had to take a deep breath, nostalgia creating a pit in his stomach.

“Define okay,” Dick shrugged. “After…” He stopped himself, cringing at his own words. “She stayed in your room for a couple of months. Slept on the floor I think, didn’t let anyone touch or change anything. Then one day she just…I don’t know. It was too much, I suppose. Said she was staying at her parents’ place for a bit and that she’d come back but she never did. She kept in contact with us ofcourse but it's not the same.”

Jason inhaled sharply through his nose and Dick realized that he’d been actively avoiding her. All it took is typing in her name on any platform and the divorce would be the first result to come up.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and unmoving.

Dick let it go on for a couple of minutes before it started to bother him and he spoke up again. “According to studies the divorce rate for grieving parents up to 72% is, depending on factors like coping mechanisms, and support systems.”

Jason scoffed but there was no real bite to it. “Well that explains it.”

“You should go see her.” Dick insisted.

“Dick.” Jason said, with a tone like he was being unreasonable for even suggesting it.

“She probably still thinks you’re dead.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed warningly. “Dick.”

“What? You don’t want to go see her? She’s your mom. She loves you and she never stopped grieving-”

“Dick-”

“She deserves to know. If anyone deserved to know that you’re back it’s her. She probably won’t even care that you’ve thrown dad’s no-kill rule through the shredder-”

A harsh shove to his shoulder shut him up. He knew he was pushing it and was probably lucky it wasn’t a punch to the face but it had to be said.

“Shut up.” Jason spat. He turned back to the view of the city, shoulders drawn tight.

“Jason,” Dick’s voice had a scolding hint to it.

The man sighed, sounding world-weary. “Ofcourse I want to see her,” he said. “I just-”

Dick nodded like he understood. He didn’t, but he could try to see it from his point of view. She spent most of their time as Robin fretting over them and fully agreeing with Bruce’s rules in fighting crime. Jason has stepped and spit on those rules without hesitation.

What Jason didn’t know and Dick did was that her second son’s death changed her. He knew that Jason could burn the world down and she would still welcome him back home with open arms.

“Go see her.” Dick said firmly. “I’ll text you the address. It’s not even a half hour’s drive from here.”

Jason looked hesitant, “I don’t know.”

“Just trust me,” Dick insisted a little bit desperately.

○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

Her mind went blank the moment she walked into her living room and saw her dead son sitting at her dining table.

It’s amazing what the mind can conjure up, she decides. It’s not exactly how she thought he would look like in his early twenties but it's close.

The white tuft of hair for example. She has no clue how her mind came up with that but he looks so delightfully real that she doesn’t care.

The scars from wounds she hadn’t patched up were placed randomly and she realized her mind was cruel to show him with a J on his cheek.

He looks out of place in the cozy space. Not that he could ever be out of place in her home but more in the way of being unfamiliar with a new space.

She guessed the trick her mind was playing on her would stop some time soon. Perhaps she should listen to her therapist about medication…

“Mom,” the hallucination said.

Oh wow, it was really realistic. It sounded exactly like him, only his voice was deeper and there’s a pinch to his face like the sight of her pained him. Which was ridiculous. He’s dead. His pain has ended, his suffering over, in a better place now or whatever bullshit people told her in an effort to console her.

This wasn’t good for her. She had to buy groceries and cook. It was important to take care of herself, or so her therapist kept insisting.

“You’re not real.” She said simply as she walked into her kitchen. She opened the fridge to see if she had to add anything to her grocery list. Tomatoes, orange juice, maybe some dessert…

“Mom,” the hallucination said again, softer this time and sounding so sad that it broke her heart.

She shook her head and continued her list. She was out of eggs, which she would need to make the quiche recipe Alfred had recommended she try.

She could still see the hallucination in her peripheral vision. It was slowly walking toward her, wary, like she was some stray animal he was trying not to fright. Well consider her frightened. The hallucination should be gone by now.

Maybe she should call Dick tonight before he goes on patrol. He has experience with hallucinations. Maybe he’ll know some tricks to-

A hand pushed the fridge closed, which was weird because hallucinations should not be able to do that. They also shouldn’t be able to smell like Jason, only with a hint of gunpowder and something metallic like blood and-

“Oh god,” she squeezed her eyes shut.

She could feel the air shift as he moved closer and hear his steady breathing as if he was real and alive and in front of her.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and they immediately welled with tears. Until now she had only seen him in the corner of her eyes, her mind playing tricks on her when she was somewhere that reminded her of him which was just about everywhere-

“I’m so sorry,” the hallucination (?) whispered.

He looked so much like Jason it hurt. Only his eyes are different now. They’re more green than blue. Why would her mind change his eye color? They were just fine the way they were. Maybe-

She reached out without realizing. The tip of her finger accidentally brushing his skin.

Impossible.

She felt like was was going to pass out. “You-Wh-” she stammered. “You’re real?”

“I am,” he nodded quickly. “I am and I am so sorry mom-”

She was drinking in every detail as he apologized. She didn’t know why he was apologizing. He had done nothing wrong. He was taken from them, murdered in cold blood. She had seen the footage. A 15-year-old boy writhing in his chains and screaming for mercy that never came. He’d deserved none of it.

And now he was here.

She reached out again, just to be sure, and once again made contact with real warm skin. He stopped his rambling apologies and stared at her wide eyed.

She managed a wobbly smile, “You’re all grown up.”

Confusion flickered across his face, then something but heartbreakingly soft and ruthlessly fierce. Then he hugged her so tightly her toes lifted from the floor for a moment.

Her baby was home.

[notatzimisce]

From another conversation, but I'm going to keep talking about it here while I'm complaining about stuff anyway.

The collective amnesia around post-viral syndromes makes me feel insane. Like we have had long covid for a very long time and previously you could get it from diseases like lyme (bacterial, but still) or West Nile or even mono (remember hearing stories about how some kid at your school got mono and was sick for literally six months or longer?).

And the entire time covid has been a thing, we've had people spreading terrified word of how covid is some kind of Hollywood-scifi-grade superbug that destroys your body via special never-before-seen mechanisms that the people saying this definitely didn't understand when they read something about the structure of covid in a news article, but which sounded very scary. And the more research we do, the more it looks like the problem is just that we have our first-ever contagious, airborne, catch-it-every-year virus that gives some people this type of post-viral ME/CFS.

But the above people never stopped peddling the Hollywood superbug narrative, and they're still doing it today. I'd be pretty pissed off about that if I got permanently disabled by mono in the seventh grade or something.

[herpsandbirds]

We got any fun little worm dudes around?

I am going to interpret that to mean WORMS (inverts), so here you are...

Disguised as deep-sea acorn worms, two species of Yoda have been found– not so long ago, on a seamount far, far from land.

Yoda purpurata, discovered in 2012 with the ECOMAR ROV on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, sports distinctly Yoda-like lobes on either side of its head (these are lips rather than ears).  In 2022, scientists using Schmidt Ocean Institute’s ROV SuBastian found its North Pacific cousin. Yoda demiankoopi bears little resemblance to the original Yoda, but is still a force to be reckoned with.  You try living off of tiny scraps of marine snow at the bottom of the ocean! Yoda purpurata: David Shale/Marinespecies.org Yoda demiankoopi © Schmit Ocean InstituteImages used under Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 4.0 License

via: Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution

A new species of giant Eunice (Eunicidae, Polychaeta, Annelida) from the east coast of Australia

Read the paper here: https://zookeys.pensoft.net/article/86448/

Green Spoon Worm

Check out this freaky Green Spoon Worm (Metabonellia haswelli, phylum Echiura), filmed in Port Phillip Bay, Australia, on 8 Feb 2018. It may look harmless, but this marine  worm can paralyze small animals using the neural poison in its skin.

via: Youtube.com

Say hello to Eulagisca gigantea, the golden worm from the Antarctic seas

from photographer Matthew Brown 

It’s an Antarctic scale worm, a type of polychaete (bristle worm).There are many different species, all around the world, ranging in size, colour, and living habits.  Some feed on detritus, others like this one, are predators. It’s laying on its back, those golden bristles are it’s feet, which it uses to walk along the soft sediments on the sea floor. Some species live in tunnels, those ones have greatly reduced spines. They’re a cool group of animals.  Most of NIWA (National institute of water and atmosphere research) deep sea specimens like this are collected by their long range research vessel the Tangaroa. They had a lot of cool stuff, giant amphipods, isopods and giant squid etc. They’re basically trying to figure out biodiversity hot spots on the sea floor around the world in order to inform the establishment of marine sanctuaries. They also provide advice to fisheries about fish populations.

via: So Bad So Good

Weird and Wonderful: Green bomber worms drop bioluminescent “bombs" 

Green bomber worms (Swima spp.) have specialized organs that explode with a burst of green bioluminescence. This impressive display is likely used to startle predators while the animal makes a speedy getaway. They live just above the seafloor and are vigorous swimmers, able to maneuver both backwards and forwards.⁠ ⁠ Each worm carries up to eight “bombs.” If they lose one, they can grow it back. The “bombs” may have been gills that evolutionarily transformed over time. Although these worms lack eyes, they have developed a novel bioluminescent defense mechanism. MBARI research has shown that approximately three quarters of the animals living in the dark ocean depths are capable of producing bioluminescence.⁠ ⁠

Learn more about these amazing deep-sea worms: 

https://www.mbari.org/new-species-of-deep-sea-worms-release-glowing-bombs/

[caxapthecat]

Metal Arm MECHANICS: 🦾🖤

some headcanons about Bucky Barnes and the relationship he has with his metal arm.

18+ please comment your thoughts!!!

—————————————————————

-it has a cooling mechanism that makes it sound like computer fans running

-along with that it also makes quiet robotic noises when he moves

-sentry proved it’s able to be heated up therefore him putting it on straight out the dishwasher had to be physically HOT

-he knows how to remove his arm (now) so he does from time to time

-he also had to protect that hole in his shoulder when he takes it off so no dust/dirt/water can get in and possibly harm him or the mechanics of the arm.

-do you think he sleeps with it on or off? u ever slept with your laptop in bed with you? that shit is hard and cold.

-It definitely vibrates

-he has a tracking device in it that he can ping when he loses it.

-it can move independently once he removes it.

-he gets phantom pain all. the. time.

-it’s waterproof, duh (showers, washing hands)

-he’s very good at doing things one handed now. (u ever watched Soul Surfer. he struggled at first. steve helped.)

-u think it’s able to heat up if it gets frozen? (i gotta do more research on vibranium)

-fingers are detachable (mainly for repairs) but the first time it happened it clanked on the floor and the room went silent as he quietly picked it up and reattached it.

-he cleans out the cracks and crevices with a q tip

-u think he texts Shuri whenever it starts bugging out bc he’s an old man that still gets confused with technology

-talking about texting, he can only type with his right hand bc the metal doesn’t work on the phone screen.

-he’s right handed !! 🥰

-my mind says he doesn’t need to charge it but like, what if it did.

-he wears watches/bracelets on it!!

-kids are enamored by it. adults are petrified of it.

-u ever seen toy story? Sam shakes Bucky’s hand with it. it turns into an argument about touching his things.

-Sam also knows how to remove his arm and does from time to time to piss him off.

-Steve asks a lot of questions about the mechanics and physics of his arm. in which Bucky responds with “idk they just kinda gave it to me.”

-Shuri made multiple prototypes that are able to connect to the new hole they placed in his torso. theres so many mods like guns/cannons/laser blasters that they’ve yet to give to him.

-he named it.

-Alpine bites his metal fingers then snuggles up with it when hes not home and returns to find her curled up on it with her chin resting on the open palm.

-She prefers to be pet with the metal arm too which makes him so happy that this precious creature is able to see it as a source of love and not a weapon of destruction.

-how heavy do we think the new vibranium is in comparison to the HYDRA one and do you think that’s why in civil war he was so bulky in the shoulders/chest is because he was having to carry around this heavy ass shit.

-it glares real bad in the sunlight, making road trips hard when he is driving.

-metal detectors????? mfer works in congress so going into government buildings is HARD. (putting his arm into the bin for security and they all stand there shocked 👀)

-WD-40 IS HIS BEST FRIEND AFTER STEVE DIED LMAOOOO

ADD MOREEEEE

[ghostlynightpanda]

I don’t know your rules and boundaries but please don’t write what I’m about to suggest if it makes you uncomfortable!! Could you write Aib characters with a reader who is a masochist? Totally up to you, please tell me if you have specific things you won’t write about🫡

AIB Characters react to Reader being a masochist  

A/N: I'm not sure I fully understand all the aspects of what it feels like or what people look for when they identify as a masochist. Because of that, I was a little worried that my writing might not capture it the way you're hoping , or worse, that it might come across as insensitive or off the mark. (Definitely not my intention. I fully support people liking whatever they like as long as it's consensual and legal!) At first, I had a hard time coming up with something fitting for characters like Ann or Last Boss, because I couldn't really picture them with a masochistic partner in the usual way. But I did some research and learned that there are different types of masochism, not just the physical/pain-based kind, but also emotional or psychological forms. So I wrote their scenes from that angle, and I really hope it is what you were hoping for.

content/warnings: Ann, Kuina, Mira, Aguni, Niragi, Last Boss, Chishiya, fem!reader, smut, canon typical blood and violence, MDNI, 3.002 words

Ann

You feel it before the game even begins.

That old familiar hum — just under the skin. The nervous energy that settles in your chest, right next to your heartbeat. Not fear, not exactly. It's the thrill of knowing you could lose everything. The ache of something real.

You're alive here.

Not just breathing. Not just surviving.

Alive.

The others gather at the edge of the arena, the rules flashing across the screen in sharp white letters, and you take a step forward without thinking. It's muscle memory by now — your body moving toward the fire, your mind already pulling apart the mechanics of the game, calculating odds you know are stacked against you.

And Ann is there.

Silent as always. Watching you like she's trying to read between the lines of who you are.

"You're volunteering?" she asks, voice even, almost too calm.

You nod.

There's a pause. Her expression doesn't change — still that same analytical calm — but you know her well enough by now. There's a flicker of something behind her eyes. Not fear. Not confusion. Just... curiosity edged with concern.

"You don't need to," she says. "We have a plan. You don't have to take this risk."

You shrug, smiling faintly. "I want to."

Her brow tightens just a little. Barely noticeable — but you see it.

"You want to," she repeats. Not a question. A quiet, measured echo.

You meet her gaze, not flinching. "It's the only time I feel like I'm not sleepwalking. Out here, when it hurts, when it's real... I feel awake. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

She studies you in silence. Not judging. Not trying to talk you down. Just... seeing you. The version of you most people don't notice. The one that isn't just reckless — the one that needs this. That seeks out the sharp edges on purpose, not by accident.

"You chase pain," she finally says. "But not because you enjoy suffering. You want to be changed by it."

That makes your breath hitch a little. Because it's true — and she's the first person who's ever said it out loud.

"You think that makes me broken?" you ask softly.

"No," Ann says, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. "I think it makes you dangerous. And brave. And very, very human."

You don't know what to say to that. So you say nothing.

She walks closer, until the space between you could be shattered with a breath. Her eyes never leave yours.

"When this is over," she says, "if you're still standing... we're going to have a talk. About what kind of pain you're really looking for."

Then she steps back — letting you go. Not stopping you. Not saving you.

But seeing you.

And somehow, that's more terrifying than anything waiting for you inside the game.

Kuina

"You keep throwing yourself at the edge of everything," Kuina muttered, brushing the hair from your face. "Don't think I haven't noticed."

The dim light of the safehouse flickered over your face as you lay on the floor, catching your breath. Another fight. Another close call. Your lip was split, your knuckles bloodied, and your eyes glittered like something in you thrived on it.

And Kuina — standing over you — had that expression again. That mix of frustration and fascination.

You smiled up at her, teasing. "What, worried about me?"

Her foot pressed against your stomach — not cruelly, just firm. Keeping you down.

"I'm more interested in figuring out what the fuck your deal is," she said coolly, staring down at you. "You take hits like they're gifts."

You moaned softly — not in pain. In something far more dangerous.

Her eyes narrowed. "Wait a second…"

You bit your lip, still breathless. "You figured it out, huh?"

She crouched down, her fingers tracing along the bruise blooming across your collarbone. "You like this."

"I like you," you murmured, voice low. "And I like when you're mean."

Her breath hitched. Something raw flickered across her face — curiosity, desire, disbelief.

"You want me to hurt you?" she asked, her voice a little lower now. "That what gets you off?"

You nodded slowly, gaze locked with hers.

"Not just anyone," you added. "You. I want you to hurt me."

She let out a soft, wicked laugh and pushed you flat with one hand, straddling your hips. Her fingers curled around your throat, not squeezing — just holding. Measuring. Testing.

"Oh baby," she whispered. "You really want to be put in your place, don't you?"

Your lips parted, breath shallow. "Yes."

She leaned in, her mouth brushing against your ear. "You like being bruised. You like the sting. You like knowing I'm the one doing it."

You whimpered.

"Then lie still," she whispered. "And take everything I give you."

Her mouth was everywhere. Her hands were rough. Her voice — low and cruel and perfect — filled every crack in your ribs like she was made to tear you apart slowly, just to see if you'd thank her for it.

And you would. Every time.

Because with Kuina — the pain wasn't chaos. It wasn't empty.

It meant something.

Mira

"You're trembling," Mira said, her voice light as silk, delicate as frost. "But I haven't even touched you."

Your breath hitched.

She sat across from you — legs elegantly crossed, wine glass dangling from perfectly manicured fingers. She hadn't moved an inch, and yet you felt like she was already inside your mind, hands trailing down your spine like whispered threats.

You didn't speak.

She tilted her head, eyes sharpening just slightly. "Oh? Cat got your tongue? That's surprising, considering how eager you were earlier… all that bravado. That needy little ache in your voice when you begged to see me alone."

Your throat tightened. You were on your knees now — not because she'd told you to, but because the silence between her words demanded it. Like your body already knew the rules, even if your mouth hadn't admitted it yet.

Mira smiled.

"You want to be degraded," she said softly, almost like she was amused. "You want to be seen for what you really are. Isn't that right?"

You swallowed. "Yes…"

"Mm." She sipped her wine, slow and elegant, like your humiliation was nothing more than background music to her evening. "You crave the sound of my disappointment. You ache for the shame. You need me to tell you that you're weak."

You whimpered — an involuntary sound, half mortified, half aroused.

"I don't have to raise my hand to hurt you," she continued. "Words are enough. Aren't they?"

Your head dipped forward, the burn of embarrassment washing over you like a fever. "Yes, Mira…"

"Look at you. Blushing. Breathing so fast. You came here thinking I'd give you what you want. But I'm not here to indulge you."

She stood slowly — each movement calculated, deliberate — and walked toward you. She circled behind, the warmth of her presence grazing the back of your neck. Not touching. Just hovering. Watching you squirm.

"You want to be used," she whispered into your ear. "To be undone by someone smarter. Stronger. Someone who sees every cracked little corner of your mind… and smiles."

You moaned, barely able to stay upright.

She crouched behind you, one hand ghosting just above your shoulder — still never making contact.

"If I told you to beg like a dog," she murmured, "you'd do it. Wouldn't you?"

Your voice broke as you whispered: "Yes, Mira."

"Say please."

"…Please."

A beat of silence passed. Then another.

She chuckled, the sound sending a shiver through your bones.

"You really are mine, aren't you?"

You didn't say yes.You didn't have to.

She already knew.

Aguni

"You're afraid of yourself," you whispered.

Aguni stood with his back to you, arms crossed, muscles tense beneath the flickering lamplight. The night was quiet — that Borderland kind of quiet. Thick. Watchful. Waiting for something to snap.

"I've seen what I become when I let go," he said. "And I'm not doing that with you."

You stepped closer, fingers brushing his back. He didn't flinch. But he didn't turn, either.

"I'm not scared of you," you said.

His breath hitched — the faintest, broken sound.

"I want to feel you," you continued, voice trembling, not from fear — but from need. "All of you. The part that holds back. The part that hurts. The part you think I couldn't handle."

He turned then. Slow. Heavy. His eyes dark, full of storms he never let loose.

"You want me to hurt you?“ 

You didn't flinch. You looked up into that worn, battle-hardened face — the one that had seen too much death, too much fire — and you nodded.

"I want to feel what it means to be yours."

He stared at you for a long moment. Like he was searching for a way to say no without shattering. Like he wanted to protect you from yourself.

Then he stepped forward.

His hand cupped your jaw — gentle at first, then firmer, holding you in place as he studied you.

"I don't do it like Niragi," he said, voice rough. "If you're mine… you don't get bruises. You get devoured."

You gasped — not from fear, but from the heat flooding your chest.

He pulled you in, lips grazing your ear.

"I'll hold you down," he growled. "I'll pin you. I'll take you hard. But I won't hurt you."

You whimpered. He smirked — just a flicker of it.

"But if you want to scream," he murmured, "I'll make sure it's from pleasure."

And then his hands were on your hips, dragging you closer, lifting you like you were nothing but breath and want. He pressed you against the wall — not violently. Purposefully.

Not to break you.

To claim.

And god, you'd never felt safer than when he wrapped those arms around you and held you like he was keeping himself from unraveling.

Aguni would never strike. But he'd hold you in place. He'd conquer, not punish.

He wouldn't hurt you. But he'd give you everything else. 

And somehow… that would hurt even better.

Niragi 

The game was over, and you were still breathing. Bruised, sure — scraped up and shaking, yeah. But alive. Barely.

Niragi's laugh echoed down the ruined hallway behind you, low and wicked. That kind of laugh that knew everything and cared about nothing. You didn't bother to look back as he followed — you could feel him at your heels like heat, like danger, like something primal.

"You almost got yourself blown up back there," he said casually. "Didn't even flinch. Either you're an idiot or you've got a death wish."

You smirked, brushing dirt from your blood-crusted arm. "Maybe both."

His footsteps stopped. You could hear it — the tension behind him tightening like a wire.

"What was that?" he asked, voice suddenly sharp.

You didn't answer. Just gave a soft little laugh — that kind of quiet, disdainful sound, meant to sting.

And then — hands in your hair.

You yelped, but not out of pain — out of need. Niragi had fisted a handful of your hair and yanked your head back, forcing you to look up at him. His face was close — too close — eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

"You think this is a joke?" he hissed.

You let out a breath that shivered through your lips, your eyes wide but not afraid. And then... you smiled. Slow. Deliberate.

He saw it.

The way your breath hitched. The way your body didn't fight the grip — you leaned into it.

And Niragi's expression shifted. From aggression to something more curious. Intrigued. Turned on.

"You like that," he muttered, almost to himself. A laugh pulled from his throat — something low and disbelieving. "You like getting thrown around?"

You swallowed, but didn't look away. "What gave it away?"

The grip in your hair tightened.

You moaned, eyes fluttering — and he watched, entranced, as you arched just slightly under the pressure, mouth parted like you were begging for more.

"Well, shit," Niragi murmured. "And here I thought you were just another mouthy bitch."

He shoved you roughly back against the wall — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath catch. Enough to make you feel it. He pressed in, his body boxing you in completely, one hand still in your hair, the other dragging slowly down your side like he was deciding what to ruin first.

"Say it," he whispered against your ear. "Say you want it rough."

You gasped, voice shaking from heat and something more wicked. "I want it rough."

"Darker," he demanded, his teeth grazing your throat. "Tell me you want me to hurt you."

Your body shivered, already melting under his hold.

"I want you to hurt me, Niragi. Use me. Break me."

His groan was guttural, the last thread of restraint snapping in half. He grabbed your thigh and hiked it up against his hip, grinding against you like he could already feel how wet you were through your clothes.

"You better mean that," he growled. "Because once I start, I'm not going to stop until you're crying — and begging for more."

You looked up at him, breathless. Hungry.

"Good."

Last Boss

The bodies hadn't even gone cold.

The last game had ended barely minutes ago, smoke still curling from the wreckage, blood steaming on the pavement. You stood there — splattered, shaking, alive in the way that only near-death could gift you — as he watched you from the shadows.

He didn't say anything at first.

Last Boss just stared, blades still sheathed at his hips, eyes unreadable behind that thick stripe of makeup. You were the only one left who didn't fear the sight of him. Maybe the only one who'd ever understood it.

"You didn't flinch," he said, finally.

You turned your head toward him, slow, deliberate. "Neither did you."

He stepped closer, boots crunching through broken glass and ash. "They were screaming."

"I liked it better when they were quiet," you murmured. "Right before the end. That moment when they realize nothing matters… and it's too late to fight it."

He tilted his head. Intrigued. "You enjoy this."

You met his eyes. "Don't you?"

He let out a soft sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. Something in between.

"I was nothing before," he said. "No one looked at me. No one feared me. But here…" He spread his arms, like he was showing off a twisted kingdom. "Here, I'm seen."

You nodded. "And me? I've never felt more alive than when I'm about to die."

That caught him. He blinked once, then smiled — a small, crooked thing, more knife than warmth.

"You like pain?"

You shrugged. "I like meaning. The kind you only feel when your body's breaking and your mind's begging to hold on. That split second where the world gets loud, and nothing matters but staying conscious."

He stared at you like you were a mirror.

Not the same, but recognizable. Kin, in a cruel way.

"You're not afraid of me," he said.

"I think you're beautiful," you answered, honest and calm. "In that fucked up kind of way."

That made him pause.

No one had ever called him that. Not before. Not here, not there.

"Most people run," he said softly.

You stepped closer, eyes on his, voice steady. "I don't run from what I want."

He looked at you, long and quiet. Then his hand came up — not violently, just fingers brushing along your neck, where a bruise had bloomed from earlier. His thumb pressed lightly against it.

"You like that?"

Your breath hitched. "I like surviving it."

That smile again. Wider now. Pleased. Dangerous.

"You're sicker than I am."

You smiled back, a little blood still on your lip. "Not possible."

He laughed, then. For real this time — low and broken, but genuine.

And just like that, something wordless passed between you.

Two monsters. Two survivors. One chasing fear, the other chasing feeling.

Both finally seen.

Chishiya

"You're not subtle," Chishiya said flatly, eyes flicking up from the playing cards.

You raised an eyebrow, lounging on the sofa beside him. "What?"

"That thing you do," he replied, voice calm, almost bored. "Throwing yourself into situations where you're guaranteed to lose. Picking fights. Taking the fall. Like you're hoping someone will punish you for it."

You blinked.

He didn't smirk. Didn't laugh. He just… watched.

"You think you're mysterious," he went on, tilting his head, "but you're just loud about your damage."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks — not from shame. From the way he saw through you. Not emotionally. Analytically. Like a hypothesis confirmed.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

He hummed, tapping his fingers along the edge of the table. "You get off on being stripped down. On being made small. On being the broken one in the hands of someone smarter."

You swallowed. Hard.

"And it's pathetic," he added.

You inhaled sharply — and something in you lit up.

Chishiya caught it.

He leaned forward, slow and deliberate, until he was close enough for you to feel the chill of his words against your skin.

"You want me to tear you apart. Not with fists. With facts. With silence. With truth you can't handle."

You didn't move. You couldn't.

His voice dropped a shade lower. "You want me to ruin you."

You shivered.

He leaned back again, gaze detached, clinical — like he'd just dissected you and was already filing away the results. "I won't hit you," he said, matter-of-fact. "I won't touch you. But I'll make sure you never forget how small you are when I'm in the room."

Your throat was dry.

"And that's what you really want, isn't it?" he asked. "Not pain. Not sex. Just to be under someone who doesn't even need to raise their voice to break you."

You nodded. Slowly. Powerlessly.

Chishiya looked away like the conversation bored him. But he was smiling now — faint, unreadable.

"You're useful," he said. "I might keep you."

And the thing was?

That wasn't a threat.

It was the closest thing he'd ever say to love.

Masterlist

[allurer23]

TURN THE PAGE TO US

YOU ANNOTATED MY SOUL

In Focus: Mark Lee × Reader

Synopsis: You and Mark Lee: two English Lit majors, one department, zero peace. You can quote The Waste Land by heart, and so can he-but your shared talent for verse usually ends in verbal warfare. Forced to co-lead a competitive research project, Mark's infuriating intelligence and maddening focus drive you up the wall. Yet, rivalry softens into playful banter, and late study sessions stretch longer than expected. Turns out, the line between rivalry and something softer is written in pencil-easily erased, effortlessly rewritten.

Warnings: Academic rivals to lovers, Mutual pining + unresolved tension, Explicit language, Sexual content (18+ / smut), Detailed oral sex (f. receiving), Power dynamics (verbal sparring, light possessiveness), Angst + emotional repression, Minor public humiliation (not graphic), Canon-typical college shenanigans, Literary metaphors taken too far, Mentions of anxiety + fear of vulnerability, Soft moments buried under sarcasm

Author's note:

This is the first footnote in TURN THE PAGE TO US-because nothing screams 'healthy coping mechanism' like falling for the one person who annotates your entire existence."

This is Part 2

You can read Part 1 here

Please be 18+ if you are reading this

We didn’t even get to pull apart.

Her lips were still on mine, warm and trembling, her breath stuttering against my mouth like she was falling apart right there in my hands—and then the bell rang,  the front door creaked open.

“Y/N?” her brother called, light and unaware.

She pulled away like I’d burned her.

No words. No glance. Just her back retreating, her fingers smoothing her skirt like she could iron the moment out of existence. I stood frozen, heart thundering like it wanted to break out of my ribs, still half in the kiss, half in the aftermath.

I didn’t know whether to follow her or flee.

She came back into the room a minute later, her voice flat. “Let’s finish the citations.”

Like I hadn’t just kissed her like she was the only thing that had ever made sense.

Like she hadn’t kissed me back.

Like the last five minutes were just a skipped paragraph in a novel that would never get read again.

We sat at the table. She opened her laptop. I opened mine. We divided the sources like strangers.

She read titles and years like she was eulogizing something that hadn’t even been born yet. I typed like it was a punishment. My fingers shook. She didn’t notice.

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t call me pretentious or tell me I was overanalyzing.

She was gone.

Still sitting there. But gone.

When it was done, she closed her laptop with a soft finality that sounded like a goodbye. Said she’d submit the paper—because it was closer. Because it was easier. Because anything else would mean staying.

I nodded.

She walked me to the door.

Said, “Thanks for working on this.”

And then she shut it.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Just… shut it.

And I stood there in the hallway with nothing but the sound of her absence and the feeling of her lips like a ghost on mine.

__

It’s been nineteen days.

I’ve counted.

Like a prayer. Like a punishment. Like a countdown to the moment I finally give up.

I haven’t.

Every day, I wake up and tell myself I won’t check her profile. That I won’t walk past the library just to see if she’s sitting there, chewing the end of that pen like it’s got the answers she’s too scared to say out loud.

Every day, I lie.

Because I miss her.

And not just the idea of her. Not just her voice or her eyeliner or the way she once said “free will” like it was a middle finger to the universe.

I miss her.

Her mind. Her fury. Her precision.

The way she saw literature like it was a weapon and wielded it like she knew where to strike. The way she made me want to be better—not for a grade. For her.

Even before that night in the apartment… it was never just tension for me.

Not once.

I know people thought it was. That it was just a rivalry with a little heat and a lot of academic ego. But they didn’t see the way my stomach flipped when she looked at me and I knew she was about to destroy my entire point with one sentence. They didn’t see the way I memorized the rhythm of her voice during class. How I lingered after lectures just to walk the same hall she did, even if we didn’t talk.

It wasn’t tension.

It was devotion.

Quiet. Careful. Hidden in sarcasm and debates. But still—devotion.

And now, she won’t even look at me.

___

That’s why I’m here again. In the  Same basketball court. Same lights. Same echoes.

It’s past eight and I’ve been shooting for over an hour. Or trying to. Every shot clangs. Every rebound misses. I keep thinking if I move fast enough, if I sweat hard enough, the ache will leave my body.

It doesn’t.

The ball bounces away.

I don’t chase it.

“Did he say something?” Renjun asks.

“No,” Chenle answers. “He grunted once. Might’ve been a spell. Might’ve been his soul leaving.”

I don’t laugh. Not really. Just drop to the court floor like my bones have finally given up pretending.

They walk toward me. Chenle catches the ball. Renjun sits like he’s preparing to receive something heavy.

“Mark,” Renjun says gently. “Talk to us.”

I stare at the ground. Concrete. Dust. The edge of a shoelace coming undone.

“I kissed her,” I say. “No—we kissed. It wasn’t one-sided. It wasn’t even a question.”

My voice is raw. Like something torn.

“She kissed me like she wanted it. Like she’d been waiting for it. Like we were finally letting go of everything we’d been holding back.”

I press my palms to my face.

“And then her brother walked in with groceries.”

They don’t interrupt.

“She pulled away. Fixed her clothes. Walked out of the room like I didn’t just... mean something.”

Chenle sits beside me.

Renjun nods. “And?”

“And she came back in and told me we should finish the citations,” I whisper. “Just like that. Like she reset. Like she erased the kiss and started a new page.”

“She didn’t mention it. Not once. We finished the paper like two people who barely knew each other. And when it was done, she told me she’d submit it. Said she lived closer to Jung’s office.”

I swallow.

“She walked me to the door. Said thanks. And shut it before I could ask if we were going to talk about it.”

My chest aches.

“And then she never spoke to me again.”

Renjun’s brows are drawn. Chenle’s hand is on my shoulder.

“She’s ignoring me on campus. Online. Everywhere. I texted once. Asked if she submitted the paper. She replied, five hours later. ‘Submitted. No typos.’”

I laugh, but it’s empty. Like breath leaking from a cracked balloon.

“I feel like I dreamed the whole thing. Like I made her up. Like the kiss wasn’t real. Or worse—like it was, and I ruined it.”

Silence.

Then Chenle, softly: “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“She means everything to me,” I say, voice barely a whisper. “And I didn’t even know it fully until I lost her.”

I look at them—eyes wet, throat tight.

“I keep thinking if I said the right thing that night—if I’d stopped her, or followed her, or fought for it—maybe she wouldn’t have shut down. Maybe she wouldn’t have... erased me.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Renjun says, firm. “You were brave. You were real.”

“She’s scared,” Chenle adds. “Not of you. Of what you made her feel.”

“I just want her back,” I whisper. “Even if we argue again. Even if she mocks my thesis voice or tells me my shirt’s too crisp. I just... want her.”

“You still have her,” Renjun says. “She’s just scared to admit she still has you.”

I close my eyes.

And let myself break a little more.

Because when I kissed her, I gave her something I didn’t know I’d been saving.

And now, she’s holding it in silence.

And I don’t know if she’ll ever give it back.

Y/N's POV

I used to think I was untouchable.

Not in a cool, mysterious, femme-fatale kind of way. Just… safe. Armored. Scripted. Unreachable enough that no one could ever say they really knew me, and I could convince myself that was power.

But it wasn’t.

It was fear in eyeliner.

Thick, winged, perfect eyeliner that made people flinch before they got close. Made them think I was too sharp to hold. Made them think I liked being alone.

And maybe I did. Or maybe I just needed to believe that if I chose solitude, it wouldn’t hurt so much when it chose me first.

Because people leave.

That’s the one thing I’ve always known for sure.

They leave when you’re too much.

They leave when you’re not enough.

They leave when they see you stripped of all the carefully constructed defenses and realize you’re just… soft.

Just scared.

___

I’ve left people before they could leave me.

Friendships I cared about. People who saw too much. Who stayed too long. Who asked the kind of questions that threatened to collapse the version of myself I’d spent years building. The ones around me are the ones who are still outside of the wall I created, as long as they are outside I keep them near me. If they slip in,

I run

I’ve always run.

And I got good at acting like it didn’t hurt. Like I didn’t care. Like leaving first made me powerful instead of hollow.

It never worked.

But I told myself it did.

___

I’ve read enough books to know how it ends for girls like me.

The lonely ones with sarcasm in place of vulnerability. The ones who talk philosophy at parties instead of feelings. The ones who joke about isolation like it’s a punchline instead of a survival tactic.

I always said I understood Kafka.

But the truth is—I needed him.

I needed alienation to be romantic, or else it would just be… sad.

I needed to believe solitude was strength, or I’d have to admit I’ve been lonely for a long time.

I read romance novels late at night, hidden between Sontag and Woolf on my shelf, and dog-ear the pages where someone stays.

Not the ones where they kiss.

The ones where they stay.

And I pretend it doesn’t make my chest ache.

I pretend I don’t want that kind of love.

The kind where someone sees you—really seesyou—and doesn’t leave.

___

But then came Mark.

And he ruined the act.

He ruined everything

Because he didn’t flinch when I rolled my eyes. He didn’t back off when I sharpened my tongue. He challenged me, yes—but he also watched.

Really watched.

Like he was trying to translate the version of me no one else bothered to read.

He remembered things I only said once.

He noticed how I chugged down coffee even though I hated it.

He noticed how I stopped talking when I was overwhelmed.

He knew when I needed a new pen without asking.

And then he kissed me.

Or I kissed him.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that it wasn’t just a kiss. Not to me.

It was a question. A crack. A possibility.

It was someone saying: I see you. And I want you anyway.

And that terrified me.

Because what if I let myself believe it?

What if I let someone see the softness beneath the smirk, the need buried under the grades and highlighters and razor-edged monologues?

What if I opened my hands, let him hold them, and then—

he lets go?

What if I become someone’s favorite chapter… only for them to put the book down?

I wouldn’t survive it.

Not from him.

Not from Mark Lee.

___

So I shut the door.

Literally. Emotionally. In every way that mattered.

And now I pretend it didn’t happen.

I pretend the kiss was just a flash of tension. Just adrenaline. Just a misstep in a tightly choreographed rivalry.

But I know that’s a lie.

I can still feel the shape of his hands on my waist.

I can still hear the way he said my name like it was more than just a name.

And I miss him.

God, I miss him.

More than I’ve missed anyone. Maybe because I never let myself miss anyone before.

But I can’t show that.

Because if I let him back in, and he decides I’m not worth it—

If he says it didn’t mean anything—

Then all the pretending in the world won’t protect me from the kind of heartbreak I’ve spent my whole life dodging.

So I keep the eyeliner sharp.

Keep the books open.

Keep the sarcasm loaded.

Because it’s easier to be feared than forgotten.

It’s easier to run than risk staying.

It’s easier to pretend he doesn’t matter.

Even if every inch of me still burns from the moment he looked at me like I did.

Mark's POV:

I shouldn’t have stayed back.

That’s the first thing I think as the last of our classmates shuffle out of the literature room, their chatter fading down the hallway.

The air still smells like old paper and cheap coffee. The overhead lights buzz faintly. One flickers—once—as if the building itself is unsure whether I should be doing this.

She moves to leave too, stuffing her notebook into her tote with a practiced, casual speed. But I step in front of the door.

“Can we talk?” I ask, voice low.

She freezes.

Her eyes meet mine, unreadable. Her hand still gripping her pen.

For a second, it’s just the two of us and the ghost of everything we’ve been avoiding.

She doesn’t answer.

So I take the chance.

“Did it mean something to you?” I ask.

Straight. Bare. No inflection.

The desk between us suddenly feels like a canyon.

She exhales, slowly. Then, with the same calm edge she’s used a hundred times during classroom debates, she says, “I thought it was obvious.”

That word hits harder in the silence.

She keeps going.

“It was just sexual tension,” she says. “That’s all it was. Obviously, it didn’t mean anything.”

No stutter. No flicker of hesitation.

Like she has rehearsed this speech before walking into class.

Like she trimmed down every feeling just enough to fit it neatly into a line with no space left for me.

My throat tightens.

I swallow it back.

“That’s why you’ve been avoiding me?” I ask.

Her jaw clenches. But her arms stay crossed, body perfectly still—like she knows even one shift will make her crack.

“No,” she says. “We finished the paper. There’s nothing left to say.”

I stare at her.

“We hated each other, remember?” she continues. “That was the whole thing. Competition. Banter. Enemies. We don’t have to talk anymore. Or look at each other in the hallway. Or pretend to smile in group discussions. None of that’s necessary now.”

The words are clean. Sharp. Efficient.

But the last line trembles.

Just barely.

It’s the only crack she lets slip.

I breathe in slowly, trying not to let her see how much it stings.

She doesn’t look away.

So I ask, one last time. Quietly. Carefully. With something in me already bleeding.

“I’m asking you again. Did it really mean nothing to you?”

She looks at me then.

Really looks.

And it hurts more than anything.

Because her eyes aren’t cold. They’re terrified.

Panic. Regret. A thousand things unsaid, pressed behind her lips like glass about to shatter.

But her voice?

Cruel.

Steady.

“Why would it mean something to me?”

That’s the moment it breaks.

Something quiet and desperate inside me folds in on itself.

I don’t let it show.

I straighten up, nod once, like I’m accepting something I never signed up for.

“Right,” I say, voice clipped. “Then let’s go back to not acknowledging each other.”

I pause. My voice almost wavers—but I hide it in sarcasm.

“I’d definitely appreciate that.”

She says nothing.

I step away from the door, giving her space.

“And if our paper gets accepted,” I add, “just send me an email. That’s all I need from you.”

That word again. Need.

I hate that I still do.

And I hate how she keeps saying obviously like we were never on the edge of something real.

I walk out before she can reply.

I don’t want to hear what comes next.

I don’t think I’d survive it.

Five steps down the hallway, my vision blurs.

And by the time I push open the stairwell door, I realize—

I feel like I’ve lost something I never even had.

But it still feels like everything.

___

Y/N's POV

The classroom door clicks shut.

Not a slam.

Just soft. Controlled.

Like he was still trying not to break something—even as I broke him.

I stay standing behind the last desk for a second.

Then my knees buckle, and I sink into the chair he just left behind, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands, heart pounding like a war drum in my chest.

He asked.

Three times.

Like he needed me to undo the silence he’s been drowning in.

And I lied.

Every time.

I said it meant nothing. That it was just tension. That we didn’t matter.

Obviously.

God, that word.

It tasted like ash every time it left my mouth.

Because every time I said it, I watched him flinch—like I was slicing open something soft and unguarded inside him.

And when he said, Then let’s go back to not acknowledging each other,—

Something inside me cracked. Loud. Final.

Because that’s the one thing I never wanted.

To disappear from his world.

To walk into this room and not catch his glance across the table.

To forget the one night where he touched me like he knew me.

But I couldn’t say any of that.

Because if I did—and he didn’t stay?

I wouldn’t recover.

So I let him go.

And now I’m alone in this empty classroom, surrounded by chairs that still echo with everyone else’s laughter, curled over the desk we once shared, crying into the sleeves of the hoodie I wore the night we kissed.

I told him we hated each other.

But I never hated him.

I was just afraid he’d stop loving me—before I was ready to love him back.

Y/N's POV:

I wasn’t going to come.

But Giselle showed up with red lipstick and threats, and Jaehyun texted a winking emoji, and somehow I found myself standing in the middle of a living room that smelled like sweat, cheap beer, and the kind of memories I’d regret in the morning.

It had been two months.

Sixty-one days of pretending I didn’t see him in class. Fifty-eight of those days he didn’t even glance at me. The other three? I caught his eyes by accident—and it felt like being hit in the ribs with a book I loved and wasn’t ready to finish.

Mark Lee.

Who once argued with me like it was foreplay and now sat in the back of Professor Jung’s class like he was auditing life itself. Like he wasn’t even trying anymore. Like everything that once lit him up had burned out quietly, leaving behind the perfect shell of someone who used to burn for books and metaphors and—God, maybe even me.

And then I saw him.

Now.

Across the room.

Sitting on the couch like he belonged there, sprawled out like some poster boy for effortless destruction. And next to him—no, on him—was Kim Ara. Model major. Perfect. Popular. Pretty in a way I could never be. All sleek hair and fake lashes and that annoying kind of laugh that made guys think they were funny.

She was on his lap.

Like that’s where she belonged.

I swallowed hard, turned away so fast my drink sloshed. It felt like someone had ripped a favorite page out of my chest.

I don’t care.

I don’t.

“Hey,” Jaehyun said, suddenly next to me. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

I smiled like I hadn’t just watched my soul sit on someone else’s lap. “Giselle dragged me.”

“Then I owe her a thank you.” His grin was warm, easy. His hand brushed my lower back. “Drink with me?”

I nodded, mostly to get the burn out of my throat that wasn’t from alcohol.

And as I downed the first shot, then a second, then a third, I didn’t look toward Mark again.

But I felt him.

I always feel him.

___

Mark's POV:

I shouldn’t be here.

But Haechan said there’d be free pizza and girls with no emotional attachments and I said “fine” before I could remind myself that I don’t care about pizza or girls or this entire God-forsaken party.

I haven’t really cared about anything since the night she looked me in the eye and told me it meant nothing.

And I believed her.

Like an idiot.

Like someone who still thought she might crack. Might text. Might chase me down in the hallway and call me a pretentious asshole just to feel something again.

She didn’t.

She laughed in class with her friends. She wore that winged eyeliner like war paint. She answered Professor Jung’s questions with that fire in her voice that used to be reserved just for me. She was fine.

And I hated her for it.

But I hated myself more—for not moving on, for not letting go, for still scanning every hallway like my heart’s trying to find her before my brain remembers she doesn’t want to be found.

So yeah.

Ara.

She’s not bad. She smells okay. She laughs too loud but she doesn’t ask for anything. She doesn’t want my mind. She doesn’t want the parts of me still bleeding. She just wants someone to sit pretty with at parties.

Fine.

I let her sit on my lap.

I let her touch my shoulder, lean in, giggle against my neck like we’re starring in some frat party cliché.

And then I see her.

Her.

Standing across the room, dressed like the kind of heartbreak you beg to ruin you. Laughing at something Jaehyun said. Or pretending to. His hand on her waist like he’s allowed to be there. Like she’s not mine.

Except she’s not.

Not anymore.

“She’s been staring at you,” Haechan says, voice low in my ear.

I glare at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

He does.

But it’s too late.

I saw her.

I saw the way she looked away like it burned. I saw the way she smiled with her mouth but not her eyes. I saw her take three shots like she was trying to kill something inside her.

And I wanted to go to her.

God, I still do.

But Ara slides back into my lap. Her arm drapes around my shoulders like she belongs here.

I don’t even know her favorite book.

I don’t even know her middle name.

She’s just a distraction.

But right now, distraction is all I have.

Because if I look at Y/N again, I might remember the way she looked at me that night when I kissed her like she was every chapter I never wanted to end.

And if I do that—

I won’t survive this party.

I won’t survive her.

___

Just when I thought it has all ended.

It started with her smirk.

Not the fake, tight-lipped one she’s worn like armor for the last two months and twenty goddamn days.

The real one.

The one I remember from classrooms and late-night cafe arguments. The one that made my heart stutter just before she said something that ruined me in the best way. It’s the smirk of someone who just found a dagger and remembered how to use it.

And then she starts walking toward me.

I shouldn’t have come to this party.

I knew it when I saw her walk in wearing black like it was armor—shoulders high, lips painted the same color as the war she was clearly ready to start.

Y/N is a thousand things. But quiet? Never her natural state.

And tonight? She’s not quiet.

She’s back.

Back with that winged eyeliner sharp enough to slice. Back with the same walk that used to make even our professors sit up straighter. Back with the smirk that says: I’ve been silent long enough. Now watch me destroy everything I touched once.

She sees me.

Or worse—she sees Ara.

And then it happens.

The smirk.

Small. Slow. Controlled chaos behind kohl-lined eyes.

She’s holding her phone, but she’s not looking at it anymore. No, she’s looking right through Ara like she’s transparent.

She starts walking.

Each step purposeful. Her drink balanced casually in one hand like it’s just another accessory. The crowd parts like it knows better. Like it’s learned what happens when Y/N is wearing that look.

Ara doesn’t notice at first. She’s still laughing, still curled around me, still performing.

And then—

“I need to talk to you, Mark.”

Her voice slices through the bass, smooth and cold as marble. She doesn’t look at me when she says it.

She doesn’t have to.

Ara straightens, like she’s suddenly remembered her territory. Her hand tightens on my shoulder. She leans in—lips brushing my skin in a performance that feels faker than anything I’ve seen all night.

“Can’t you see we’re busy?”

She purrs it, like she’s trying to be seductive and territorial all at once.

“Whatever it is can wait. Right, Mark?”

Wrong move.

Y/N turns her full attention to Ara like a spotlight zeroing in.

She blinks once—slow. Dangerous.

And smiles.

“Busy?” she repeats, as if tasting the word. “Oh, I didn’t realize being draped over someone who hasn’t said your name once tonight counted as busy.”

Ara opens her mouth. Y/N doesn’t give her the chance.

She steps in—closer. Her voice is low but clear, every syllable designed to humiliate.

“Tell me—does it bother you, being a prop?”

Gasps ripple. Haechan lets out a low whistle. No one moves.

Ara blinks. “Excuse me?”

Y/N cocks her head. The smirk widens.

“Sorry. I just assumed anyone who voluntarily sits on a guy’s lap like a glorified fanny pack must be comfortable being silent and overlooked.”

Ara stiffens. “You’re—”

Y/N cuts her off like she’s trimming fat off a weak sentence.

“—jealous?” she finishes with a sweet laugh. “God, no. If I were jealous, I’d at least be losing to someone with a functioning braincell. You’re not competition. You’re comic relief.”

Ara looks around—people are watching. Phones aren’t out, but eyes are locked. She tries again. “Mark wants me here.”

Y/N doesn’t even blink.

“Sure he does. You’re low-effort. Zero threat. The emotional equivalent of plain toast. You don’t challenge him, you compliment him—like background music at a dentist’s office.”

Ara’s face burns. Her voice rises, but wavers.

“You think you’re better than me?”

And that’s when Y/N shifts—posture straight, chin high, that terrifying calm rolling in like a thundercloud.

“I don’t think, darling. I know.”

She steps forward—just an inch—and it’s like the entire room holds its breath.

“I can dismantle your entire personality in a single paragraph. You? You couldn’t handle a complex sentence without rereading it twice. You quote Pinterest. I quote Barthes. You wear his hoodie. I rewrote his thesis.”

Ara gasps—actual, shocked inhale.

Y/N leans in a fraction, voice low enough only the front row hears.

“And for the record? That’s not his hoodie.”

She lets that hang.

“I gave it to him. After I ruined him.”

Ara jolts back.

Visibly shaken. Unsteady.

She looks at me like I’m going to save her.

I don’t.

Because I can’t stop looking at her.

Y/N stands there—composed, cruel, unapologetically brilliant.

This isn’t jealousy.

It’s war.

Ara’s eyes water. She mutters something under her breath, but no one hears it.

She turns.

She runs.

Actually runs.

The party exhales.

And Y/N?

She straightens her jacket or more like Jungwoo's jacket over her dress.

Tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

And finally—finally—looks at me.

Her eyes are unreadable. Voice emotionless.

“I’m only telling you this because you asked me to let you know if our paper got accepted.”

No sarcasm now.

No smile.

Just the truth.

“It got in.”

A beat.

“Figured you’d want to know.”

She turns before I can speak. Her heels clicking once, twice, gone.

And I’m left sitting there—

Hollowed out.

Burning.

Wanting.

Wondering how I let the one girl who could destroy the whole room…

become the only one who could undo me.

Y/N's POV:

I slammed the door behind me and leaned against it, breathing hard.

“What the hell did I just do?”

That wasn’t professionalism. That wasn’t about the paper. That was me, marching into a party and roasting Ara like she was a freshman MLA citation.

I sank onto the couch, kicking off my heels. My head was buzzing—half alcohol, half adrenaline, and all regret wrapped in sarcasm. God, that was badass, sure, but it was also insane. Two months of avoiding each other and I just used a damn acceptance email as an excuse to eviscerate his lap ornament?

I groaned into my hands.

He didn’t even say anything. Not a word. Or maybe—I didn’t let him. Maybe I steamrolled him on purpose, so he wouldn’t see how much it hurt. How much she being on his lap hurt.

I mean, what was I supposed to do? Smile? Shake her hand? Ask how she felt being a glorified armrest?

No.

I stood up, trying to pace the frustration out of my body, when—

A knock.

I froze.

No. No way.

But I knew it was him before I opened the door.

I open the door.

Because of course I do.

Because I’m weak and stupid and still half-hearing the echo of my own voice from the party.

And there he is.

Mark Lee.

Standing in my doorway like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

He doesn’t say hi. Doesn’t blink.

Just steps in.

And locks the door behind him like this is his fucking place.

Click.

He doesn’t even face me right away. He stands there for a second, back to me, like he’s gathering whatever scraps of restraint he still has left.

And when he finally turns—

His voice is low and furious.

“You don’t get to fucking say it didn’t mean anything,” he snaps, “and act like you own me.”

I stiffen. My arms cross on instinct. A shield. A trap.

“I don’t act like I own you.”

“Bull. Shit.”

He steps closer. Just one. But it feels like a threat. Or a dare.

“You walk into that party like a headline and glare at any girl near me like she’s infringing on your property.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Someone had to save your lap from her foundation stains.”

“Oh, you cared about what was on my lap?”

His voice is dangerous now. That smugness he wears like armor is gone. This is bare. Real.

And I hate how much it turns me on.

“I don’t care,” I lie.

“Then stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re seconds away from either hitting me or fucking me.”

That stops me.

My lips part but nothing comes out. He sees it. He feeds on it.

“What was it then, huh?” he snaps. “That night in this apartment. That kiss. That fucking kiss.”

I grit my teeth.

“It was a moment. Nothing more.”

“It was everything.”

“No,” I say, harsher now. “It was tension. That’s all. A disjointed moment.”

“You kissed me like you wanted to burn the world down,” he says. “And then you locked the door in my face.”

I feel heat rise in my throat.

I stay silent.

Because what can I say? That I still think about it? That I can’t walk past the goddamn bookcase without remembering the press of his mouth and the line he whispered about reading the filth out loud?

No.

So I give him the only lie I have left.

“You don’t mean anything to me.”

His jaw flexes.

And then he laughs—cold, low, twisted.

“Then tell your body that.”

He steps into me.

His hand reaches for my waist. Fingers skim fabric. Just a graze. But my body shudders like it’s been starved.

“Tell me you don’t mean it while I do this,” he murmurs, thumb sliding over my stomach, “and your breath hitches like I’ve got you on strings.”

I don’t respond.

Because my throat’s dry and my thighs are clenched and this is getting dangerous.

His hand glides higher.

“Do you touch yourself to that night?” he asks again—voice wrecked now, too dark, too deep.

“Do you lie in bed and remember how I had you pinned against this wall, how I said I’d read every filthy line out loud while my mouth was on your throat?”

His palm cups my breast.

I gasp—despite myself.

“You want me to stop?” he whispers.

Silence.

His thumb rolls over my nipple through the thin fabric of my dress.

I should say yes.

I don’t.

Because I can’t.

Because he’s right—I do remember that night. Every breath. Every stutter. Every heat-drenched second before my brother knocked.

His mouth finds my neck.

Not a kiss.

A bite. Wet and hot and possessive.

“You said it meant nothing,” he says. “But you never stopped me.”

“I didn’t want to make a scene.”

“Bullshit. You wanted to make a mess.” He licks the shell of my ear. “And baby, I would’ve made you fucking ruin your panties that night.”

I moan—low. Weak.

My head thuds back against the wall.

His other hand slides under the hem of my dress, pushing higher.

“You want to know what I would’ve done?” he growls, right at my ear. “I would’ve dropped to my knees, pulled your pretty little panties to the side, and eaten you until you were shaking.”

His fingers find the damp heat between my thighs.

“You would’ve grabbed that bookcase like it was a lifeline while I sucked your clit and tongue-fucked you slow. No mercy. Just mouth and moans and mess.”

His grip tightens. He palms me through my soaked underwear.

“You think I didn’t feel it?” he hisses. “You were so fucking wet right? You wanted it. You still fucking want it.”

I shake my head.

Lie. Lie. Lie.

“You mean nothing,” I whisper.

His laugh is brutal.

“Then why the fuck are you grinding into my hand?”

I am.

I don’t know when it started.

But I’m rolling my hips, soft and desperate, into his palm like I’m begging for it.

“Say it again,” he dares.

I don’t.

Because my lies don’t hold anymore.

Because he’s touching me and I’m dripping and everything I’ve tried to bury is alive between my legs and his filthy fucking words.

I tell him he means nothing.

And he laughs. Like that lie tastes sweet coming from my mouth.

Then he palms my pussy through my panties, slow and warm and firm.

“No,” he whispers, eyes dragging down my body. “This says otherwise.”

His whole hand cups me—his fingers sliding gently back and forth like he’s petting it. Like he’s learning it.

“You’re soaked. Fucking dripping. And all I did was walk in and say your name.”

He rubs slowly, up and down, pressing his palm flat against my clit through the soaked fabric, watching me try not to react.

“You feel that?” he murmurs. “How messy you are for me?”

He groans softly.

“I could get off just on this—just touching this perfect cunt through your ruined little panties.”

I whimper. My hips tilt up into his hand, my legs clenching like I can hold onto what’s left of me.

He leans in again.

And then—his other hand goes to my chest.

“These,” he mutters, gripping one of my breasts through my dress. “You’ve been hiding these like I wouldn’t fucking notice.”

He palms it roughly, squeezing until I gasp.

“You wore this dress to that party just to piss me off, didn’t you?”

He yanks the neckline down, almost spilling me into his hand.

“Fucking perfect,” he groans, pinching my nipple over my bra between his fingers. Then his mouth is there, like he doesn't care about the barrier.

Hot. Wet. Worshipping.

Sucking it hard, licking it like he’s punishing me with every flick of his tongue.

He pulls off.

“Tell me I don’t matter while I’ve got my mouth on your tits.”

I can’t.

I’m trembling.

He kisses down my body—every inch, every curve—and then drops to his knees, like he’s meant to be there.

He pulls my panties aside and pets me again.

Two fingers part my folds and he stares.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes. “Look at that pussy. Shiny and swollen like it’s begging for my tongue.”

Then his fingers glide through it—up, down, spreading me open like he’s reading something he never wants to forget.

“You’re so wet it’s dripping down your thighs.”

He leans in—and spits. Right on my clit.

I moan. High. Broken.

He spreads it in with his thumb, circling slow, then fast, teasing until I’m shaking.

“You like being played with like this?” he asks. “Touched like a needy fucking toy?”

His tongue finally presses to me.

One long, slow drag from my entrance to my clit.

And then—he dives in.

He devours.

Licks my clit like it’s his job—sucking, flicking, tongue lapping until I’m gasping his name and digging my fingers into his hair.

His hands grip my thighs tight. Pull me forward. Spread me wider.

“Fucking grind on it,” he growls between licks. “Rub this pretty pussy on my face like the filthy little thing you are.”

I do.

I ride it.

I roll my hips against his tongue because I can’t fucking stop. His nose bumps my clit as he tongue-fucks me, and I moan—sharp, loud, shameful.

“You’re gonna come in my mouth,” he says, sucking my clit so hard I almost cry. “Right now. Just like this. Fucking drench me.”

And I do.

I come hard. Shaking. Crying out.

My whole body spasms as he keeps licking me through it, groaning like he can’t get enough, like he needs everything I give.

When I finally stop shaking, he pulls back.

His mouth glistens. His eyes are wild.

And he just smirks.

“Still think I don’t matter?”

____

Mark's POV:

She’s still gasping when I pull back from between her legs.

My mouth’s soaked with her. My jaw aches. My tongue’s twitching.

But I can’t stop staring.

I’ve waited months for this—months of pretending, avoiding, locking eyes from across rooms and pretending we didn’t mean that kiss.

And now?

Now she’s trembling, lips parted, legs spread wide and twitching from the orgasm I pulled out of her like a confession.

Still wearing that tight fucking dress.

Still trying to hold on to her dignity.

I’m done letting her.

I stand. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My cock’s hard as stone behind my jeans, throbbing with every pulse of blood screaming her name.

And I look at her.

“We’re not done.”

I don’t give her time to speak.

I scoop her up into my arms and she gasps—soft, startled—but she clings to me.

Good girl.

I carry her down the short hallway like she’s mine. Because right now, she is.

I shoulder open the door to her room.

And I see it.

Her bed.

Her books, the remaining books that are not in that bookshelf in the hall.

That stupid little stack of dog-eared paperbacks by the lamp—spines bent, margins full of notes.

I smirk.

Because this is her shrine. Her real self.

And she’s about to get fucked in the middle of it.

I drop her on the mattress—carefully, but not gently.

She bounces once. Legs still open. Hair fanned out. Eyes locked on me like she doesn’t know whether to run or beg.

I move over her—slow. Controlled.

Hands on either side of her head.

I lean down, lips brushing her jaw.

“You kept those books by your bed.”

She doesn’t respond.

I kiss down to her neck.

“You lie here every night with those filthy scenes three inches from your pillow, don’t you?”

Her body tenses.

Good.

“You annotated them, baby.”

I kiss her shoulder. “You underlined the scenes where he fingers her under the desk. Where he ruins her in the library.”

Another kiss. Lower.

“You remember what I said that night?” I murmur. “About reading those lines out loud? Making you feel every one?”

I sit back on my knees.

“Take the dress off.”

She hesitates.

"Stop me now if you don't want this." I say but she doesn't stop me.

So I grab the hem and do it for her.

I drag it up her body—slow, teasing—exposing smooth skin, flushed curves, and the lacy black bra she wore to taunt me tonight.

She’s breathless already. And I haven’t even touched her tits yet.

I toss the dress to the floor and press my palm between her legs again—over her soaked panties.

“Still dripping.”

She whines—faint, helpless.

My other hand slides up, over her stomach, between her breasts, then curls around the lace covering one perfect tit.

“You wore this for me.”

I drag the cup down.

Her breast spills out and I groan.

“Fuck.”

I cup it. Squeeze. Then lean down and suck her nipple into my mouth.

Hot. Wet. Worshipful.

I bite it. She moans.

“You like being touched like a fucking goddess, don’t you?”

I move to the other one. Repeat it. Rougher.

Her hips twitch under my hand.

I pull her panties to the side and run two fingers through her folds—slow and warm.

So fucking wet.

“But I know what you really want,” I growl, pulling away just enough to look her dead in the eye.

“You want to be worshipped and ruined. You want to be treated like something precious while I fuck you like a dirty little whore.”

She gasps.

I press a finger into her—easy.

Then another.

She clamps around me instantly.

I fuck her slow with them, curling them just right.

Her eyes flutter.

“You needed this, didn’t you?” I whisper. “Not just someone to fuck you. Someone to understand you.”

I press my lips to hers.

Just once.

Then pull back.

“Say yes.”

“Y-yes.”

I smirk.

I pull my shirt over my head, watching her eyes drop to my chest, my stomach, lower.

Unbutton my jeans. Push them down.

My cock slaps against my abs—angry red, leaking, twitching for her.

Her mouth falls open.

I climb over her.

Line up.

Rub the head against her clit.

“This is what those books were leading to,” I murmur. “Not slow kisses. Not confessions. Just this—me, in your bed, about to ruin you for everyone else.”

I push the head in—just enough for her body to react.

And it does.

She shudders beneath me like my cock is plugged into her nervous system.

Her legs tighten around my waist. Her hands clutch the sheets. Her lips part in a gasp I want to own.

But I don’t move.

Not yet.

I want her to feel this. Every stretched, aching second of it.

“You ready?”

She nods—breathless.

“Say it.”

“I want you,” she whispers.

I push in—slow. Measured. An inch at a time.

“Fuuuck.” I groan through gritted teeth. “You feel that?”

I lean down, panting in her ear.

“This pussy’s hugging me like it’s been waiting for months.”

I bottom out—completely buried—and she moans like I’ve punched the air from her lungs.

But I don’t move.

I just grind.

Deep, slow circles with my hips that make her shake.

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” I whisper. “You’re gonna feel me first.”

She claws at my back.

I pull out halfway—just to slam back in.

She screams.

And that’s when I start to fuck her.

Hard. Deep. Rhythmic. Relentless.

But not fast.

I keep the pace slow and devastating—designed to make her feel everything.

Designed to make her beg for the speed she thinks she can handle.

“You’re gonna come before I even give you what you want,” I growl. “That’s how badly this cunt needs me.”

I reach between us. Thumb to her clit. Rub in slow, tight circles.

She moans.

Her walls start fluttering.

Tight. Hot. Perfect.

“Oh my god—Mark—I—”

“That’s it,” I pant. “Come on it. Cream all over this cock. Show me what I’ve been missing while you pretended I didn’t matter.”

And she does.

She fucking does.

She comes—loud, messy, clenching around me so hard I have to stop moving just to breathe through it.

But I don’t stop.

“That’s two now.”

I shift. “Get on your hands and knees.”

She doesn’t even argue.

She turns, shaking, breathless, hair falling over her shoulders like a curtain.

I grab her hips and slam back in.

This angle?

I feel everything.

Her walls grip me like she wants to keep me.

I reach around, grab a handful of her tit, bounce it in my palm, then slap it.

She whines.

“Still pretending I don’t mean anything?”  thrusting harder. “Still lying to yourself while you take this cock like a trained little slut?”

She shakes her head.

Good girl.

“You’re gonna come again.”

She gasps.

“From the back. No clit. Just this cock and my voice.”

I lean down. “You think I can’t make that happen?"

I slam into her again.

And again.

Until the moans turn into whimpers.

Until she’s dripping, shaking, thighs clenching like she’s trying not to break.

And then—

She comes.

Harder.

Legs collapsing. Arms shaking.

I don’t stop.

I drag her up by her back. Press her against my chest. Hand around her throat—gentle, not tight—just there.

“You’re mine now,” I whisper. “You gave this to me. Every sound. Every squeeze. Every orgasm.”

She moans.

I drop her back onto the bed and hover over her.

“You want one more?”

She nods. Weak. Ruined.

I grip her thighs. Spread her wide. Slam back in and fuck her like I’m trying to carve my name inside her.

My pace turns brutal.

Sloppy. Desperate. Unforgiving.

"I'll pull out" I assure her

"No, don't.....I'm on the pill." She says.

"Fuck, you are the bane of my existence." I mutter

She moans louder.

And I do.

I thrust one last time and explode.

Cock twitching, cum spilling deep inside her while her body trembles through a third orgasm.

We collapse.

Sticky. Messy. Full.

Because she deserved nothing less.

_____

Y/N's POV:

His body is still half-tangled in mine, breath heavy against my skin, chest rising and falling like the last lines of a poem he doesn’t want to end.

We’re both quiet.

Not the awkward kind. Not the what-did-we-just-do kind.

The kind of silence that crackles—like a storm left humming in the air.

Like if we speak, something sacred might break.

I feel his fingers slide across my thigh—barely a touch, more like a trace.

Like he’s still making sure I’m real.

And maybe I am, for the first time.

I’m lying next to Mark Lee, both of us undone, clothes forgotten at the foot of the bed, the room smelling like sweat and want and overdue honesty. My head rests against his shoulder, our legs brushing like they forgot they used to be on opposite sides of every argument.

His hand settles on my hip, fingers splayed like a reluctant claim.

And I whisper it.

So soft I’m not sure it leaves my mouth at first.

“Stay.”

I feel him stiffen, just slightly. A breath held. A pause in the universe.

He turns his head, lips ghosting the edge of my hair. “What?”

I keep my eyes on the ceiling.

It’s safer than his face.

“I said… stay,” I repeat, quieter this time. “Just… stay tonight.”

For a moment, I think he’ll ask why. Push. Tease.

He doesn’t.

He shifts beside me, pulls the blanket over both of us, and breathes out like he’s been holding that yes in for years.

And then—he stays.

No words. No questions. No expectations.

Just his arm wrapping around me.

My back against his chest.

His breath against the crook of my neck.

And it’s terrifying how good it feels.

Not the sex.

Not the chemistry or the kiss or the way he knows how to press his mouth just under my jaw like it’s a secret he’s coaxing out of me.

This.

This stillness.

This warmth.

This feeling of belonging, like he’s not just in my bed, but in the spaces I’ve locked up for too long.

And as I drift off, heart full and fluttering, I think—

Maybe I won’t mess this up.

Maybe I’ll let myself have something good.

Maybe.

___

When I wake up, the bed is still warm, but he’s not there.

The space beside me is empty, the covers half-pulled back like he tried not to wake me. Like he slipped out quietly, like it's his turn to run away from me.

My heart drops before my brain can catch up. I sit up, scan the room. No shoes. No shirt. No Mark.

For a second, I think—of course. Of course he left.

But then I see it.

A folded piece of paper under my phone.

I open it slowly, half-expecting some apology, or worse, some goodbye.

But it’s just a location pin and five words:

“Meet me here. Please come.”

No explanation.

No overthinking.

Just him.

I read it three times.

Then I set the paper down like it’s fragile. Like it might disappear if I blink too hard.

And for once, I don’t panic. I don’t hide behind sarcasm. I don’t ghost him before he can ghost me.

I get up.

And I dress like it matters.

Not in armor.

Not in black hoodies and tired jeans.

In something soft. Something honest.

A long cream dress that hugs me just enough to make me feel like poetry. A cardigan he once called “pretentious grandma chic” because I wore it during a presentation on Woolf. A dab of perfume behind my ears. Just enough makeup to draw on my confidence—but no eyeliner wings tonight.

Just me.

Raw.

Vulnerable.

Wanting.

By the time I step out into the early evening air, the sun is slanting low, casting the city in gold.

And I walk like I’m walking into a story I haven’t read the ending of.

Y/N's POV:

The location is like something out of a forgotten book.

Like a tucked-away garden behind the old Veritas Bookstore. Faded brick paths, a wrought-iron bench, ivy curling up the edges like it’s trying to listen in.

And he’s there.

White button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Brown pants that hang soft at his hips. Hands tucked into his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

He looks up.

And the moment he sees me—he smiles.

Not the smug, infuriating grin I know by heart.

Not the smirk he wore the time we debated Kafka and fate.

This one is different.

Soft. Awed. Like I’m the final line of a poem he’s been trying to write.

I don’t say anything at first. Just stand there, feeling the air between us stretch and hold.

He steps closer. Not too close. Just enough.

And then:

“You came,” he says, voice quiet.

I nod.

“Why this place?” I ask.

He shrugs, a little sheepish. “You said once you wanted to write your thesis somewhere that felt like a secret. I found it last month. Thought maybe you’d let me read my confession here.”

I laugh. Just once. But it cracks something open in my chest.

He takes a breath.

And then he speaks.

“Listen to me. I’ve run enough. Or maybe I’ve let you run from me enough times. I’m done with that now. What happened between us—it’s not just tension or mistakes or whatever we keep pretending it is. It meant everything to me.”

He steps forward, just slightly, voice roughening.

“You don’t know how you make me feel. How I annotate your existence like it’s the only way I know how to stay alive. I annotate the curve of your smile when you know you’re about to verbally destroy someone. I annotate your silences—especially the ones filled with meaning. I even annotate your fucking eyeliner. The way it slants, the way it slices. I never knew I could love a goddamn winged liner until you.”

I feel my throat tighten.

He goes on, eyes never leaving mine.

“I annotate everything you are. Every time you looked at me like I was a challenge, every moment your pen hovered like a weapon. And that kiss? I think I have annotated it into my eyes, every time I close my eyes that's the only thing I see. It’s still playing on loop in my head. Like it’s the only scene I’ll ever need to remember to know what truth feels like.”

He laughs, almost nervously.

“I think I’ve become Darcy. Except more annoying.”

I bite my lip. The ache is blooming in my chest now, sharp and familiar.

“I like you, Y/N. Too much. Even if you say you hate me. Even if it kills me. Because I want you. But more than that—I want you to want me.”

I look at him.

And he’s standing there like a question I’ve been too afraid to answer.

So I do.

“I hate you,” I say, voice trembling.

He flinches. But not much.

Just enough to show it still hits.

“I know,” he whispers. “But I wish it meant something else.”

I take a breath.

And I let go.

“What if it does?” I say. “What if it means I hate how much I want to annotate you and your soul now? Your voice. Your stupid jokes. Your insufferable need to be right. Your kindness that you try to hide behind sarcasm. What if I already have?”

He stares at me.

Like I said Poe is alive and quoting Plato.

And I keep going. Because I can’t stop.

“Mark—I’m not good at this. I’m not easy. I run. I ghost. I make a mess. But last night, when you stayed or when I asked you to stay. That mattered.”

I pause.

“You mattered.”

A beat.

And then I say the hardest thing:

“I want to try. Not just the paper. Not just the late nights and the bickering and the café tables. Us. I want to try… us."

And he doesn’t speak.

He just pulls me into his arms like he’s been holding space for me all along.

And I let myself fall into him.

For once—not running. Not overthinking.

Just staying.

____

Days had passed. Somehow, we’d slipped into this new version of us—softer, less sharp-edged, still witty, still dangerous, but... warmer.

I spot him from across the field.

Mark Lee. Laughing at something Haechan said, head tilted back, hair a mess, white tee sticking to his chest in the sun.

Jeno's tossing a water bottle to Jisung, Chenle’s dribbling aggressively like the basketball personally insulted his family, and Renjun is making the exact face of someone regretting being friends with all of them.

And there he is.

Mine.

Mark sees me, and his smile spreads—like it’s involuntary. Like it’s for me and only me.

I don’t bother slowing down.

I just walk right into his arms, my head against his chest, his chin resting lightly on top of mine as he presses a kiss to my forehead.

“Ewww,” Haechan groans. “Do that in private. Or like… not at all.”

“Ruined anyone else today?” Mark asks, voice smug and amused.

“Not yet,” I murmur against his shirt. “But the day is young.”

He chuckles, arms still tight around me. “That’s my girl.”

“Okay, I’m gonna vomit in my shoe,” Jeno mutters.

Mark ignores them, pulling a crumpled envelope from his back pocket.

“Oh—speaking of ruining lives… our certificate came.”

I blink. “Wait, seriously?”

He nods. “Fresh off. We’re officially Published Academic Intellectuals now.”

“Oh, so the world is really not ready,” I grin.

“Nice,” Renjun says dryly. “Two enemies-to-lovers becoming a published duo. It’s like watching a fanfic unfold in real time.”

“Enough,” Chenle cuts in, walking up to us. “We’re all exhausted from watching you two circle each other like emotionally constipated philosophers. Honestly, it was hilarious. And tragic. Hilariously tragic. Tragicomedy, really.”

“Says the one who’s still hung up on his childhood friend,” Mark shoots back without missing a beat.

Chenle immediately raises a hand. “We are not speaking about that.”

Jaemin leans in with a grin. “Can we please speak about the way Y/N eviscerated that poor girl at the party? That was art. Like, Shakespeare would’ve cried.”

“I don’t know about art,” I shrug, but I’m smiling. “Maybe just… poetic justice.”

“You said she was background music at a dentist’s office,” Jisung reminds me. “I’ve never been so scared and so entertained.”

“She brought it on herself,” I say. “By sitting on my thesis partner.”

Mark smirks. “Possessive. Hot.”

“Down, literature boy.”

Jaemin fake-swoons. “God, you guys are so romantic. I hope you crash and burn.”

“Thanks, Jaem. Your support means nothing.”

There’s a beat of comfortable silence, the kind that settles among people who know too much about each other but love each other anyway.

Then I glance at Mark.

“I’m really curious about something,” I say slowly, like I’m unwrapping a question that’s been sitting on my tongue, just to annoy the guys.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

I lean in. “Was it the eyeliner? Or the annotated Kafka rants? What finally broke you?”

Mark grins. “Oh, that’s easy. It was the moment you told me Gatsby wasn’t doomed, just dumb. I fell right there.”

“Tragic. I really thought it was the pen-chewing.”

“That too. Honestly, I was gone the second you glared at me like I’d misquoted Woolf.”

Chenle groans. “Can someone please bring me earplugs and a reason to live?”

“Just be glad they’re not debating footnotes mid-makeout anymore,” Haechan says, shuddering. “We’re all traumatized.”

___

Mark's POV:

The library’s colder than I remember. Maybe it’s the lighting. Or maybe it’s because I’m with her, and everything feels too damn significant now.

We walk past the Eliot section.

She says nothing, but I catch the faintest upward curve of her lips when her eyes glance over The Waste Land.

Of course she remembers.

We reach the reference shelves. She grabs Understanding Literary Theory at the same moment I reach for The Companion to Modernism.

Our hands brush.

She doesn’t look up.

But I do.

I watch her.

The way her fingers move along the spine of the book like they’re tracing history. The way her lashes lower just slightly when she knows I’m watching.

God.

She’s unreal.

I say it before I can stop myself.

“I think I really am siding with free will now.”

She blinks. Finally looks up. “What?”

I take a breath.

“Choosing really matters. I used to think fate had everything figured out, you know? That maybe if I didn’t act, the universe would. That if we were meant to be, we would be, eventually.”

She tilts her head. Curious. Open.

So I keep going.

“But that was bullshit. You don’t get people like you by waiting. You choose them. You risk it. You screw it up. You learn how to deserve them.”

She watches me now with something unreadable behind her eyes.

And then—

“Too bad, Mark Lee,” she murmurs, stepping closer, “because now I believe in fate.”

I blink.

She clutches the book tighter to her chest. Like it’s armor. Or proof.

“From the moment you wouldn’t shut up about Eliot in freshman year… to every debate we’ve ever had. I think all of it—every paper, every fight, every sideways glance—was fate. Maybe you were always meant to be mine.”

I think something in me breaks open at that.

Or maybe heals.

“Didn’t know you could say things like that,” I whisper.

She smiles.

And I can't help it.

I lean in and kiss her. Right there. Between post-structuralist theory and feminist criticism. Soft, slow. Like time paused just to watch.

She leans into it.

And in that moment, I’m not thinking about fate or free will or deadlines or grades or what we’re going to be five years from now.

I’m just thinking about her.

___

Y/N's POV:

Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.

Free will or fate.

I think I want both of them to end up giving me you.

And guess it did.

End

Author's note:

Okay guys… here it goes—the first footnote of Turn the Page to Us. This series was originally supposed to be pure fluff with some simmering sexual tension. I never intended to write smut in this… but the tension got way too out of hand and, well. Here we are.

This is my first time writing smut ever, so please bear with me. I genuinely didn’t know I had this in me, and now I think I need to go outside and touch some grass.

If you’re planning to read the other footnotes in this series, let me know—should I keep adding smut? Or should I go back to fluff with light tension? I want to know what you guys vibe with.

Thanks for reading and spiraling with me.

[himasgod]

NRC STAFF AND YUU

Where they find out that Yuu is self-harming

I was going to add a warning and a lil comf message as always in this type of fanfics, but I think annonie explains it pretty well <3

responding to this request

It was Grim who approached him—nervously, voice urgent.

“You gotta talk to Yuu, Professor. They’ve been… off. They flinch when I get too loud, and the other day I saw bandages I know weren’t there before. I don’t get it… why would they do that?”

Crewel paused.

He had graded over fifty exams last night, scolded a third-year for exploding a cauldron... But that one sentence stopped everything.

He didn't scold Grim. He didn't panic. He nodded once and said,

“Thank you for telling me. You did the right thing, pup.”

That night, Crewel stayed up researching.

He was poring through psychology journals. His brow furrowed as he read about pain, coping mechanisms, and invisible wounds.

The next morning, he requested Yuu stay after class. Not in front of the others—he simply handed them a folded slip during potion lab, saying, “Come see me after last bell. No rush.”

When Yuu arrived, they looked uneasy, shoulders high with tension.

“I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“No. Sit. Please.”

They did, eyes darting to the ingredients shelf, then to the floor. Crewel sat across from them, hands folded on his desk, voice softer than they’d ever heard it.

“Grim spoke to me.”

Yuu froze. Crewel continued gently.

“He’s worried about you. And now, so am I.”

Silence. Yuu’s throat tightened.

“I’m sorry—” they blurted, eyes starting to burn.

“I didn’t want anyone to know— I was just— I didn’t know how else to deal with everything and—”

“Stop.”

Not a harsh command. Crewel stood and walked around the desk. He knelt beside them, one gloved hand hovering over their shaky hands .

“You have nothing to apologize for. Pain is not a moral failure. It doesn’t make you shameful. It makes you human.”

Yuu’s breath hitched.

“I’m not here to fix you. I can’t wave a magical pen and erase what you’ve felt. But I can promise you this: you’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”

He rose, placed a hand over his heart.

“You’re a part of this college. My student. And I take care of what’s mine.”

From then on, Crewel didn’t hover—but he checked in.

When Yuu looked withdrawn in class, he’d ask them to help sort ingredients. I

f they were dissociating, he’d say, “Mind walking with me to the greenhouse?”

Small tasks that let them breathe.

And he never pushed. Never pried.

Only left the door open—always open.

Crowley had a knack for dramatics. He thrived on being the center of the room.

But when Grim nervously shuffled into his office one rainy afternoon and said, “I think Yuu’s in trouble,” the headmage's feathers metaphorically dropped.

He didn't say a word at first. Just listened.

Later, he knocked on Ramshackle’s door himself.

Yuu answered, surprised. “Headmage?”

He took off his mask.

“May I come in?”

They blinked.

Crowley never took off his mask.

Never.

Crowley stood in the entryway.

“I hear you’ve been struggling. And before you say anything—I’m not here as your headmage.”

He placed the mask gently on a dusty table.

“I’m here as someone who once felt like a ghost too.”

Yuu swallowed hard.

“I know it’s hard, adjusting to this place,” he continued. “You’ve had to survive here without magic, without family, without answers. And you’ve done it all without a safety net.”

His voice wavered.

“Perhaps I should’ve given you one sooner.”

Yuu stared at him. Crowley’s eyes, usually behind his mask, were steady.

“Can I show you something?” he asked.

He led them to a storage room near the staff quarters. There, behind old uniforms and spell books, was a small chest. He opened it.

Inside were journals.

Dozens of them, worn at the edges.

“I wrote these when I was your age. A long, long, long.... long time ago.” he said quietly.

“When I didn’t understand the world, or my place in it. When I thought maybe… the world would be better off without me.”

Yuu’s breath caught.

“You’re not weak for needing help,” he said, turning to them. “You’re wise for accepting it.”

From then on, when he saw them anxious in a hallway, he didn’t sweep them away with flair.

He’d tap their shoulder, whisper, “There’s tea in my office. Let’s get some air.”

And on days when Yuu couldn’t speak at all, Crowley would sit beside them in silence. No mask. Just himself.

In time, Yuu came to understand that even the loudest voices sometimes scream just to be heard.

And Crowley?

He’d make sure Yuu never had to scream alone again.

It started with a quiet knock on the side door of Mystery Shop one evening after lights-out.

“Hey, little imp,” he said without turning around“Didn’t expect you tonight.”

But when Yuu stepped inside, their energy wasn’t curious about the items. It was heavy.

Sam finally looked over, smile fading as he saw their eyes red rimmed, hands tucked in their sleeves.

“Something happened?”

“I relapsed.”

Sam didn’t recoil, didn’t gasp.

He just set down the crystal orb he’d been polishing and stepped out from behind the counter.

“Come sit,” he said gently, guiding them to the little seating nook near the incense shelf. “Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t know,” Yuu whispered. “I just—Grim told the others, and everyone’s being kind, but I feel like I’m broken again. Like I failed.”

Sam reached over and pulled a tiny wooden box from a shelf behind him.

“Know what this is?” he asked, resting it in their lap.

Yuu shook their head.

“This box came from a spirit walker in the Scalding Sands. It’s over four hundred years old,” Sam explained. “Used to carry healing charms, notes of love, little promises folks made to themselves when they were hurting.”

He opened it slowly.

Inside were slips of folded paper—some new, some brittle with age.

Sam added one more—his own. He held it out to Yuu.

“Write one. Anything you want. Doesn’t have to be big. Could be: ‘I want to breathe tomorrow.’ Or: ‘I want to see the sun.’”

Yuu stared, then shakily took the pen.

After a long pause, they wrote:

“I want to believe I’ll be okay again.”

Sam tucked it inside the box, sealed it, and whispered, “Now it’s kept safe. No refunds, no backsies. That promise is real now.”

Yuu smiled weakly.

From that night forward, Sam always had a space open at the back of the shop.

If Yuu was overwhelmed in class, they’d sometimes find a handmade “delivery” waiting in their dorm room: a spell charm for calm dreams, a candle, or a simple note that read:

“Healing ain’t linear. But I’ve seen how stubborn you are. You’ll get there.”

Professor Trein stood at the front, chalk still in hand, yet his eyes had wandered from the blackboard.

He watched Yuu—slumped at their desk, shoulders taut, eyes unfocused. Not bored. Not distracted. Disassociated.

Lucius had already leapt from his desk perch and was weaving around Yuu’s chair. Trein set the chalk down.

“Yuu,” he said calmly, “Could you assist me in the archive room for a moment?”

There was no reason to doubt the request. It was casual enough.

No alarm in his tone. No heads turned. Yuu nodded numbly, rising without protest as the class barely took notice.

Trein’s pace was slow as he led them to a quiet hall—far from noise.

He closed the door behind them.

“Would you like to sit?” he offered, pulling out a chair from a reading desk.

Yuu did. But their gaze remained lowered.

Trein sat across from them, hands folded.

“There are lessons one cannot find in any curriculum,” he began, “Lessons about how to exist in a world that often refuses to make space for our pain.”

Silence.

“You don’t need to speak right away. I only ask that you listen.”

Yuu nodded once—just enough to let him know they were still with him.

“I’ve seen the signs,” he said. “The trembling. The vacant stares. The way your hands fidget when you believe no one is watching.”

“I want you to know I do not pity you. Pity can be shallow and cruel. What I feel is respect.”

Yuu looked up, confused.

“It takes strength to face each day knowing you’re at war with your own thoughts. It takes courage to survive when the world you knew has been torn from you and replaced with a place that doesn’t always feel real.”

Trein continued, “Grim came to me out of concern. And I assure you, Yuu… there is no shame in stumbling during recovery. Only in believing you must do it alone.”

Lucius jumped into Yuu’s lap then, curling up. Yuu slowly let a hand drift to stroke his back.

Trein gave a faint smile.

“Even Lucius knows who needs grounding.”

He then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bound notebook—aged but blank.

“This is for you. Write what hurts. What confuses you. Or write nothing at all. You may tear out the pages, burn them, or never show a soul. But sometimes, the mind cannot quiet until its burdens are given a place to rest.”

Yuu took it gently.

Down the road, Trein never hovered. But he always noticed.

If Yuu’s answers in class were shorter than usual, he’d adjust the lesson pace. If he saw their breathing stutter when voices around grew loud, he’d assign a solo reading task and lead the others elsewhere—shielding them with normalcy.

“Oi! You’re not gettin’ out of PE that easy!”

Yuu had hoped to sneak past the training field.

But Vargas spotted them with that hawk gaze of his and jogged over, waving enthusiastically.

They braced for a lecture about attendance, but he paused as he got closer.

“You okay?” he asked—less gruffly than usual.

Yuu tried to shrug it off, but Vargas tilted his head.

“I know I ain’t always the most gentle guy. But I do notice when one of my students looks like they’re carryin’ a boulder on their back.”

He crossed his arms.

“You wanna go for a walk?”

Yuu blinked. “You’re not gonna make me run laps?”

“Nope. Today we walk. Slowly. No sweat.”

So they did—around the track, where Vargas usually shouted drills.

His voice was calm, explaining how, even in physical training, injuries sometimes come from inside.

“Used to have a friend back in my rookie days,” he said. “Tough guy. Strong as hell. But he had demons in his head that none of us could see.”

He glanced at Yuu.

“Pain ain’t just broken bones and bruises. You can be fightin’ for your life, and no one will know unless they look close enough.”

Yuu swallowed. “I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“You didn’t,” Vargas said, dead serious. “You’re still standin’. You showed up today. That takes guts.”

They stopped near the bleachers, and Vargas handed them something—a pair of weight gloves.

“These are yours now, not for lifting. Not for workouts. Just a reminder. You’re stronger than you think.”

From then on, Vargas kept an eye on them.

If Yuu’s breathing quickened during group drills, he’d subtly call a “water break.” If they looked spaced out, he’d shout, “Hey! Wanna time me on the sprint?”

[anim-ttrpgs]

Is it possible to use Eureka in a more traditional fantasy setting, more sword and sorcery? What about a fantastical medieval city from the time period of the rise of universities in Europe?

Very much appreciate all the posts. It's made me think more carefully about table top gaming than I had before.

Well, maybe, but I wouldn’t recommend it.

There’s quite a lot in Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy that sets it very firmly in the tech level and societal structure of the past 200 years. It is designed to be flexible, but I don’t know that it’s flexible enough to handle that without a lot of things starting to break.

A lot of the Skills and Traits would be less applicable to medieval life and culture and so more than just the Driving Skill would need to be swapped out.

Eureka’s combat rules, which are pretty intricate, are focused primarily on firearms that use modern cartridges rather than ramrod muzzle-loading type firearms when it comes to ranged fighting, and on much smaller melee weapons and unarmed fighting when it comes to close range fighting.

We don’t even have bow&arrow rules.

Many of the intricate firearm combat rules would not be applicable to black powder weapons, and if I were to do a version of Eureka set in a medieval setting, I would want to flesh out the melee combat a whole lot more, both because it would be used more often, and because the current melee combat rules are designed specifically to emulate how people fight today.

The average person today, even if they know how to fight, only knows any advanced techniques when it comes to unarmed fighting, and then maybe a few of the basics of using weapons. Back when swords and daggers and stuff were much more commonly used weapons, much more advanced techniques were known by people who fought with them, and I would want to reflect that in the rules.

Plus, there’s the matter of culture. Eureka is an extremely modern game, exploring very modern themes and having rules that guide the characters into acting like real modern people. Any version of Eureka which takes place in a society in or based on the more distant past would have to reflect that in the rules, and, well, that would be a whole lot of research.

If you were to just try to graft some of Eureka’s mystery-solving mechanics onto an existing sword&sorcery TTRPG, that might work better, but you’d still run into problems. The Investigation Point mechanic works the way it does because all the Skills for investigating are on a Eureka PC’s character sheet. These Skills are not part of most sword&sorcery RPGs, so you’d have to homebrew those in too, or the means of getting Investigation Points would be very limited and not flow correctly.

Also, you’re welcome! That’s one of our ultimate goals here, to get people to think of game design as being real enough to actually affect gameplay experience, and a real skill that can be developed and applied with intent.

[amarynthian-chronicles]

May I have this dance?

Sebastian Solace x Reader

"Surely, you must be joking."

"Quite the contrary."

He fiddled with the old gramophone, making a few final adjustments in order to get it to function properly once more. All the while he was casually holding his cigarette with his third hand, elegantly tapping the ash away when necessary.

Sebastian had amassed an impressive collection of vinyl records, arranging them according to his tastes. He had done so in a similar manner with his books and research files. You loved watching him sort out his inventory.

It was so unusually domestic, the mingling scents of coffee and cigarette smoke, the presence of warm blankets and pillows on the sofa he had hauled from an unspecified location in the vast facility. Undoubtedly from various loungers that the scientists would once find comfort in before the breach in security.

You cleared your throat, trying to get his attention once more.

"Seb, be realistic. We cannot dance together. I don't even know how to"

"I am certain the youth refers to this as a "skill issue" nowadays. Painter had discovered a whole thesaurus of modern slang, heaven help us all."

"I am not even going to comment this. My point still stands. Besides, you do not even have legs."

"What I do have is creative solutions to complex problems. We crush obstacles, do we not? Ah, there we go. Good as new."

He placed the needle on a record.

Music. Soft jazz, soothing yet playful, unpredictable in its rhythm, improvising, moving from whimsical and exciting tunes to the more melancholic melodies. In many ways, it conveyed Sebastian's own soul perfectly.

He offered his clawed hand, grinning and waiting for you to inevitably accept his offer. Reluctantly, you accepted.

His tail began to tap in a certain rhythm against the floor, as if setting the tempo you should follow along with the music. Confused, you saw his other two arms approach you, all three serving as if they were makeshift dance partners.

Before you knew it, he was making you move and sway as if you were a combination of a puppet on a string and a music box ballerina. He made you twirl, glide, turn, almost hypnotic.

At a certain point, he snapped his fingers, and suddenly the room was completely dark, save for the lone light of his esca.

"See? You do not need to know where to go or what to do, you are only to follow as I say. Trust me and you will never have to worry about anything ever again."

"Seb, I am tired."

"I am sure we can get a few more pirouettes out of you, pet."

"Well, at least I am getting free cardio training here."

You took deep breaths as your puppet master played with you, demanding yet gentle, firm yet rewarding you with tenderness when it was due. As you were about to collapse, he caught you, pulling you into his lap.

Soft kisses were placed on your head, cheeks and lips.

His body began to sway, akin to the ocean waves, his arms cradling you.

Sebastian was truly like the ocean itself, simultaneously a cooling haven that embraced you in your feverish nightmares and a cold unyielding tomb that one could not escape from. A devil is merely a fallen angel, after all.

You whispered, closing your eyes.

"What will become of us, Seb? We are playing in this illusion, knowing that all of this is ludicrous."

"We live on stolen time. Our old lives are forfeit and we can only move onward. We take, we scavenge, we defy probability itself."

"What are we to each other?"

He combed his fingers through your hair.

"Fleeting hope. The same type that a ghost feels in a house with new tenants, desperately wishing to be seen and heard once more. Even for a final time."

Hot tears ran down your cheeks.

"Hope is such a cruel thing, Seb."

He kissed each tear away, savouring your sorrow.

"We lie in the Abyss. This location defies physics itself, it rebels against every possible known law of water mechanics. So shall we. Doomed to fail, given to death, we shall rise once more, wearing the Reaper's cloak as our own."