#fic: a thread in the tapestry

[asgardian--angels]

oof jayvik arcane fandom so full of extremely talented and inspired fic writers and artists im really deep in the 'how on earth do I create something that measures up to a fraction of this' hours

[onyxstyx]

ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ | emperor geta

pairing: emperor geta x fem!reader

summary: the fates spin the thread of destiny, and mortals have no choice but to follow its path. you have other plans.

➺‘the fates, who give men at their birth both evil and good to have, and they pursue the transgressions of men and gods… until they punish the sinner with a sore penalty’ - theogony, hesiod ➺‘whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time’ - marcus aurelius

A/N: i watched gladiator ii, devoured all the geta fics i could find (ty writers for feeding me <3) and i’m still ravenous. the man is gnawing at me from my insides so i had no choice but to get typing. haven’t written for like a yr so bear with me. if this flops it never happened xx

warnings: mention of miscarriage (not reader's), period-typical misogyny, morally ambiguous reader bc she’s fighting for her life out here. she’s just a girl fr :( YOU try being a girlie in ancient rome :/ enjoy !!

w/c: 5.9k

latin translations: fatum - fate, carissima - dear, domina - my lady

As the moon ascends in wake of the sun’s descent, the gilded walls of the imperial palace glint softly in the moonlight. Glorious tapestries line these walls, each one telling the tale of hallowed heroes, of terrible tyrants and of revered rulers. The history of the Roman Empire.

Their patterns, depicting stories of both rise and ruin, are woven by none other than the three Fates. One Fate spins the thread, and an heir is born. Another Fate weaves it, and a battle is won. The last Fate cuts, and an emperor meets his end.

As three pairs of hands work nimbly in the heavens, another tapestry begets itself in the mortal realm, where our story takes place.

From a tender age, you had been taught to believe in fate.

Fatum.

You had first learnt the word as a little one.

You’d been a curious creature, like most children are. Sheltered from the terrors of the world, your appetite for life was insatiable. You’d wake up with a hunger for new knowledge about the world around you, and go to bed still hungry for more, no matter what had transpired during the day. Thus, you found it impossible to go to sleep of your own accord - you relied on your mother’s bedtime stories to satisfy your appetite, and lull you into slumber.

Perched by your bedside with a gentle hand stroking your hair, she regaled you with the tale of Rome’s beginnings. A tale of abandonment, wolf-mothers and fratricide. Enough thrill to tire you out, she hoped. To her chagrin, she looked down to find widened eyes, without a trace of sleep in them, staring up at her expectantly. Instead, your eyes shone bright with the excitement of unanswered questions.

She sighed fondly before prompting you to talk. “Yes, carissima?”

And so the floodgates opened. You fired her with questions with all the sternness of a Roman general, and she listened intently with all the patience of a loving mother.

Why did the king try to kill the babies? Why didn’t the wolf eat the babies?

And finally, taking great care to be gentle, you placed a tiny hand on her rounded belly and asked the most burning question. Why did Romulus kill his brother? Your innocent mind struggled to comprehend it. You hadn’t even met your little sibling yet, and you already couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing harm to him. Or her, you thought, but your father had insisted that all refer to the babe as the male heir he so desperately desired it to be.

“Fatum,” was the simple answer she supplied. “Without the king’s cruelty, without the wolf’s mercy, without Remus’ death, our great city would never have been built.”

Eyes shining with knowledge yet untold, her gaze held yours. “Whatever happens to you, has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time,” she quoted, a tone of finality in her voice.

As well-loved children do, you’d lapped up your mother’s answer as readily as the twin babes lapped the wolf’s milk.

You had first witnessed fatum some years later, at the age of twelve.

On the brink of adolescence, much about you had changed compared to the little girl having bedtime stories told to her. Much except one. Age hadn’t quelled your curiosity - if anything, it had grown.

You’d exhausted all the resources available to a girl of your standing. You’d read enough philosophical texts to debate with Aristotle himself, asked questions faster than your tutors could find answers and yet, you knew there was much more that the world had to offer. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

With age had also come a newfound deviance. Observant as you were, you’d learned that there was much to be gained with certain types of information - if you knew how to use it to your advantage.

As such, you’d taken to eavesdropping on your father’s meetings with his fellow senators from behind a pillar. For weeks on end, they had spoken of a play becoming popular amongst patricians and plebeians alike. Oedipus.

At the centre of their discussion was a ploy to ban the play from being performed. Abhorrent, they had called it. A threat to their authority, if the people are led to believe that even kings are subject to a thing as fickle as fate. At that statement, your eyes twinkled with mischief and a devious smile found its way to your face - you were determined to see this for yourself.

So, on the fateful night you caught your older cousin in the arms of a man bearing no resemblance to her betrothed, you knew you’d struck gold.

Desperate to protect her reputation and far too embarrassed to berate you for sleuthing around when you should have been asleep, she’d hastily agreed to the terms of your silence. She would sneak you into the city’s amphitheatre to watch the next production of Oedipus, if you swore to secrecy.

And so your plan commenced. Hidden under the large folds of her toga, you observed the story unfolding before you. The mighty king of Thebes brought to his knees by the tragic fate he’d tried to escape, to no avail.

A real spectacle, the performance elicited emotions from you that were both old and new. In a short two hours you’d been perplexed, horrified, scandalised. You’d learned quickly why you had to be sneaked in - fate wasn’t the only mature theme you were educated on that night.

But you only came to understand fatum when it took the person dearest to you, two summers ago.

Pregnant again, the fifth time that you could remember, your mother had taken ill. Perilously ill. After years of unsuccessful attempts to produce an heir - one daughter, two miscarriages and two stillbirths - she had breathed her last. In her womb? The son your father demanded of her. The son he had longed for. Prayed to the gods for. What else could bring forth such a tragic end, if not the hands of the Fates?

Now a grown woman, the beliefs your mother had impressed upon you would soon be tested. Left with no living sons to continue his legacy and no living wife to bring forth such living sons, your father’s lofty political aspirations could only be fulfilled through his daughter. You.

Your father wasted no time in advancing his plans.

After a long day spent praying at the temple of Pluto, you had been ready to wind down and relax. A good distance away from the centre of the city and situated atop a number of hills, a trip there takes up the whole day. You had set out at dawn, and as the sun set over the Tiber river to bring forth dusk, your shadow darkened the entrance of your family villa.

Exhausted both emotionally and physically, your body went through the motions of preparing yourself for supper, but your mind remained absent - occupied with thoughts of what could have been and what will never be.

After your bath you called for your maid and allowed her to dress you, head still in the clouds. It was only when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the bronze mirror atop your vanity that you noticed something was amiss.

Your eyes squinted as you inspected the image reflected on the polished surface.

“Why have you dressed me in these garments? I wish to wear my usual attire.”

You wore a tunic, the draped garment secured by an ornate brooch resembling an owl, with eyes made of precious gems. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary, was the saffron yellow hue of the tunic — since your mother’s passing you had been in mourning and thus only wore dark colours. A fact well-known by your maid, who dressed you day and night.

The hands fastening the brooch faltered as she gathered a response.

“My apologies, Domina.” She stepped back, head bowed in deference. “I assumed you would revert to your previous wardrobe, seeing as yesterday marked the end of…” She trailed off meekly, allowing you to fill in the blanks.

The previous day had marked a year since your mother’s passing, and thus the end of the customary mourning period. As such, it would be socially acceptable for you to appear happy and content again, reflected in the abandonment of deep plums and drab greys for sunny yellows and bold blues. You supposed it was not odd for her to assume you desire to don brighter colours.

But upon closer inspection, your suspicion rose again. Detailed with beautiful patterns and made of the smoothest damask money could buy, the tunic was much too elaborate for a simple family dinner in the villa. The last time you wore it was to a relative’s wedding, where your father made a point of telling anyone who would listen just how much it had cost to import the material from China.

You poised yourself to question her further, but the words died on the tip of your tongue when you saw the pleading look she gave you.

“Please, Domina.”

She offered you no further explanation, but the fear in her eyes was explanation enough. She was not doing this of her own accord, but under instruction. And if you knew your father well, under strict instruction.

Whatever plans he had for you, you knew you would have little to no choice in the matter.

Wordlessly, you acquiesced and allowed her to continue. You did not protest when she brushed, braided and pinned your hair into an elaborate updo. You were compliant when she lined your eyes with kohl and blotted your lips with mulberry juice.

Primped and primed like a prized show horse, you dismissed your maid, sat by the window and awaited your fate.

Not long passed before the sound of a male timbre filled the room.

“It appears your outfit is missing something.”

You turned to the direction of the voice to see your father standing in the doorway. Instinctively, you stood to your feet - less as a show of respect and more because you were used to being on guard in his presence.

In his hands he held a translucent, gauzy material, sheer in nature and vibrant in colour, that was all too familiar to you.

Your mother’s favourite veil.

Usually fixed firmly atop her head during special occasions - festivals, birthdays, weddings and the like - you could recognise it from a mile away. Growing up, you had associated this veil with womanhood itself. You would traipse around the corridors of the villa with it wrapped around your head haphazardly, the excess fabric trailing behind you as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you.

What a foreign sight it was to see it in the hands of your father. And what a foreign sight it was to see him in your chambers.

Following your mother’s passing, the two of you had not conversed beyond what was formally required of you, your already fragile relationship fracturing completely. Yet here he was, extending a peace offering. An olive branch.

Pleased as you were to receive it, you were not foolish enough to believe this to be a genuinely affectionate gesture. A politician through and through, your father was no stranger to symbolic gestures, and he had made no attempts to mend your relationship prior to this moment. This sudden generosity, paired with your extravagant dressing, could only mean one thing.

He wanted something from you.

Now, you had two options. Comply with his request, or comply with his request begrudgingly. You chose the latter, of course. Even if obedience was your only option, you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

You casted him a quick look of derision. “If you wish to barter for my forgiveness with a piece of cloth, I am afraid your efforts have been wasted.”

Unphased, he stepped further into the room.  “Now, now, peace, dear daughter. Let us be civil.” The faux humility in his tone was almost comical.

“Perhaps you feel…wronged by me for holding your mother to a certain standard. But, you must understand that I was simply fulfilling my duties, by encouraging her to fulfil her own. I have particular responsibilities to this family. As do you, now.”

You levelled him with an icy glare, wise enough not to express your discontent verbally, but too headstrong not to express it somehow.

“And even if I have, in some unfathomable way, wronged you; to err is human, to forgive, divine.” 

After knowing him for as long as you did, you knew this was the closest thing to an apology you would get. You also knew your father was a talented orator - it’s how he gained a large enough political following to join the Senate, after all. And so you prepared yourself to be subjected to one of his moving speeches.

“It is common knowledge that women are the weaker sex,” What a great way to start, you snarked to yourself. “Yet, I have always seen a unique strength in you. Not physical strength, of course, but a mental fortitude. Since you were a young girl you have been willful, stubborn,” he took a step closer to you with each word, purple-lined toga brushing the floor as he advanced. 

As he said the last word, he gave you a knowing look. “Nosy.”

You failed to hide your shock. “Oh yes, I saw you slinking around behind the pillars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It matters not, now. In fact, whatever dregs of information you picked up from eavesdropping on my discussions may soon prove useful.”

His face was a picture of smugness, with an eyebrow cocked and the corners of his mouth upturned as if he knew something you didn’t. With just a few sentences he had complimented you (even if it was backhanded), revealed that he knew your secret, and teased you with a nugget of information. The perfect combination to make you anticipate his next words.

Silence filled the room as he kept you in suspense, mind whirring as you mulled over his cryptic words. 

One hand held your mother’s veil in front of him, while the other caressed its folds delicately. His eyes had a faraway look in them that suggested his mind had travelled to another time.

“Your mother was a strong woman. Not strong enough in the end, regrettably, but strong nonthele-”

“Don’t.” You interjected. “You will not sully her memory with your caustic words.”

His lips spread into a diplomatic smile, but the twitch of his eye betrayed the irritation he felt. Belligerent as he was, he ignored your outburst and continued. 

“Unlike her, you have the makings of a lady of great influence. Much like me, you have the mind for politics. That potential lies latent within you.”

With a gentleness you wished was also reflected in his words, he draped the veil over your head. “I advise you not to waste it, dear daughter, and suffer the fate of lesser women.”

You scoffed at his words, readjusting the veil so it rested perfectly atop your head and shoulders. “And how do you suggest I fulfil this…potential? The Senate is not exactly welcoming of women.”

Well-pleased that your interest had been piqued, he finally reveals his true intentions.

“Accompany me to the imperial banquet tonight. We will celebrate the successful conquest of Britannia.”

“I do not care for banquets, nor do I spare a thought for conquests.”

“You may not care for military conquests, but this banquet itself is a conquest of the political sort. In my experience, much more is won with words, than with swords. And tonight’s event presents an opportunity for much gain.”

Again with the cryptic words.

“Allow me to present you to the Emperors. Your face is comely enough to garner their attention, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, some men find opinionated girls like you to be charming.” 

Is he insinuating what you think he is?, you thought incredulously. Surely not.

“The Senate may not be the place for women, but the Senate is not the only facilitator of politics. Why not practice your politics from Palatine Hill?”

There was no mistaking it. He intended to make an Empress of you. Equally as curious as you were sceptical, you decided to test his logic.

“Beauty is fleeting. Charm wanes with time. How would I maintain their favour?”

“That, dear daughter, is up to you. I am certain you will find a way, formidable as you are.”

While it pained you to admit it, he was right. You and your father were more alike than different, what with your scheming and blackmailing. Besides, you were formidable. You were cunning. You were capable.

There may be greater things in store for you yet.

And those greater things began with this banquet.

Upon arrival, you were met with the most magnificent sight you had ever seen. Sat proudly upon Palatine Hill, the palace looked like the image your mind conjured when picturing Olympus. After ascending the intimidating number of steps that led to the entrance, you truly felt like you’d ascended to the land of the gods. Wherever you looked there was amazing artwork that instilled equal parts awe and fear in you. 

Look up, and there were grand arches to behold. Look to the side, and the spectacular frescoes offered a feast for the eyes. Look down, and there were beautifully designed floor mosaics you almost felt bad for stepping on.

As you passed through into the atrium, it was much the same. Ostentatiously decorated, it boasted gilded walls and glorious tapestries, each feature a testament to the Emperors’ opulence, and Rome’s riches.

But it was impossible to focus fully on the artwork with the room heaving as it was. Eyes darting from one person to another with every passing second,  you were captivated by the spectacle the hoard of partygoers presented. Something seemed to be happening in every square foot of the room, each guest having their fill of whatever their vice of choice was for the night. Wine was in abundance, giving way to loose lips, and scantily-clad whores prowled about in the shadows, giving way to loose purse strings.

You had been to your fair share of lavish affairs, but this was a whole new world of revelry.

Between the loud percussion of the musicians’ instruments, the aroma of the heavily seasoned foods and the leering gazes of overexcited men, you began to feel overstimulated. You stuck close to your father as he led you into the heart of the throng, finding comfort in the familiar when surrounded by the foreign. Better the devil you know.

Oblivious to your discomfort, he reprimands you under his breath. “Stop clinging to me like a child, lest our venture fail before it has even begun.”

You’d been so taken by your surroundings that you hadn’t registered where your father was leading you to. Now you stood in front of the two men at the centre of this affair, who were seated majestically upon a golden threaded couch. You prayed you didn’t look like the bewildered little girl you certainly felt like. 

With a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, your father bowed. 

“Imperators, what an honour it is to partake in these…wondrous celebrations with your Majesties.”

“Senator,” one of them said, voice smooth like honey but with an edge that demanded caution. His face bore a smile, but his tone was calm and measured. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” The twitch of his eyebrow suggested otherwise. “In a more agreeable mood, might I add.” The man beside him sniggers.

More agreeable? Whatever could that mean? For the second time in one night you found yourself deciphering cryptic words. Father must have angered the Emperors, somehow. 

“And you’ve brought…” He trailed off, looking at your father expectantly.

“Yes, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla,” with a single clap and an officious clearing of his throat he stepped to the side, no longer obscuring their vision of you. “May I present my daughter…”

You managed to regain your composure, exhibiting a grace only a lady of the upper echelons of society could possess when you sunk into a deep curtsy. Lifting your gaze, you were met with the hair-raising sensation of being observed. Not just observed – scrutinised.  

A pair of eyes, deep brown like rich soil, trailed over your form. The man that addressed your father with contempt - Geta. His brows furrowed as he took the sight of you in. Lined with kohl much like yours, his eyes were smouldering in their examination.

Another pair, red-rimmed and cloudy with the haze of inebriation, were the perfect contrast. The man that sniggered - Caracalla. With irises of a cold blue hue, they would have been intimidating if they belonged to a face other than his, what with his rosy rounded cheeks and seemingly perpetual impish grin. 

Despite their differences, the relation between the men was clear as day. Flaming locks of hair and the gold laurels that circled their heads confirmed their identities. These were the infamous twin tyrants.

But it wasn’t just the weight of their eyes that you felt. Lounging around the couch in various positions and in varying states of undress, was an entourage of courtesans. You did your best to avert your gaze, as theirs bore into you. 

And what a pleasant sight you were. Adorned with ornate jewellery and clad in the finest of silks, you were easily one of the best dressed at the banquet. Before a word had been uttered, your appearance relayed a message – you were a lady of fine stature, more than accustomed to luxury and thus, would be well-suited to palace life.

Well-suited to be Empress.

Not taking any chances, your father decided not to leave anything up for interpretation.

He began listing your virtues as if reading from a handbook - 100 Things to Look For in a Roman Wife. He spoke of your piety, your beauty, your fertility. With every trait of yours that was mentioned, you grew increasingly more irate and keeping the docile smile on your face became increasingly more difficult. 

“...and lest I forget, she is most gifted with the lyre-”

“How quaint.” Caracalla interrupted, a peal of childish laughter bubbling from his lips. “He presents his daughter’s hand as if he is lobbying for a law to be passed!”

Geta scoffed, “Or a conquest to be forfeited.”

At this, Caracalla doubled over in laughter, the overfilled cup of wine in his hand threatening to spill over the rim with every jostle of his frame. Clearly there’s a joke you’re missing here.

There’s a wicked glint in Geta’s eyes that tells you this joke has guile. 

“Three sennights have lapsed since you last stood before us, spewing nonsense about abandoning our pursuit of Britannica.” The vitriol that coated his voice strung a discordant note in the mellifluous tune of his brother’s continuous laughter. “Yet here you stand in your Emperors’ palace,” he gestured at the ongoing frivolities. “Drinking and making merry with spoils from the very war you so vehemently opposed.” 

Ah. It finally clicked. From what you had picked up from your father and his associates’ discussions, you knew that this conquest had long since been under contention among the Senators. The campaign was taking longer than anticipated, and required more reinforcements than expected. The Roman force was fatigued. At home, the starving plebeians of Rome were one famine away from revolting, and without the full support of the army, politicians relied on empty promises to appease their constituents and maintain order. Yet, the Emperors were adamant on expanding Rome’s borders.

For whatever reason, at the last Senate meeting three weeks ago your father had been the unfortunate soul to suggest that the troops should draw back. And now he stood before them at the celebration of the successful conquest, presenting you as a bargaining chip to secure his pardon. Opposing the Emperors was costly, and he decided you were going to pay that price on his behalf.

Geta leaned his head on his hands as he asked, “Tell me, Senator, what makes you think you will triumph this time?”

You watched your father’s reaction with bitter disbelief. For the first time in your life, your silver-tongued father, the man that had landed you this fate, floundered for words.

Fine. If this was the hand dealt to you, so be it. But you were going to do this your way.

“Your Majesties,” At the sound of your sweet voice, Geta’s gaze affixed itself to your face. Instantly, he was beguiled. “If I may…” 

With the slow incline of his head, you were permitted to speak. 

“I know little of war,” you feigned ignorance. “But I do know that defying the odds to bring glory to Rome is no small feat.” Preening at your praise, Geta leaned forward in his seat, a silent encouragement for you to continue. “Rome and her citizens are fortunate to be led by you, Imperators, and I am grateful to be in the presence of such wise rulers.”

His mouth spread into a self-satisfied smirk. “I bask in your praises, my lady. It pleases me to see that someone in your family has a semblance of loyalty to the powers above them” A pointed look was shot at your father. “You see, all those that oppose their Emperors,” His venomous gaze roved over the group of Senators shifting uneasily as they watched this ordeal. “Will soon learn that there is only one way for a man to wield power.” He held up his index finger for emphasis and paused for suspense. “War.”

With all the self-assurance of a man that has never truly been challenged, he stalked towards you.

“What other power can bring a man to his knees and cause him to surrender?”

“I can think of nothing greater than war!” Caracalla piped up from behind him.

“Yes, brother.” Geta held his cup of wine up in agreement. “By no other means can a man wield such power. I am sure my lady agrees?” He offered his right hand, each finger as bejewelled as the next.

The ultimatum he presented you with was clear. Kiss the ring, let all be forgiven and allow this encounter to end pleasantly. Refuse the ring, and…well, don’t refuse the ring.

But compliance was predictable, and would only get you so far. Your beauty and charm had ignited a spark of interest in him, but that wasn’t enough. You needed that spark to burst into a flame.

With swan-like grace you knelt before him and took his hand, smiling inwardly when his eyes followed your descent with rapture. You didn’t miss his quick intake of breath when you halted your movements to look up and meet his eye, lips an inch away from the stunning signet ring.

“Upon second thought,” You tilted your head as if considering his words. “There exists another power great enough to make a man kneel in surrender.” At your bold words, the hand you held tightened around your fingers until he had a firm grip of your hand. “A power so great, even Emperors are not immune.”

Gasps of shock came from the onlookers sober enough to process what they had heard.

“Impertinence!” Caracalla’s cry of protest tore you from the captivity of his brother’s gaze. 

“Forgive my daughter, she oversteps her bounds.” Your father spat the words out and fixed you with a look of warning, a late and unappreciated attempt to de-escalate the night’s proceedings.

With a wave of Geta’s hand, his words were dismissed. For the sake of keeping your resolve, you pretended not to see the Praetorians return their drawn swords to their scabbards.

You returned to the intense stare of brown eyes narrowed in… intrigue? Suspicion? You weren’t sure, but you had his attention. 

“And what power would that be?”

Your gentle smile had him entranced. “The strike of a drum, the strum of a lyre’s strings. Music, my Imperator, holds much power.”

See, while your father was busy waxing lyrical about you, you had been studying Geta closely. As he listened to others speak, his fingers unconsciously tapped the thigh of the courtesan perched on the arm of the couch. But they were not tapping any old rhythm – they tapped to the beat of the percussion in the background.

The ring your lips had puckered up to kiss was not embossed with an imprint of Mars, the god of war, but Apollo, god of music. Geta the Emperor championed conflict and violence, but Geta the man held music dear.

Rich eyes twinkled as his laugh rang in your ears. “Ah, yes. Your father mentioned your skill with the lyre. He failed to mention your humour.” He didn’t believe you.

“I assure you, Imperator, my lyre-playing is unparalleled.” You indulged him with a coy smile.

“You believe you would best our most talented musician? That your playing would put your Emperors’ finest to shame?” He challenged your claim.

“Given the chance, I would outplay each of the Nine Muses,” you asserted boldly. You rose to his challenge.

His eyes gleamed with ardour as he regarded your statement with a raised brow. “I await the day I hear you play with baited breath, my lady.”

“It would be my pleasure, my liege.”

Not risking any more excitement, you curtsied and took your father’s arm as he guided you towards the outskirts of the atrium, and away from watching eyes. He wasted no time expressing his displeasure.

“Have you lost your senses, girl? Has some strange plague come over your mind?!” He released an exasperated sigh. “You should have held that tongue of yours.”

 “Oh, and left you there, stammering like a bumbling fool? Father,” you uttered the paternal term without an ounce of familial affection. “You entrusted this ploy into my hands, so leave it there.”

Anger flashed across his face like a clap of thunder. Before he could berate you for your indolence, however, a piercing shriek stole the moment.

You pushed through the crowd to see the commotion, weaving past bodies stilled with shock at whatever it is they were witnessing. When you got to the centre, you were met with a most harrowing display of fraternal discord.

Geta lay sprawled out on the marble floor, the corded muscle of his limbs tensing as he strained to hold back the man towering over him, wielding a dagger above his head. Caracalla. 

At first glance one may have supposed this fray was borne of anger, but with the spittle flying out of gritted teeth that gnashed and snarled like those of some inhuman beast, the incoherent stream of words and the crazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he did not have full agency of his person.

The rumours were true. He was having one of his infamous episodes.

Your eyes darted from Praetorian to Praetorian, waiting for one of them, any of them to take action. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, hesitation rooting them to their spots. To raise a hand against Caracalla would be treason, punishable by death. To ignore the distress of Geta would be treason, also punishable by death. They were at an impasse.

The chatter of mingling guests and the ambience of the musicians’ instruments had long since stopped, leaving the grunts of the brothers to take their place. All watched on in stunned silence, revelers turned horrified spectators.

Their scrambling continued. Geta managed to hook a leg around Caracalla’s ankle, toppling him over to join him on the cold marble. Wine cups clanged as they were knocked to the ground, collateral. The cacophony of sound nearly masked the sound of Geta’s desperate plea.

“Break the spell! Break the spell!”

Moved by an impetus you couldn’t explain, you barreled further through the crowd until you reached the musicians’ corner. You grabbed the lyre from the hands of the bard (who was too focused on the ongoing tumult to protest), and started strumming the tune of a nursery rhyme favoured by Roman children both rich and poor. 

Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies echoed through the chamber as you sang of Rome’s rolling hills, of fair maidens awaiting the return of brave soldiers, of the Tiber River’s ebb and flow.

Those around you listened intently, enraptured. They stepped aside, clearing a path for you towards the quarreling brothers. You walked forward as you sang, and as you reached the last verse you stood a few feet away from where they squirmed, limbs akimbo. 

From your position you saw the exact moment the muscles in Caracalla’s face relaxed, and his body went limp. He released a weak whimper better-suited to an injured animal than the tyrannical emperor he was rumoured to be.

Eyes fixed on you over his brother’s shoulder, he dropped the dagger as if compelled. Tears began to run down his face as he wailed, balling himself up into a foetal position. When they noticed his change in disposition, his entourage took the chance to spirit him away from the room. 

The final note of your song rang out. A beat passed as everyone came to, as if they too were held captive in a trance. Then, a slow, steady clap from one became a roaring applause, your fellow guests lauding your performance as if it had been planned. 

Chest heaving from exertion, Geta used a three-legged (formerly four-legged) stool to pull himself from the floor and adjusted his toga. At the raise of his hand, the clapping stopped. Flopping back to sit on the couch, he gestured for you to come forward. His expression was inscrutable. 

Before you could scrape together an apology, or some sort of explanation, you were utterly disarmed by the grin that spread across his face. 

“My lady,” He huffed between words, still catching his breath. “I stand corrected. It appears your flair with the lyre is equally as bewitching as your looks.”  

Your cheeks heated up at his confession of attraction towards you. “It pleases me that you think of me so, my Emperor.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, dark eyes taking their time to appraise you. “The power to bring a man to his knees can be very dangerous, you know. I believe it would be in the best interest of Rome and her citizens if such power was… managed by the capable hands of their Emperor.”

The chill of deja vu ran down your spine when he extended his hand in your direction. A second invitation to kiss the ring. Most people only get one.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

As your lips made contact with the cold metal of Apollo’s face and you sealed your fate, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer. When you opened them again, you found eyes the colour of rich soil searching yours. 

He turned the hand that gripped his and pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss to the back of it. His kisses travelled up your arm, growing more and more fervent, the plush of his lips leaving warmth on every spot they pressed against. He used his hold on you to pull you towards him until you were close enough to smell the heady scent of patchouli mixed with the subtle musk of perspiration, and count the freckles on his speckled cheeks, peeking through the layer of makeup. 

His palm ran up and down your arm repeatedly, inching further up each time.

“You will make a home for yourself here, in these palace walls.” Brown eyes gazed into yours, full of a veneration you couldn’t fathom. “And you shall be my little Muse.” 

As if the troubles of your life thus far had not been a sufficient allotment of suffering, the Fates had now tasked you with weathering the twin tempers of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla. And surviving.

Gods help you.

A/N: thank you ever so much for reading ! i'm working on part two so let me know if you want me to post it when it's done <3

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated x

© onyxstyx tumblr 2025

[verridaiya]

—Dream Blooms

"I've seen you there, before."

This fic was born from watching Sylus's Abyssal Blossom card and watching my heart break into a million pieces. It hurt, but then I realized you know who hasn't been hurt by it? Sylus.

Based on the prevailing theory/my headcannons that the Abyssal Blossom card was just a dream, brought on by MC's yearning for a normal, quiet life after the events of Beyond Cloudfall chapter 7.

Synopsis: Sylus invites himself over to take care of you while you're sick. You tell him about a pleasant dream of yours and proceed to break his heart. (Or, you dream of something you've dreamt before, and Sylus hears about it for the first time.)

Contains: Spoilers for Sylus's Beyond Cloudfall myth and the Abyssal Blossom card, Sylus x MC/reader, gender neutral MC/reader, angst/hurt (the comfort will come later), current timeline Sylus & MC

Word Count: 1.7k

start | Part 2 >

“I had a strange dream again.”

“Another one, sweetheart?”

Sylus’s voice is a soft murmur above you. You open your blurry eyes to a darkened room and a pleasantly warm body under you, wrapped around you. Your head feels as hazy as the moonlight filtering in from the cloudy night sky through the window. Half-awake and half asleep, you can still feel the sensations of your dream like phantom memories. You hum an affirmation, shaking off the vestiges of a medicine-induced sleepiness.

You’re not quite sure how you found yourself in this position: sprawled out on your couch, nestled between a warm blanket and an even warmer Sylus, breathing in the scent of him through your admittedly stuffy nose. The last thing you remember was you laying collapsed on your bed, trying to convince yourself that you’re not sick, you’re just tired from a long week at the Hunter’s Association, and to muster up the energy to find something to eat. And then, suddenly, there was Sylus, filling your doorway as he had filled every part of your life, your thoughts, and now your dreams.

You’ve been having more of those recently, ever since you absorbed the power of another Aether Core almost a year ago. Reality intertwining with illusions, the people in your life woven intricately into a tapestry of dreams. Fragments of memories, glimpses of things that could never be, or never was. Flashing scales underneath glistening waves. Zayne, in a flowing robe you’ve never seen on him before, but looked so right on him. A silent forest, illuminated by starlight. You would wake up yearning for something just out of reach, hands outstretched to capture the essence of something that slips, incorporeal, through your fingers.

This dream was gentle, though. And this time, your hands didn’t need to reach far to grasp the heart of your dreams.

“You were in it this time, Sylus.”

“Oh?” he says, sounding intrigued. “Do tell, kitten.”

You hear him place something on the coffee table—his phone, probably—his attention shifting solely to you. He carefully moves to his side, extricating himself from under you, a large hand propping his head up so he can fully face you.

The soft moonlight illuminates on his face, throwing it into relief. Silvery hair threaded with shadow, a pale complexion half shrouded in darkness, eyes like banked hearths warming you with its glow. Through the haze of your fever, you can almost envision what you saw in your dream. You lift a hand pat his soft hair, as if searching for something that wasn’t there, before trailing your fingers down the side of his face.

“You had something on your head.” No, not exactly on his head. You can’t quite remember. The you in the dream was certain that the something was more a part of him than anything else. You frown slightly. The more you strain to remember the details of it, the more awake you became, and the more it danced out of your grasp. “Something sharp and twisting. Rough. It was beautiful, though. You were beautiful.”

Sylus stares at you with wide eyes you couldn’t decipher in your current state. There’s a spark of something foreign in his eyes.

“And?” he urges on, his deep voice uncharacteristically eager to your ears. He reaches to grab the hand that was holding his face, pressing it gently to him. His thumb rubs against the back of it in small soothing motions. “Can you tell me more about this dream of yours, kitten?”

You grasp at the cotton inside your head, stuffy from sleep and sickness. It takes so much effort, to tease apart the strands and find the wisps of fading dreams. It doesn’t help that you were also fighting off the drowsiness. You try, though, to give him what he’s asking for, as he always does for you.

“We were standing in a lovely field of flowers. They were breathtaking, Sylus. Such a vivid, dazzling red. There was a black spire in the distance, I think.” The spire had stood tucked away in the backdrop of rolling hills, but it was a small detail your mind was stuck on for some reason.

Thinking about that spire again, your mind can almost conjure a clear image of your dream. A lingering feeling of déjà vu washes over you, settling heavy on your chest. You’ve dreamt this before; you feel this with every bone in your body as an unshakeable fact. You’ve seen this obsidian spire before, this sprawling flower field. You know with startling certainty that you’ve had this exact dream before. But when you try to recall when, the feeling dissipates and leaves behind only a phantom sensation and an absence in your memory you cannot comprehend.

Sylus watches as you shake away the remnants of déjà vu. Your brow furrows. You’ve come to be accustomed to his intense stares through the months you’ve known him, but this one was… strange. It was as if he was trying to look deep into the fabric of your soul, even without the use of the Aether Core in his eye. His face remains a blank and indecipherable mask, leaving you with no indication of what he’s thinking of. You wanted to know what was going on in that unfathomable mind of his.

Longing. Trepidation. Yearning, a yearning that aches and makes you want to answer its call. You become distantly aware of emotions trickling into you that weren’t your own. You didn’t realize you were resonating with Sylus until he severed it, the hand holding yours shifting to catch your wrist instead. He leans down to brush his soft lips against it before letting your hand rest gently on your stomach.

“How about you recover from your fever first before you use your evol, sweetie.” He laughs softly, the red-gold brilliance of your evols intertwined fading from your hands.

“Oh, sorry.”

His presence in your mind and by your side was so natural that you weren’t even aware of when you began resonating with him. It seemed like your body responded to your desires even while your mind lagged behind. That brief glimpse into him enabled you to decipher that emotion in his eyes, though you struggle to make sense of it.

It was hope.

“Never apologize to me. What else do you remember?” he asks quietly, before you can puzzle over it further.

You close your eyes, willing the memories of the fleeing dream forward. The golden light of a setting sun. The crisp cold of mountainous air. The feeling of being the only two creatures in the world. And, inexplicably, the feeling of home.

“We were up in the air flying, somehow, before we landed in that blossoming valley. It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I felt like I was in a whole other world. When I turned around to look at you, I saw you sitting there amongst the flowers. Red, like shining rubies. Red like-” you pause, the words at the tip of your tongue. A silhouette appears in your mind’s eye, before it sinks back into the void.

“Red, like rich wine,” you finish, though you know that’s not what you had wanted to say.

When he said nothing, you continued on. “I decorated you with those flowers. We were so carefree, unworried and relaxed. It was just us, no one else, in the valley that was our playground. I think I was teasing you, or maybe you were teasing me. You said something about seeing the other side of things, something taunting. We ended up play-fighting, rolling around and sending petals up in the air.”

You smile, the warmth of the dream enveloping you.

“It felt so real.” You wanted it to be real, this lovely lush field and this gorgeous, monstrous Sylus.

Monstrous?

Startled out of your reverie, you blink open your eyes. No, there is nothing monstrous about Sylus. Not anymore, not since those first few nights that you’ve met him so long ago. Shaking your head slightly to dispel the thought, you turn your head to glance at him, realizing he hasn’t spoken in a while.

His eyes are closed, brows furrowed and drawn tightly together. You’ve seen this expression on his face before, briefly, when he struggles to heal a particularly nasty wound. His body is so tense when you reach out to him, muscles taut and rigid beneath your fingers. You’re not quite sure he’s even breathing.

“Sylus?”

At your prompting, Sylus sucks in a breath through his teeth and exhales. He opens his eyes and your breath catches. Rich garnet eyes glow in the darkness, twin wine-dark seas drowning in sorrow, regret. Agony.

It is so at odds to the sweetness of your recounted dream that alarm shot through you, temporarily driving away the sleepiness. Seeing the pain in his eyes unsettled you; it didn’t belong on his face at all. Your sluggish brain tries to make sense of what you could have said to have garnered this reaction. Did you say something wrong? Your chest tightens at the thought of hurting him with your words, somehow. You begin to prop yourself up.

Sylus stops you with one gentle hand, pushing you to lay back down. He silently regards you, the silence between you stretching into something delicate.

There are so many things you want to say, to ask and to comfort. Sylus was never one to let his emotions show as openly as they are right now. You want to ask what was wrong, take back your silly little story if all it gave him was pain, even if you didn’t understand why.

But through the jumble of your fever, all that came out of your tired mouth was, “It was just a dream, Sylus.”

He quietly watches you for a few breaths longer. Slowly, he lifts a hand to gently caresses your cheek, holding you as if you were something as fragile as a memory. Leaning down, he brushes his lips against your forehead, soft as a butterfly’s wings, as the petals of a phantom flower.

“You’re right,” he says, with a grief you cannot fathom.

“It was just a dream, sweetheart.” His voice is barely a whisper. “It can be nothing more than a dream.”

[pomefioredove]

Hiya! Hope you're doing okay, and take it easy if you haven't been!

For the flirty prompts starters list, could you maybe do: "Stop saying things that make me want to kiss the hell out of you." with Vil? I think it'd be a good one

Thanks!

(I hope you have fun writing this if you do! No biggie if you don't or if someone else already asked!)

GIGGLING SO MUCH

summary: "stop saying things that make me want to kiss the hell out of you" type of post: short fic characters: vil additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, Vil experiencing cuteness aggression.jpg, not proofread a part of this event

Vil considers himself to be an eloquent man.

After all, how one speaks is just as important as how one carries themselves, and every last inch of him, from his looks to his body language to his words, have been refined to perfection. Each a golden thread in the dazzling tapestry that is Vil Schoenheit.

And yet, despite that, he still can't seem to find a way to describe you.

Frustrating is not quite right. Epel is frustrating. Those first years you insist on spending your precious time with are frustrating. But you...

You are not annoying, nor are you incompetent. His usual vocabulary for the students of NRC is useless when it comes to you.

...And different is too vague.

Vil just seems to forget what to do with his hands when you're around.

You look so soft in the golden afternoon light of the lounge, which is distracting enough as it is. Now you're giggling in the way you do, and he can't concentrate, and... what was he doing, again?

"Stop that," he says, plainly, not looking up from the textbook he'd been reading. Or trying to, anyway. He'd lost his place some time ago.

You make this... sound, this confused little hum, and he pictures you tilting your head to the side like a puppy. Sevens, you're just so...

He huffs. "I said, stop,"

"Stop what?"

Clueless little thing. Vil sighs, finding it within himself to make eye contact. He'd given up on finishing this assignment early, anyway.

"You know what,"

You stare back, unblinking. Are you really so oblivious? No, there's no way you aren't doing this on purpose, whatever it is, just to get on his nerves. Did those friends of yours put you up to this?

He should scold you. He invited you to study with him, a luxury which many would pay millions for, and here you are, being...

Ugh. He still can't think of the right word.

"Am I being too loud?" you ask, a confused lilt in your voice.

Sevens, you are so dense, he wants to just grab you and squeeze you like a stress ball until a thought comes out of that empty head.

The thought of that is no help. If anything, it just bothers him more.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Are you really not doing this on purpose? "No. You're distracting me,"

"Oh... sorry,"

...In such a soft, meek little tone, like you really feel bad about it, looking up at him with those eyes of yours... ugh. He wants to bite you, squeeze you in his arms until this overwhelming, restless feeling passes. You're so...

"It's... fine," Vil relents. "I don't think I would've gotten much done today, anyway."

You actually tilt your head to the side this time, worsening his condition. "Something on your mind?"

Sevens, what are you doing to him? He can't sit still. He pictures himself reaching across the table to pinch your cheeks, to kiss that sweet, worried expression off your face. The effect you have...

And you're not even doing anything!

"No," he says, his voice strained with the weight of the lie. "Just burnout. It's a busy time of year for me."

You seem to take that as a cue, standing from your seat with wide eyes and holding out a hand, much to his chagrin.

"You should be resting, then. Overworking yourself will only make things worse. Come on, let's go back,"

Such a determined expression on that pretty face of yours. There's just something about how you respond so innocently, so intent on caring for him, you're...

You're so...

Vil feels his heart drop. Oh, Sevens. That's the word.

You're so cute.

"Stop that," he snaps. He can feel his face warming. "This is the last time I'll ask."

A little flash of annoyance crosses your face at his dismissal. How adorable...

"Stop what?" You repeat.

Even your scoff is cute. His face feels hot. He can handle beautiful. Gorgeous, pretty, sexy, even, But not cute. And now he's getting himself all worked up over it, and you're being so sweet, and...

"Stop saying things that make me want to kiss the hell out of you!"

Nothing has ever had such an effect on him before.

After all, it would take something incredible to fluster Vil- and here he is, blurting out every thought he has, blushing like a schoolgirl as he realizes what just came out of his mouth.

Vil Schoenheit, suddenly terrified of being rejected. It was as if he'd woken up in a parallel universe.

Or died, and went to his own personal Hell.

The shock slowly wears off your face, and you... laugh.

You laugh.

"You're very forward,"

"I'll take that as a compliment, and not the way you meant it," he mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. "Though I'm failing to find what's so amusing."

You move around the table to sit next to him, eyes gleaming. "How would you like me to react, then?"

Vil stares back. Was that... flirtation? Perhaps you're not so oblivious, after all...

But still cute.

Still very cute.

He sighs, though there's a smile playing at his lips now. "Save me the embarrassment of being rejected,"

"Hmm... I suppose that can be arranged,"

And with that, he cups your face in his hands and draws you in for that kiss.

[andy-15-07]

can you do a fic with Paul Atreides, where Y/n is a bene gesserit and they find he is the One

Our love is powerful

masterlist ! pairing: Paul Atreides x reader

Dune Masterlist

In the mystical world of Arrakis, where sand dunes whispered ancient secrets, Paul Atreides and you, a Bene Gesserit, found yourselves entwined in a destiny written in the sands of time. The air in the Sietch was charged with anticipation as the Bene Gesserit sisterhood, with their millennia-old knowledge, discerned a truth that transcended the ordinary.

As you and Paul stood in the sacred chambers of the Bene Gesserit, the reverence in the air hinted at the gravity of the moment. The sisterhood, with their eyes that held the wisdom of countless generations, regarded Paul with a mix of expectation and acknowledgment.

"Y/N," one of the elder Bene Gesserit addressed you, "the threads of fate have woven a tapestry that binds your path with that of Paul Atreides. He is the One—the Kwisatz Haderach."

The realization hung in the air, a moment that echoed through the corridors of time. Paul, with his piercing blue eyes and a destiny that weighed heavily on his shoulders, looked at you with a mix of curiosity and acceptance.

"What does this mean?" Paul inquired, the weight of the prophecy settling on his young shoulders.

The elder Bene Gesserit stepped forward, her voice a melodic resonance that carried the echoes of ancient wisdom. "The Kwisatz Haderach—the One who can bridge space and time, unlocking the secrets of the universe. He who possesses both male and female ancestral memories, breaking the limitations that have bound humanity."

You, a Bene Gesserit bound by duty and destiny, met Paul's gaze with a depth of understanding. "Paul, you are the culmination of a plan set in motion by the Bene Gesserit sisterhood. The threads of our bloodlines converge in you."

The gravity of the revelation seemed to settle in the room. Paul, born into a lineage of political intrigue and ancient prophecy, found himself at the crossroads of destiny.

As you and Paul retreated from the sacred chambers, the Sietch buzzed with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. The sands of Arrakis seemed to echo the whispers of the prophecy that had been unveiled.

"Y/N," Paul began, his voice a quiet contemplation, "what does it mean for us? For our relationship?"

You turned to him, your eyes reflecting the weight of the truth. "Paul, our connection goes beyond the prophecy. The Bene Gesserit may have seen the threads of fate, but our love is a force that transcends destiny. Together, we navigate the path that unfolds before us."

The days that followed were filled with the intensity of preparation, as Paul embraced the training and revelations that came with being the Kwisatz Haderach. The Bene Gesserit sisterhood, with their watchful eyes, guided him through the intricacies of their ancient knowledge.

Amidst the trials and tribulations, your connection with Paul deepened. As he grappled with the weight of his destiny, your presence became a source of solace and understanding. Late nights were spent beneath the stars, the two of you seeking refuge in each other's arms.

One evening, as the desert winds whispered tales of destiny, Paul looked at you with a mix of vulnerability and determination. "Y/N, I may be the Kwisatz Haderach, but my heart belongs to you. Our love will be the anchor as I navigate the complexities of this path."

You smiled, a reassurance that transcended words. "Paul, no prophecy can diminish the love we share. The threads of fate may guide your journey, but our connection is a beacon that lights the way."

As Paul embraced his destiny, the sands of Arrakis witnessed a love story that defied the limitations of prophecy. Together, you and Paul Atreides forged a path that merged ancient wisdom with the unwavering power of love—a journey that echoed through the sands of time, leaving an indelible mark on the destiny of Arrakis.

[musedeluce]

Money "Troubles" (Sylus x Reader)

A/N: Happy Birthday Sylus! (This has been an Idea of mine for a while lol I just so happened to write it now) I've seen other, lovely fics where Sylus spends money on MC and wants them to spend his money on themselves. But personally the thought of spending someone else's money is so distasteful to me, I really hate the thought of it. My idea of Luxury and Decadence is the same as MC in this fic, so I wondered how the LI's would deal with that. (l do plan to do the others!) Anyway - Some Musings about money, a pragmatic MC who’s definitions of Luxury differ from Sylus’s and how he deals with that. This is more like small vignettes tied together and not a full fic, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“5 Million, otherwise they’ll think I’m broke.” Sylus’s deep voice sounded in your ear, and you couldn’t help but snort under your breath.

“Or they’ll think you’re stupid, for paying way more than it’s worth.” You whispered, knowing only he could hear it. But since it was his decision and his money, you bought the protocore for 5 million, ignoring the pit in your stomach at the thought of spending that much of someone else’s money. Little did you know, that small exchange would initiate a domino of events, a single thread in the tapestry of your relationship with Sylus.

・・・

Sylus sighed, looking down at his phone, the notification from his bank taunting him. Earlier, he had given you his card, insisting you go out and buy clothes for an upcoming event in the N109 Zone - Black market gala, information hub, the usual for his line of work. You would be accompanying him of course, as your goals aligned. He made sure of that. Apparently, the implication that there was no limit to what you could spend was lost on you. In fact, he wanted you to get whatever expensive designer clothes and accessories your heart desired. Which is why the notification that you spent 187 dollars at a thrift store bothered him so. When you arrived for the mission prep at his place, he took the opportunity to tease you.

“187 dollars? Who knew you had such expensive tastes, Kitten.” It backfired for him, though, as you winced.

“I’m sorry, I tried to keep the cost as low as possible. I can pay you back!” Sylus internally facepalmed. There was no way he was going to have you pay back that paltry amount, especially when it had been such a battle to get you to use his card for this in the first place. He only succeeded when he framed it as work expenses, as if he had hired you, and listed out all the practical reasons for you to use his card, such as making sure your purchase history couldn’t be linked to activity in the N109 zone. (Which was why you mostly used cash when you where there.)

He had to admit though, that your money sense was impressive. The outfit you had managed to put together from the thrift store was absolutely stunning. Everyone around you would be intimidated and impressed by you, as they should be. It probably would have cost at least 2,000 dollars, designer label and brand new. He supposed the cost didn’t really matter as long as you were happy, but he ached to see you in the lap of luxury, as he thought you deserved. As he looked at you though, he was love-struck. Sylus felt incredibly lucky to be at your side, and happy that you wanted him there.

・・・

Concerned, you look at Sylus, who’s expression is displeased, as if he had just swallowed a lemon. Raising an eyebrow you asked him - “Are you alright?”

“Sweetie, you live on how much a month?” He was appalled, and you didn’t help the situation by misunderstanding the reason for his dismay.

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s really low, all things considered. With my hunter’s salary it’s easily doable and I have enough to put in savings, an emergency fund and for fun afterwards.” Your smile is radiant as you continue. “I’m grateful to be in a comfortable position.” A smile grows across Sylus’s face in response, because he really does admire you and is proud of the work you do. He just thinks you deserve any luxury you could ever want.

“Of course you have everything handled. I’d expect nothing less of you, kitten.”

・・・

The crux of the matter was, of course, that you and Sylus had very different ideas of luxury and decadence. To you, things like buying the more expensive foods while grocery shopping, splurging on small treats, and sometimes going out were all luxuries to you. But for him, things like a private chef, the newest model motorcycles, designer clothes, state of the art technology, and so on were all luxuries that he wanted to share with you.

His least favorite words to hear from your mouth are “I don’t need it.” You say it almost all the time when he tries to spend his money on you. It’s not a lie though, you genuinely are refusing his attempts to buy you some of these things because you truly do not need or want them. But sometimes, you graciously accept them. He loved it when you did. It made him feel wanted and accepted, as well as triumphant because he felt that you were receiving what you deserved.

・・・

The key was to figure out the common denominators when you accepted his gifts, which was easy enough as Sylus was a smart man, and one who paid particular attention to you. It was a fun game he played with himself, teasing you in the process.

You almost never turned down gifts, as long as you didn’t see him buy them, and as long as you didn’t feel like it was excessive. A single expensive bottle of a perfume you loved? A single set of jewelry? Small treats? Expensive dinners and outings he invited you to? All of those you’d let him pay, and accept. Buying the company that makes the perfume or all the jewelry he thought would suit you? Not accepted.

Every time he tried to get you to use his card it was a battle. You’d almost always refuse, only acquiescing if he framed it as necessary for work or as something you could do in order to help him.

You were loath to spend more for things that you thought they were worth. A designer name meant nothing to you. Multiple versions of something when you only needed one? Out of the question.

It seemed to come down to a balance, anything he provided seemed to be fine as long as it wasn’t something that made you feel obligated, or manipulated, something you thought he might use against you. (Not that he would, but you, your memories gone, didn’t know that.) The two of you were still learning about each other, it just so happened that he knew more right now.

・・・

It was simple - all he had to do was treat you as you deserved, like his most treasured connection, his partner, equal in all things and deserving only the best. He’d give you gifts that you would accept, things you found useful, things you wanted, never making you feel trapped. It was all up to you. Eventually you’d get used to it, and eventually he’d make sure you rose your standards, and wouldn’t question when he treated you to only the best. You’d come to expect it, as you should, he’d make sure of that. Sylus had resolved to be with you, his partner, his equal and he would always treat you like the treasured person you were to him, who deserved only the best that he could offer, happy to spend his days with you, and that would never change.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

[pastafossa]

"Do I Need To Beg?" (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, Fic) 🔥

Right so like a lot of other people, I saw that leaked trailer and had thots, mostly about Matt's new beard, and much like my thoughts on his coat, none of these thots are pure. This is pure fucking sin, in other words, one of the filthier things I've written, so scroll past if that's not your thing. Also thank you to my friends over in the Murdock's Tuna Team server, ya'll are the best fucking enablers ever.

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Chapter Summary:

“Welcome home, Mrs. Murdock,” he purred darkly, lazily dragging his tongue across his lips in a way that told you, quite clearly, what he was imagining. “If you need to shower or drink a glass of water, do it now. Because the second you enter this bedroom, you’re mine for the rest of the night. And I have no intention of letting you go until I’ve had my fill.”

Wordcount: 4.1k words

Warnings for this chapter, let's do this: oral f!receiving and a LOT of it like this is literally just a love letter to bearded Matt eating you out (Matt retains his 😺eating crown), brief oral m!receiving, Dom!Matt, Sub!Reader, bondage, overstimulation, subspace, dirty talk, PiV towards the end, Matt's new fucking BEARD none of us are ok

Matt with an oral fixation incoming, here have this:

Your trip out of town had lasted longer than you’d initially expected. 

Initially you'd only planned to be gone for ten days, but ten had abruptly been extended to an irritating fourteen with little notice. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything you could do about it, though Matt had reassured you over the phone that it was fine. While he missed you dearly and would have vastly preferred you back home and in his arms, he understood that things were out of your control. However, he did have one more thing to say before you’d both given your goodbyes, something that wound up eating at you for the rest of your trip in all the best ways. 

“Besides,” he’d murmured. “It’ll give me a little more time to work on my surprise for you.” 

What that surprise was had been a mystery, one he’d smugly refused to reveal no matter how much you’d tried to pry it out of him over the ensuing phone calls. It couldn’t have been a gift for your next wedding anniversary, which was still a few months away. Nor was it your birthday, or Valentine’s Day. As best you could guess, this was just one of those moments when Matt decided to give you something, just because he could, just because he wanted to, no prompting needed. That wasn’t an uncommon occurrence with him, one more thread in the tapestry made from all the many reasons you loved him. 

However, on the list of things you’d expected to find when you finally made it home, you hadn’t thought to include Matt standing shirtless in the bedroom doorway, his sweats slung low on his hips, his hair still damp from his shower. One corner of his mouth curled up into a wicked smirk, and oh, he knew. He knew, or he’d at least suspected what your response would be to his surprise, and you drew in a sharp intake of breath.

He’d grown a beard. 

You raked your gaze over it, taking in the way it seemed to change the angles of his jaw and his face, somehow adding a dangerous edge to his smile. What was more, there were little patches of grey scattered amidst the dark of it. You had no idea why, but something about those threads of silver only added to the building heat between your thighs, a fire that had started the second you’d seen him standing casually in the doorway, his beautiful body on open display just for you. 

How would it feel to touch him, cradle his jaw in your hands now? 

How would it feel when he pressed his lips to yours, to your throat?

And how would it feel as he made his way down, down, down, the rough scrape of his beard lighting you up as he drifted towards one of his favorite places on your body? 

Your shiver drew a rumble of satisfaction from him. He slowly rolled his head back, inhaling deeply, clearly savoring the scent of your arousal. 

“Welcome home, Mrs. Murdock,” he purred darkly, lazily dragging his tongue across his lips in a way that told you, quite clearly, what he was imagining. “If you need to shower or drink a glass of water, do it now. Because the second you enter this bedroom, you’re mine for the rest of the night. And I have no intention of letting you go until I’ve had my fill.”

You were pretty sure you’d never downed a glass of water and gotten into the shower so quick in your life.

Matt kept his promise. The second you stepped out of the bathroom, he was on you, his beard a deliciously unfamiliar sensation as he caught your face between his hands and pressed his mouth hungrily to yours. That wild kiss didn’t stop at just one, your lips separating only to meet again a half-breath later, over and over again. The two of you only grew more frantic with every second that passed, hips beginning to rock, bodies swaying towards each other, until you were both left gasping, frantic and breathless, hands groping desperately across whatever bared skin either of you could reach. 

“Bed.” The word was a low growl against your lips, his hand wound loosely around your throat, one thumb up under the hinge of your jaw to force your head back for him. One of your hands, meanwhile, had slipped back and down beneath the hem of his sweats, blatantly groping at the thick curve of his ass. He let out a rough groan that you eagerly swallowed down, the skin around your mouth already burning from the rasp of his beard where it had rubbed against you. “Fuck—Bed. Now.” 

He wasn’t going to get an argument from you. 

It was a short, stumbling walk from there to the bedroom. Neither of you bothered to keep your hands off each other, your fingers fisting in his damp hair as he pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to that special spot under your jaw that made your legs shake, Matt seemingly eager to drink the remaining droplets of water from your skin. You should have guessed his plans when you noticed the towel on the bed. But it was hard to focus with the tantalizing burn of his new beard dragging across the delicate skin of your throat, and with the taste and scent and touch of him filling your senses after a long two weeks apart. It felt like there was nothing in the world but him, nothing but the scent of cinnamon and copper and salt, the warmth of it so rich you couldn’t help but gasp with it as he herded you backwards until at last, you both found the bed. 

The world lurched, and just like that you were pinned beneath him, the broad, heavy weight of him easily trapping you against the mattress, not that you minded. Your ragged moan of his name seemed to hang in the air, your fingers still tangled in his hair. God, your cunt was practically dripping already as you lifted your hips, trying to rock up against him in invitation. You'd been thinking of this the entire time you'd showered. He had to have sensed it. “Matt, sweetheart, please.” “I’ve been thinking about this since you left,” he purred in your ear, his breath a rush of burning embers before he started down your body. The moment he reached your bare breasts, he pressed his face between them, the rasp of his beard making you shiver. He inhaled deeply, dragging your scent deep into his lungs. That inhale led to a hitched, delighted moan, his hips rocking down against the mattress. Without warning, he turned his head and eagerly drew one of your nipples into his mouth. The greedy suction of his mouth when paired with the bristling scratch of his facial hair made you whine, writhing as best you could where you were trapped beneath the heavy weight of muscle and bone. But despite the way you offered up your chest in invitation, he had other plans, quickly releasing your breast to slide further down your body. His voice dropped into something low and sinful, then, soft as silk against your skin. “And I’ve missed this sweet pussy of yours, sweetheart.” He placed a tender, innocent kiss against your hip, the gentle nature of it at direct odds with the obscenity of his words. It was a combination that left you burning up, your breath hitching as he pointedly lifted one of your legs to drape it easily over his shoulder. He directed his blank gaze back up towards your own, his lips curling up into a feral grin. “So I’m going to see how many times I can make you come with my mouth tonight. And I’m not stopping until you’ve soaked everything underneath you.” 

Oh god—

Your eager moan and the fresh flood of arousal between your legs was the only answer he needed. He let out a quiet hiss before diving in, his tongue burying itself between your folds for one heavy lap up your cunt, the first taste of you he’d had in weeks. And with a rough moan that matched yours in volume, he threw one arm over your hips, and settled in.

And there he stayed, his face buried between your thighs, for hours. 

You lost track of your orgasms after you came for the third time, three of his fingers hilted deep inside you, his tongue lapping firmly, determinedly at your clit. It had been impossible to resist between that and the rhythmic,  rough scrape of his beard against the inside of your thighs—a sweet-edged pain you were quickly growing addicted to. You came so hard you saw spots at the edge of your vision, came so hard you left a puddle on the towel beneath you, your startled cry loud enough to wake the neighbors. Your brain didn’t even know what to do with that kind of pleasure, your thighs snapping shut around his head, your whole body writhing as the pleasure washed over you in uneven waves.

But Matt didn’t so much as slow. If anything, he simply opened his mouth wider, drank from you even faster, swallowing down that flood as if you were the sweetest of wines. The moment he tasted your orgasm, one that drenched his beard and mouth, his eyes snapped shut, his hips bucking against the mattress. A wild, shaky moan tore from his throat as he came with you, soaking his sweats, the rhythm of his mouth growing clumsy and uneven.

Yet still, he didn’t stop, despite the fact you'd both come. All it took was a few breaths before he was back at it. He seemed almost mindless now, focused only on taking, greedy and insatiable as he forced your body and his to start the climb yet again.

You lost control over your body not long after, your reactions instinctive and uncoordinated. Somehow you found your hands back in his hair, soft, sweat-soaked strands sliding through your fingers. You weren’t sure what you meant to do then, whether you wanted to push him away from your overstimulated body or pull him in even closer, ride his face the way you wanted. Either way, he wound up deciding for you. 

“Seems to me like someone can’t control herself.” He braced one hand firmly against your abdomen, and though he couldn’t see you, you still felt pinned by his gaze and the almost drunken little quirk of his lips. Even in the low light, you could see how his beard and mouth glistened, slick with the taste of you. “Do you need the rope, sweetheart? Do you want me to help you?” 

There wasn’t a chance in the world of you remaining still without that rope, not if he intended to keep going. And you both knew it. 

“Yes, please,” you whispered, your eyes fluttering closed as he clumsily rose from his place between your legs. Despite the lingering oversensitivity in your body, the sudden absence of his mouth still made you whimper. You just—you needed more, the promise of it keeping the tide of your arousal from fully easing.  

“What a good girl, admitting you need help,” he crooned, crawling up the bed far enough to reach the nightstand, pausing only to brush his lips against yours, the scent of your sex clinging heavily to his beard and mouth. He opened the drawer and dug around for a moment, until he finally drew free a length of red silk rope, testing it out in his hand. Once he was satisfied, he began to loop the rope around your wrists. “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure you can’t move. Because I meant what I said. I’m not letting you up until I’m finished with you, and I’m nowhere near done, sweetheart.” 

The moment your wrists were properly tied, he placed his knees on either side of you, rising up to hook the length of rope to the hook set into the wall. But that put something else within reach of your mouth, and all the grinding he’d done against the bed had managed to drag his soaked sweats down just far enough to expose his cock. He was already half-hard again, the head slick and dripping, flushed dark and tempting. 

In that moment, you needed to taste it. 

The noise he made as you darted your head forward and took the tip of him into your mouth was inhuman, one part choked gasp and one part snarl. You suckled at the broad head eagerly, rapid little licks of your tongue against his slit to draw out more of the precum leaking steadily into your mouth, trying to get as much as you could before he could stop you. He wound up hunched over the top of you, one hand braced against the wall, the other fisted in your hair to hold you against him. And the harder you sucked, the more his rough growls and snarls shifted into high moans and soft little whines, his hips bucking instinctively, helplessly forward, pressing his cock deeper into the warm, welcoming wet heat of your mouth. Even those powerful thighs of his started to shake.

If you did this right, he’d come in no time at all. 

But it was the creak of the ropes as you instinctively reached for him that seemed to snap him out of it. 

Just like that, your head was wrenched back by his hand in your hair, his cock sliding free from your lips with a wet pop, saliva dripping from the corner of your mouth, and down onto your chest as you stared blearily up at him. Chest heaving, dark eyes burning, he slowly leaned down until his lips hovered mere millimeters from yours. But even though his lips hadn’t made contact, his beard did, the faintest brush of bristling hairs tickling against your overheated skin until you couldn’t help but moan. 

“And this,” he grit out, “is why you’re being tied: because you can’t keep your hands or your mouth to yourself.”  

“I’m sorry,” you whined, trying to nuzzle at him in apology. He dodged your mouth, his hand tightening in your hair in warning. This time, at least, you listened, rolling your head back into his touch, trying to make up for what you’d done, submit like he wanted. “I’m sorry, Matt. I just wanted a taste, I needed you so bad.” 

“If you’d asked like a good girl, maybe I’d have given it to you. Now you’re going to have to make it up to me.” He abruptly let go of your hair, climbing back down your body, ignoring the way you thrashed and twisted. Once he was back in place, he roughly shoved your thighs apart, dropping back down between your legs like he belonged there, claiming that space for himself. “Do I need to beg?” you choked out, practically shaking when he caught the thin, delicate skin of your inner thigh between his teeth, sucking hard. He lingered there for a long moment as you moaned and yanked desperately on the ropes, but it was no use. He was in control, not you, and you knew he wouldn’t let go until he’d left his mark, claiming this part of your body that belonged to only him. But what you weren’t expecting was for him to let go… and then tip his head, sliding his cheek, and his beard along the newly sensitive skin. The burn of it sent you soaring, your cunt clenching around nothing, your back arching as you tried to offer your core up to his mouth. “I’ll beg! God, I will, Matt, just—” “I don’t need you to beg,” he growled, his lips curling until he’d bared his teeth. “I need you to scream.” 

Then his mouth latched onto your cunt again, relentless and inescapable no matter how much you writhed. It was torture, madness of the best kind, and it wasn’t long before something in your mind began to unravel, drawn right down out of your body and into his mouth to be swallowed down the Devil's greedy throat.

Things… got a little blurry after that. 

There was no tracking the time, not when one orgasm melded into the next, minutes and hours falling away beneath the merciless lap of Matt’s skilled tongue, the brutal curl of his thick fingers, the rough scrape of his beard against your thighs and cunt until everything burned with pleasure and pain that turned the edges of your vision a fractured white. There was no outside world, no thought left in your mind but his name, nothing but the mountains he dragged your increasingly exhausted body up, and the swift fall when he mercilessly shoved you over the edge, over and over and over until you were ready to lose your mind.

“Matt!” you sobbed, wrenching hard at the ropes binding your wrists. It didn’t make one bit of difference, the rope firm and unyielding where you were bound. Down between your legs, Matt slurped hungrily, drunkenly at your cunt, his face and throat drenched with your slick, a wide puddle on the towel beneath the place where his mouth connected to your body. The burn of his beard was almost unbearable now, but you didn’t know what to do about it. You weren’t even sure he could hear you at this point, his eyes glazed over and glassy, the broad laps at your slit and clit so instinctive and clumsy that you were half convinced he was lost in the same place you were, drunk off the taste of your pussy, off your repeated orgasms and pheromones that he’d been drenched in. 

Another finger joined the three he already had buried deep inside you. He’d been at this so long that your body parted for him with little issue, and god, god, you were so goddamn full, so trapped in the haze that all you could do was choke out another sob as all four of his fingertips rubbed firmly at that spot inside you. You were too tired even to close your legs around his head, but you could feel it—that final orgasm curling hot and inescapable inside you, so close now you could taste the fractured shards of it, tears streaming down your cheeks as your eyes snapped shut.  

“I think maybe you earned that taste you wanted,” he slurred, kissing lovingly at your clit like he might a lover, his lips parted just far enough to let his tongue brush against you. And god, it almost hurt, it hurt, your body so far beyond oversensitivity that even that light touch hit you like a bolt of lightning, your body jolting. “Not that you can answer me now. Or can you?”

All you could give him was a mindless whine. 

He chuckled, working his free hand down beneath himself as he lifted his hips. His mouth dropped open a moment later, face going slack against your cunt before he moaned loudly, his shoulder shifting rhythmically beneath your thigh, his eyes rolling shut. Was he—

He drew his hand up a moment later with a purr, his fingers now smeared and sticky with both your wetness and his, glistening softly in the low light. “What do you say, sweetheart? Would you like a taste? Because I would.”

You whimpered, tugging mindlessly at the ropes, and you—yes, yes, but your tongue couldn’t seem to quite form the word yes, because he still had the fingers of his other hand buried inside you, rubbing steadily at the spot that made you see stars. God, please, the mere thought of tasting your combined flavors on your tongue had you almost mad, your body a hairs-breadth away from coming. All you needed was a nudge—a brush of him at your clit, the taste of him on your tongue, and you’d tip over the edge. 

He clearly knew it, too. And you thought-you’d thought he would be offering his hand as he dipped back down to your cunt, but instead, he pulled his soaked fingers free from you with a sigh. Your cry was a broken thing, something thick with grief at feeling so empty when you were so close, more tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Shh, you’re alright, sweetheart, don't cry,” he crooned gently, hushing you as he crawled up over your body, nuzzling at your sweat-soaked skin. “Don’t worry. It’s only for a second. I won’t leave you empty. I promise. Almost done. Almost there. One more for me. You’re going to give me one more, honey.” But how, when you were so empty, when you didn’t have his mouth or his fingers, lost and—

He groaned as he began to slide his thick cock inside you. You’d been stretched so open by his fingers, by all of your orgasms over the past few hours, that he entered you with a delicious ease. The sloppy, wet squelch of his cock as he slid inside you would have made your cheeks burn if you’d had any sense left. 

“Shit,” he moaned, one hand braced beside your head, fisting in the sheets. One rock of his hips and he was buried as deep as he could reach, your cunt clenching around him as if it were trying to keep him there. You were too exhausted to lift your legs and lock them around his hips. All you could do was gasp and accept him, your eyes rolled back as you hovered on the edge. “Nn, there you go, sweetheart. There we go. Nice and-and full. Hold on just a little longer for me. Open your mouth, honey.” 

You parted your lips instantly, long past resisting, long past thinking. 

His fingers stroked gently against your tongue a moment later, allowing you to take in the combined musky taste of yourself, the bitter richness of his cock, and how it mingled and melded with the taste of his skin.

“Suck for me like a good girl,” he murmured, his other hand rising to wipe away a few of your tears. Once that was done, he settled his hand around your throat, as if he wanted to feel it when you swallowed. “Go on, sweetheart. You can have it.” 

You curled your tongue around his fingers, drawing them deep into your mouth with a grateful moan. The explosion of it across your tongue as you swallowed, the sheer obscenity of it, made you choke out a broken cry. His fingers were yanked back a moment later only to be replaced by his tongue snaking lazily into your open mouth, blatantly chasing your paired tastes with a filthy moan. All of it rolled up over you at once—his cock sliding up against that spot inside you, the whisper of pressure around your throat as his massive hand closed around it, the angle of his hips that let his body grind against your clit, the paired taste of you both filling your mouth as his tongue curled against yours, but… 

It was the harsh scrape of his beard against your skin that pushed you over the edge. 

Later, you wouldn’t remember the noise you made as you came, your body seizing as your orgasm slammed into you in one sudden rush. Your body went rigid, back bowing off the bed so sharply you felt something pop, your head thrown back as you lost yourself beneath a roaring tide of pleasure. Because this-this wasn’t something you rode, something you swam with, something that swept over you gently. This was something you survived, something you choked beneath, drowned beneath. You barely heard Matt’s shout, didn’t even notice the spreading heat as he came with you in slick pulses of warmth. You heard even less his slurred words of encouragement against your lips as your orgasm lingered in waves that just didn’t end, and you couldn't, you couldn't—

“There you go. Good girl, good girl, so good for me, let it all go sweetheart, I’ve got you, good gi—”

You weren’t quite sure where your mind went, then. But things cut out for a while.

How long you tapped out for was a mystery, the world around you faded into a soft black. All you knew was that when you finally floated back up from that quiet sea, your senses coming back to you one by one, Matt was there, your limp body cradled warmly against his chest. “Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, the sounds distant and still a little warped as he rocked you gently. He had to have untied you at some point, you thought blearily, since he was holding you now, his back against the headboard, your head tucked down against his neck. “Come on back, honey. Time to come back for me.”

You made a soft little noise of acknowledgement in your throat, all you really felt capable of at the moment, your eyes fluttering half open.  

“Hi there, sweetheart,” he hummed, nuzzling down warmly against your hair. One of his hands swept steadily up and down your arm, sensation that helped ground you, along with the easy rhythm of his breathing as he held you, the rasp of his skin against yours. “There you are, my good girl. You did so good, honey. Now you’ve got it. Take it slow. Breathe with me."

“Mmm.”

"That works." He huffed a quiet laugh, tipping your slack head back until he could brush his lips against your forehead. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your body feeling a bit like all your bones had just up and wandered off. Maybe Matt had sucked them out of you. “I got eight out of you tonight if you can believe it. A new record.”

“It’s,” you slurred thickly, “the… beard. I love it.” 

“I figured. And now I'm definitely going to keep it.” He nuzzled at you again, lifting one of your hands so he could knead gently at your wrist where you’d been tied. You'd probably have some bruises tomorrow considering how hard you'd yanked at the ties, but you'd wear them with pride. You always did. “And now you get the full aftercare treatment. Water, a snack, maybe a massage and a lot of cuddling before you fall asleep. I almost thought about drawing you a bath, but I’m not quite sure I trust you not to accidentally slide down into the water right now, even with me holding you.”

“...Fair.” You sleepily mashed your face against his throat, drawing the musky scent of sex and his skin deep into your lungs. You were still floating to a certain extent, your body sore and exhausted, but the comfort of his touch, the low rumble of his voice went a long way to soothing you. “Love you. Missed you.” 

“I love you and missed you, too.” He pressed a fond kiss to your wrist, letting out a contented sigh. “Let’s avoid being apart for a while.”

“Agreed.” 

[astraystayyh]

Invisible thread- one

pairing : minho x reader

genre : university au, academic rivals to lovers (rivals not enemies because they respect each other), slow burn, fluff, angst.

warnings : reader has a very bad relationship with her mother, insecurities, talk about murder but as a joke, mention of alcohol, reader has she/her pronouns.

summary : Your studies were your lifeline for as long as you can remember. What happens when Minho comes into your life and rips it away from you?

word count : 20k

Author's note : I've been working on this fic on and off for the past two months, so if you do enjoy reading, please let me know. asks, comments, reblogs i read them all and they truly make me the happiest <3 (also i based this off my own college experience, where we study two terms and there is one person on top of the class every semester)

part two

You have always been first in your class.

Not because you particularly enjoyed studying. You simply felt that your worth was solely tied to the marks on your papers.

You never wanted to crumble under the pressure of studies, to hole yourself up in your room for an assignment you won’t remember in a month. But achieving good grades was the only way for you to feel seen; to make someone stop in their tracks and acknowledge you. 

A simple “good job” that you preserved inside your mind, as a reminder that you did exist to other people. Considering that the majority of your life was spent in silence. 

Your mom put a roof above your head and food on your table, but she never asked about your day, nor did she seem to care. You felt as though you were no more important to her than the tapestry hanging on your wall.

At times, you imagined that if you stood close enough to that tapestry, you could merge with it as one. The intricate embroidery would wrap around you and draw you in. And your mother wouldn’t notice. She would regard you with the same indifference she showed towards that textile- a mere decoration, at times a nuisance when she had to dust it.

You always ate your dinner alone. When you scraped your knee, you tended to the wound by yourself. No one attended your childhood musicals, and you patted your back when you cracked an egg without dropping a shell into the bowl. 

You’ve come to learn since your young age that all your milestones, both small and significant, would be celebrated alone. 

On the rare times your mother would acknowledge your presence, she’d unleash a flurry of criticism your way as if she was eagerly awaiting the opportunity to strike you down. She'd toss crude comments over her shoulder as easily as a casual hello, leaving you feeling battered and bruised in her wake. 

You felt as if you were shoreline rocks, and your mother was the ocean. You never knew if she would be like a gentle tide, barely brushing against you, or an enraged storm, mercilessly crashing down on your being. And you weren't sure which one was worse: to be invisible or to be seen and despised.  

That’s why you grew up plagued with self-doubt. You made friends throughout your school years but you never allowed them to get close enough to really see you -you feared that they might glimpse the very thing your mother seemed to despise in you. 

Throughout your childhood, you were like soft clay in your mother's hands- pliable, and easy to mold. And she indented you, everywhere, carved in edges and dips where they should not have been ones. Handled you roughly when you should have been treated with care. And as the years went by, you hardened- much like clay, but her touch remained imprinted upon you. It was difficult at times to discern who you were and who she made you to be.

You tried to start anew when you went away to university; to rewire your brain into believing that you were enough- you exist and you shouldn't prove to anyone that you deserved to be alive. But her words haunted you, they were like skeletons in your closet- but the closet was you. You could never part from them.

So, you fell back into the same pattern of seeking good grades and congratulatory words from your professors. Every A+ you got infused you with a momentary sense of worthiness.

But unlike in high school, you weren't always the best. Your competition came in the form of a single man named Minho, who seemed to excel in every class you shared.

Minho was mostly quiet, but whenever he spoke, you found that his words carried weight. Your professors consistently agreed with his points, and you envied the confidence he exuded. You wondered what it must feel like to be so sure of oneself.

It wasn't until a month into the year that you had your first interaction with Minho. You were in your Constitutional Law class when your professor Kim brought up the notion of ‘Separation of Powers’. You were arguing that judges shouldn’t be included in the writings of law when you heard a scoff from the row behind you. You turned around, raising a brow at the culprit, "Is there something you’d like to say?" you asked.

And in response, Minho smiled lazily, an air of smugness surrounding him, "I just don’t agree." The professor urged him to explain himself, so he leaned back into his chair, eyeing you. "Judges are the ones who practice the law every day, and sometimes they find that none of the written texts fit their case. If they get involved in lawmaking, they can help address those gaps or uncertainties." 

"Who's to say that those judges aren’t biased or politically motivated? They’ll end up writing laws to fit their own preferences," you pointed out, raising an eyebrow at him. "We elect judges to interpret and apply laws, not make them. If they start writing laws too, we'll be violating the separation of powers between the legislative and judicial branches. That's what keeps our entire system from crumbling."

Minho rested his chin on his hand, tapping his cheek thoughtfully with his index finger. "Aren’t legislators prone to biases too? Your point doesn’t stand then," he challenged, tilting his head to the side, "and judges can participate without going overboard. They can provide input on proposed laws without actually drafting them. That way, we ensure that the laws are crafted with a clear understanding of how they'll be put into practice." 

"If your main concern is to ensure that the laws are impartial, we have people who work as consulting experts whose job is exactly that," you flashed him an innocent smile, firing back. "Also, wouldn’t these overstepping branches put the judges in a position to be perceived in a bad light? Is that what you want?"

Before Minho could respond, Mr. Kim intervened, putting an end to your debate, "Let's save this energy for your essays and see who can convince me more."

You gave a quick nod, swiveling in your seat without a backward glance. However, you could sense Minho’s gaze penetrating through your back- as if he was trying to read your most intimate thoughts. 

That was the first thing you noticed about Minho when he walked over to you. His eyes were brown, not a special color by any means. But they held a certain depth to them that seemed to draw you in like a black hole. You weren't sure what you would find on the other side, nor did you have any desire to find out.

He outstretched his hands towards you, stopping you in your tracks. "Minho," he introduced and your hand met his in a firm grip. The second thing you noticed about him was the coldness of his hand, as it wrapped tightly around your palm. 

Suddenly you were taken back to when you built a snowman for the first and last time. You were just seven and the ice was freezing, numbing your fingers as you worked. Your mother never told you that you should’ve worn mittens, or a thick jacket to fight off the cold when she saw you walking out of the house. The memory of your cold hands and the horrible illness that followed still left a bitter taste in your mouth, like an unripe fruit. With a jolt you dropped his hand, forcefully pulling yourself away from that memory. 

"Yn," you said back, and he smiled to himself, repeating your name slowly, each syllable dripping from his tongue.  

"We'll see who'll write the best essay, right?" he asked, clearly challenging you. There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes that reminded you of a child gazing up at cotton candy. 

That was the third thing you noticed about Minho; how expressive his eyes were. They moved with his every word, punctuating them. 

He was infuriating but also amusing. You've never had a clear competitor in your life. Or maybe you had, but you didn't notice them. You were always so reclined on yourself, trying to survive the day, you didn't pay enough attention to your surroundings.

"You want to compete with me?" You asked, and he smirked, leaning against the door, arms crossed in front of his chest. "What? Scared you’d lose?"

"Please." You rolled your eyes at his taunting, "Don’t come crying when I win."

"We’ll see about that!" He shouted after you as you walked ahead, leaving him behind.

This essay was insignificant. A simple way for your professor to assess your knowledge and work approach. And yet, you found yourself staying up all night to complete it. There was no way you were going to let Minho take this one thing from you.

Who were you if not the best in your studies? You were deathly afraid to find out. 

Later on that week, the professor handed you your grade back, 98%. You turned around to show Minho your mark, and so did he. You surpassed him, only by mere percents. "I told you so," you smiled cheekily and he pouted, holding a hand to his heart as if your grade wounded him.

"I'll beat you next time", he mouthed and you chuckled, "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

✹✹✹

The first time you studied with Minho was in a cat café near campus, called Limbo, about two weeks after your initial interaction. You stumbled upon it serendipitously while strolling through your university town. You couldn’t study at home, since you were easily distracted in there, and the eerie silence of libraries often left you unsettled.

Limbo, however, offered the perfect middle-ground: it was calm, not overly crowded, and the buzzing of the coffee machine blended harmoniously with the occasional mewls of cats, which helped you concentrate better. 

You were sitting in a secluded corner table at the café's back, a sleeping black cat comfortably nestled in your lap when you sensed a shadow loom over you. You glanced up quickly to find Minho. He was clad in a grey hoodie sporting a bunny holding up its middle finger. You had to bite your cheek to suppress a grin at his clothing attire.

"What are you doing here?" He asked. 

"You know for someone smart you sure ask stupid questions," you remarked, already looking down at the papers scattered in front of you.

He huffed, taking a seat at the table right next to yours, "I can’t believe that of all places you’ve found this café to study in."

"My apologies, am I disturbing you, your highness?" You asked sarcastically, and in retort, Minho mimicked your words in a high-pitched tone. You threw the pillow right next to you at his head, and Minho swiftly ducked, easily avoiding it. He chuckled loudly while you glared at his laughing figure. That was the end of your conversation that day. 

From that moment forward, it became a routine for the two of you to study at Limbo, every Saturday, without fault. You didn’t explicitly plan on it, but it seemed that both of you found it comforting to work there. And you could also tell that, unlike you, it wasn’t Minho’s first time coming to Limbo. He was friends with the owner, a sweet middle-aged man who offered you pastries whenever you stayed there until closing. The cats seemed to know him too, they mewled at his feet whenever he entered and he always greeted them with a soft smile on his face. 

You didn’t talk much in those unofficial study sessions, the both of you were consumed by your own work. But you’d steal quick glances at him every now and then, the sight of him so concentrated only fueled you to work harder.

Admittedly, your competition left you feeling anxious for days on end at first. Each time Minho came out on top, you’d found yourself losing your grip. Your studies have been the one anchor keeping you afloat your entire life, and now, Minho was ripping it carelessly away from you. So, you resented him- you were human after all.

But then, you realized that Minho’s taunting wasn’t malicious. He wasn’t competing with you to hurt you, he was doing it for amusement only.

You've slowly started to learn that despite his relentless teasing, Minho had a gentle aura surrounding him. Glimpses of which occasionally emerged like rays of sunshine piercing through a thick cloud cover.

True, he chuckled when you accidentally bumped your head on the table while retrieving a fallen pen. Yet, you also noticed how he began to cover the table's corners with his hand whenever you bent down. He swiftly retracted his hand, seemingly believing you didn't notice, but you did.

During class presentations, he deliberately prepared challenging questions for you, urging you to study twice as hard to ensure no stone was left unturned. Yet, whenever the professor praised your performance, Minho offered a subtle thumbs-up as a gesture of support. He winked at you each time he got the right answer and you didn’t. However, when he noticed you struggling with a particular subject, he scooted closer and patiently explained it to you. He got up before you could thank him, swatting his arm in the air as if he didn’t do anything of significance. 

To show your appreciation, you bought him a drink that day he helped you—a simple gesture that sparked an ongoing game of "win a bet, get free food". You bet on who would receive the first mark on an assignment or who would finish an essay first- anything to further deepen the competition between you.

That's how you came to know that he loved puddings, among other things.

Curiously, as the months went by, your mind began to retain these little details about him. How his eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings when he blinked repeatedly during your conversations. How he glanced at the ceiling when lost in deep thought as if he was waiting for the answers to descend from the sky. Or how his lips take on the shape of an "o" while thinking of his response during one of your many debates. But you supposed that it was natural to take notice of such things when you spend countless Saturday afternoons with the same person.

You were still studying for someone else, in the sense that each time you stayed up working, it was solely to prove your worth to Minho. But at least unlike your mother, Minho's words never haunted you at night.

✹✹✹

Just like that, four months have gone by since you joined your university as a law major. It was nearing finals week and you were preparing it at Limbo. Minho was naturally present too, at his usual table right next to yours.

On the last weekend before the beginning of your finals, you were head-deep into your Criminal Law documents when Minho abruptly got up from his seat and settled in the chair in front of you.

"Yn," he whispers and you glance at him, "What?" 

"I have an idea."

"Keep it to yourself," you grin sarcastically, only for him to pick up your spoon and move it around in a threatening manner.

"Are you trying to scare me with a spoon?" you chuckle in disbelief.

 "Anything can be a weapon if you use enough force."

"Okay… that was creepy. What do you want?"

"The end of the first term is coming up. So, to celebrate our little rivalry-"

"It's not a rivalry if I’m always winning," you cut him off.

"Yeah, that’s why I have a fridge full of pudding."

"But-"

"Anyways, how about the top of the class takes the other out for dinner? A fancy one." He suggests, his gaze fixed on you.

"No, thank you. I already see you enough in classes."

"Didn’t think you wouldn’t up for a bet. Guess I was wrong," he remarks, a cheeky smile drawn on his lips. He knows you couldn’t possibly say no now.  

"Fine," you roll your eyes at his proud expression. "Prepare your wallet." 

"Mm, sure," he responds, before rising from his seat once more.

That day, you both lost track of time as you studied in Limbo until it closed down. When you finally stepped outside, stretching your tired limbs, you were met with the sight of falling snowflakes.

"Nooo, go away. I don't want to watch the first snow with you," Minho whines, referring to the superstition that watching the first snowfall with someone could spark love between the two of you. 

"As if I could ever love you," you laugh at the ridiculous idea, "that’d just be signing a death warrant."

You resume walking towards your apartment when suddenly something freezing and hard hits your back with enough force to make you stagger. Turning around slowly, you find Minho erupting in laughter, his body filled with uncontainable joy. He’s jumping and clapping excitedly, and for a fleeting moment, you can’t decide if your shock was from the impact or from how beautiful happiness looks on him. 

Snapping out of your daze, you swiftly retaliate by scooping up a handful of snow and hurling it at him. "Now you are cold too!" you shout, while he’s still laughing uncontrollably. 

Thus begins an impromptu snowball fight between the two of you. Unsurprisingly, you’re being competitive in this too, trying your best to strike each other before the other could recover. But Minho draws nearer to you, and in your desperation to win, you fall to the ground when he throws a snowball at your chest, gasping as if you’re in pain.

"Shit, did I hurt you?" Minho quickly kneels in front of you, concern evident in his voice. It surprises you for a moment- how worried he seems at the prospect of causing you pain.

But you shake that thought off and push him down to the ground, a proud smile on your face. In his fall, Minho instinctively reaches for you to steady himself, which ends up with you landing on top of him. Your faces are mere inches apart, and a soft gasp escapes your mouth at your sudden proximity.

Minho has a mole on his nose. You’ve never noticed that before. 

You quickly push yourself off of him, not enjoying being this close to somebody. "Why did you drag me down with you?" you grumble, shaking off the snow from your hair.

"Play stupid games, win stupid prizes," he cheekily stuck out his tongue, and you respond with the same childlike gesture before the both of you burst into loud laughter. The sound reverberates through your entire being, and it echoes in your mind long after the two of you go your separate ways.  

As you lay in bed that night, ready to drift off to sleep, a quiet realization dawns on you. This was the first time you've touched snow in since your childhood incident.

That unpleasant memory didn't cross your mind once. Instead, all you thought about was Minho’s infectious laughter, and the surprising warmth it stirred within you.

✹✹✹

You came first in your grade this semester.

True to his words, Minho texted you the name of the restaurant where you’d both meet to celebrate your win. As you got ready for your outing, you couldn’t help the nerves creeping up on you. Studying in silence next to Minho was something, going to a friendly dinner with him was another. You feared it would be too awkward and Minho would regret ever proposing such a thing.

So, as you sit in the refined BBQ restaurant waiting for him, you fidget with your hands, counting down to three in your head in an attempt to steady your breathing.

You were clearly not accustomed to existing with Minho outside of the confines of your studies.

"Did you wait long?" Minho asks as he finally pulls the chair in front of you and you shake your head no.

"Are you nervous?" he chuckles at your lack of words, and you frown, suddenly feeling defensive. "Why would I be nervous? This isn't a date."

"Who said anything about a date?" he smirks and you grab your fork threateningly, pointing it at him, "Don't say anything stupid or I will walk out."

"And stand me up on our first date? That's too mean.” He pouts, a hand on his heart and you can’t help but giggle at his antics. You were ridiculous for being nervous. This was Minho, the one person you’ve talked to the most since the start of this year. 

"What will you have?" he asks and you smile mischievously.

 "Most expensive thing on the menu."

"So you are only here for the food." 

"Well, it's certainly not for your company," you wink and he chuckles, his bunny teeth on full display. 

"And here I thought we were going to be civil with each other."

"When are we ever not?" you gasp dramatically and Minho swats your hand with the menu. "Just order whatever," you finally answer," I trust your food judgment."

"I could poison you, you know?" He smiles proudly and you roll your eyes at him, "Can’t you be normal, for once?"

Minho calls over the waiter and places your orders. The food is quick to arrive and Minho starts to grill up the meat, while you cut the Kimchi into smaller pieces. 

"Here," he puts the perfectly cooked rib onto your plate first and you smile at him, "Thank you."

"Eat up, don’t wait for me," he tells you and you nod, tasting the flavorful meat.

"Wow this is really good," you compliment and he smirks proudly at your words, "I know."

Minho places four other ribs for you, without eating one himself. You start to feel bad, so you grab his chopsticks, pick up the meat, and move it toward his mouth, "Open up."

"What?" He asks confused and you wave the food in front of his face, "Come on, you haven’t eaten anything."

Minho parts his lips slowly, and you feed the tender meat to him, before eating one yourself. You notice how his cheeks are slightly tinted pink now, and you account it to the intense heat of the grill.

"Oh, let's not talk about studies, my brain can't take another debate with you," you tell Minho in between bites and he grins at you, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "If you were to dispose of a body, how would you do it?"

"I think our next celebration will be in an asylum." you smile too sweetly at him and he stares at you pointedly, "Please, I know you've already thought about it."

"Fine. Probably in a deserted land. What about you?"

"I'd cut their bodies and then bury each part in a different forest. In a different city."

His answer came too quickly, and you pause in your tracks, "Should I be worried?"

"You are too cute to kill." His tone is sarcastic and you make a show of gushing at his compliment, clasping both of your hands in front of your heart, "Growing soft on me, Minho?" 

"Yeah, I’m basically sooo in love with you," he replies with a smirk and you roll your eyes at him, an amused smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"What's your favorite color?" you finally ask, changing the subject.

"Purple."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You'll buy me purple flowers?" He coos at you and you shake your head as you grab the utensil from his hand, to grill the meat your turn. 

"No. I'll paint your tombstone purple," you grin and he laughs loudly, eyes squinted close, and you can't find it in you to care that the people next to you are staring. 

"What's yours?" he asks when he calms down and you shrug, "Navy blue, I think."

"You do remind me of navy blue."

"And why is that?"

"When you look at it, at first glance, it looks like black. But the more you stare at it, the more layers you uncover. Just like you. There’s more to you than what meets the eye."

You grab your glass of water, gulping it down to hide the way your eyes just glossed over. You suddenly felt bare in front of Minho. How did he know?

You clear your throat, racking your brain for a way to move on from that question. "If you were to describe colors to a blind person, how would you do it?"

"Mm," he looks up at the ceiling as he mulls over your question, "I’d say that yellow is the feeling of eating ice cream on a sunny day, in an amusement park. Your fingers are sticky but your cheeks ache from how much you smiled that day."

"Yellow is carefree and happy."

"Exact. Now your turn, red."

"I’d say that... Red is the thrill that rushes through your veins when you do something you are passionate about, you know? It’s what makes our blood boil and our heart race. The very essence of our humanity."

Minho smiles softly at your words, seemingly agreeing with your description. "Don’t you think it would be easier if we simply asked, what color are you feeling today, instead of a 'How are you'?" He questions and you tilt your head to the side, "What do you mean?"

"Well, you could say, I feel like that moss green that no one seems to pay attention to. Or, I feel bright yellow as if the world's energy is stored inside me."

"And right now, how do you feel?"

"I feel orange, not the ugly orange." He precises and you chuckle, "the orange that paints the sky when the sun is about to dip into the ocean."

"A bittersweet orange, an ending that instantly strings along a new beginning. And you don't have time to rest."

Minho places his chin on his palm, eyeing you curiously, "Is that what you want? To rest?"

"Yeah." You admit quietly, "Don't you sometimes wish that the world would just stop, for a few seconds? Just like in a song, right before the beat drops. That silence, I wish I could live inside of it."

"I do too."

You both hold each other’s gaze for a while after that. You felt as if he was keeping you captive with his brown eyes, and he was slowly peeling each of your layers, in silence, as you were peeling his. For the first time, you think that you and he are similar, more than on a studies level. There was a part of his soul that understood yours perfectly. And it felt good, to be understood, for once.

"If you lived in this silence, what would you be doing?" he asks, breaking the serene quiet that surrounded you.

"I’d open a café that had books. And there'd be a little space, where people could paint. Or do pottery. And I’d have cats in there too." You reply excitedly, hands moving around in the air, you end up missing the way Minho gazes fondly at you before his smile morphs into a smirk.

"Please tell me you won't be cooking."

"Shut up. What about you?"

"I’d be a dancer."

"You dance?!" you whisper-shout and he frowns at the surprised look on your face. 

"Yeah. Why are you looking at me like this?"

"I just never expected it. Can I-"

"No." he cuts you off immediately and you pout. 

"I didn't even finish."

"I knew what you were going to say."

"Please, I won't make a sound I’d just watch. Pinky promise.” He grabs your now outstretched pinky with the tip of his index and thumb, lowering it down. 

"I’d only grant you this wish when you’re on your deathbed."

"Bold of you to assume you'd still be around."

"Death might be around the corner."

"Stop it."

"Close your door tonight."

"You are deranged."

Minho chuckles at the crestfallen look on your face, "I’ll think about it."

Just like that, three hours of talking have gone by, the conversation flowing easily between the two of you. And when you finally leave the restaurant, Minho grabs you a cab and you wave him off with a smile. You couldn't lie to yourself, you had a really good time with him. You liked to think that Minho was no longer just a rival, but a possible friend.

But now that you were laying in your bed, you couldn’t help but curse Minho in your brain. His repetitive talk about murder made you paranoid, and now every creak in your apartment made you feel as if death was really right around the corner. 

You decide to text him, figuring that if you couldn’t sleep because of him, you could at least disturb him for a bit. 

Yn : I hate you I'm paranoid from your murder talk

Minho : Poor baby

Yn : Is that you at my door?

Suddenly your phone rings, the shrill sound echoing around your apartment. It was a Facetime call from Minho. You panic for a few seconds, before remembering that you just spent your entire night with him. A call can’t be more daunting than a real-life meeting. 

"See, I’m in my home," he tells you as soon as you pick up and you laugh.

"It's pitch black, I can't see."

"Just say you miss my face." You can’t see him but you can clearly hear the proud grin in his voice. 

"What's there to miss?"

"Are you actually scared?" Minho asks gently and you clear your throat, feeling ridiculous all of the sudden. 

"There is a tree right outside my window and it keeps rustling from the wind," you grumble and Minho laughs at you. 

"Trees can't hurt you."

"No shit Sherlock."

"Close your eyes.” He instructs and you frown at his words. 

"Why?"

"I’ll tell you a story."

"Fine.” You close your eyes tentatively. It’s quiet for a few seconds and you feel yourself relax slightly. 

"So, I bought a sous-vide machine and-"

"Is your bedtime story going to be about meat?"

"Yes?” He replies as if it’s an evidence, “Now be quiet." You pretend to zip your mouth and Minho faintly giggles, before resuming his story. "So, I was saying. I bought one and I wanted to experience different kinds of meats. So, I bought a 30-day aged one and a 58-day aged one and I cooked them both."

"What did you use?" you ask quietly. 

"Just garlic, and thyme, I didn't want to overpower the taste of meat. Anyways I cooked them, but I didn't have plastic bags so I had to go out and buy them."

"Mm," you hum in acknowledgment. You could feel your nerves slowly dissipate with Minho's every word. His story might be ridiculous but his honey-coated voice compensated for it, wrapping around you like a protective cocoon. 

"And I found pudding there so I had to buy it."

"Obviously," you whisper. Sleep was knocking on your door, but paradoxically you tried to fight it off. You wanted to hear the rest of Minho’s story. 

"And I went back home and I cooked it, then I plated it nicely with vegetables that I sauteed with butter and garlic. Just mushrooms and potatoes, nothing too fancy. Again, my main focus was the meat. But there wasn't a difference between the two. They tasted the same for me, for some reason. And I didn't like this because the aged one was very expensive. Maybe I was scammed. Honestly, that butcher looked kind of suspicio..."

Your quiet snores make Minho pause in his tracks, and he laughs quietly. You did end up falling asleep. He can't see your face clearly, but he can see its outline and he stares at you for a while. You look peaceful.

He goes to hang up but his finger hovers over the 'end call' button. You aren't talking, but your hums are quiet enough that they fill up the space around him. It calms him down, and he lets his head fall on the pillow, his phone lying beside him.

He closes his eyes, thinking that maybe he just found the silence you talked about earlier on. 

You just made his world stop.

✹✹✹

The second semester had just started and with it the return of frat parties. You were excited at the prospect of going to one with your new friend Mina. You met her in the library when you both went to grab the same book. You quickly apologized but she waved you off, handing you the book with a huge smile on her face. She was bubbly, like a human serotonin boost, and she started gushing about how much she loved the author. You saw her again in the campus cafeteria, and she skipped towards you as if you've both known each other your entire life. That was the start of your friendship.

You walk into the frat house, both your arms encircling each other. The flashing lights of the party blind you for a moment, and it takes you a while to adjust to the loud music bouncing off of the walls. But you like it, it was like a shield from the outside world and its problems. 

You feel yourself letting loose in the crowd, swaying your hips to the music. Mina spins you around and you laugh, dancing with no care in the world. It was just the both of you in that instant. 

Mina spots Jeongin in the crowd, a friend of hers that she had an immense crush on. You couldn’t blame her- he was very attractive; his easy smirk and his blonde tousled hair earned him lots of appreciative looks from the people around him. But when his eyes locked with Mina’s, you found that his face morphed into a beautiful smile, that made his dimples look on full display, as if it was only reserved for her.

“Go get your man!” You shout in her ears, so she’d be able to hear you. 

“What are you talking about?” She yells back, but you could see the nervous smile on her face.

“He likes you! Go talk to him!”

“I don’t want to leave you alone. We came together!” She clasps your hand in hers and you smile touched by her kind spirit.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll go to the kitchen to get some drinks. Go have fun!”

“You are sure?” She asks, her eyes darting between you and Jeongin, who was still looking at her, and her only. 

“Yes! Go!” You say, gently pushing her away. Mina jogs up to Jeongin who greets her with a side hug. He quickly glances at you and you shoot him a thumbs-up, to which he grins. You loved playing Cupid.

With that, you decide to head to the kitchen to grab a drink. You pick a beer from the fridge, double-checking if the can is closed before opening it. 

You lean on the countertop, sipping on your drink while you watch the crowd, humming along each time a song you knew played. You enjoyed watching people dance freely from afar, with no apparent care in the world.

You feel someone stand next to you and you brace yourself, getting ready to tell the person off if they decide to bother you. You didn’t have the energy for mindless flirting. But then, you smell the cologne that has lingered around you for the past term- Minho. You haven't seen him since your dinner. That was a month ago.

"Fancy seeing you here," he greets as he leans on the counter right next to you, his eyes fixated on the mingling bodies.

You turn around to face him, faking an outraged gasp, "Are you following me?"

"Mmm. You look nice", he compliments and you smile cheekily, "I know."

"Won't tell me I look nice too?" he smirks, leaning closer to your face. "Someone didn’t get enough compliments tonight?" You pout, placing a hand on your heart in mock concern.

"I did, but I want to hear it from you. You’re the only sensible person in this room."

"You look nice. Now leave me alone."

"Come on, I know you can do better than that", he jokes and you roll your eyes, muttering “You’re annoying”, under your breath.

Still, you comply, placing your arms on top of the counter and leaning your head on them to get a better look at him. He does the same, smiling, and you both stare at each other for a while after that.

The strobing lights dance on Minho’s face, casting enticing shadows on him. You've always known he was a beautiful man; you've looked into his eyes far too many times in your heated conversations. But this time was different, there was no cheeky smirk on his face nor a furrow in his eyebrows. He was simply looking at you, and it made a pool of warmth huddle in your belly. You feel yourself relax under his gaze, everything around you seemingly melts away.

You weren’t wrong when you thought that his eyes were like a black hole, pulling you in. But this time, you realize that you didn’t mind knowing what was on the other side. On the contrary, you longed for it. 

"I like your eyes right now. They remind me of the night sky. Black, with tiny little stars littered in them," you finally say.

Minho is taken aback by your words, he wasn't expecting you to compliment him, let alone to tell him something so special. He can feel his cheeks burn red at your words, feel his heart hammering in his chest. He's afraid you can hear it too.

He doesn't know what to say, so instead he clears his throat, plastering a smirk on his face, "I heard better." He hasn't. This is the first genuine compliment he's ever gotten.

"Oh, fuck off," you laugh and he joins you. The music was loud and yet the only sound his ear seemed to pick up was your laugh.

"Are you here alone?" He asks, and you shake your head no, "Came with my friend Mina."

"Did she leave you by yourself?" He frowns and you feel yourself warm up at his worried tone. "I told her to go talk to Jeongin."

"Next time, don’t stay alone."

“Fine, Dad.” You chastise and he stares pointedly at you, "I’m serious, yn."

You take another swing of the beer before turning your body fully towards Minho. After a few beats of silence, you finally ask a question that has been on your mind for a while. "Why do you say my name this way?"

"What way?" He questions and you shrug, "Slowly. People used to always rush it but you don’t."

"Well, it’s a pretty name. It deserves to be pronounced as a whole."

You beam at his words; you smile so brightly it makes his heart skip a beat. This is the first time you’ve grinned this widely at him, no hand in front of your mouth as if to hide it. He did notice how you were a reserved person outside of class, as if you were afraid of taking up too much place. But he could tell you were slowly unraveling, growing bolder with each passing month. He wanted to tell you that if people like you spoke more, the world would be a far better place. 

But he couldn't bring himself to say all of this, so he forced those bubbling words down his throat. "I’m hungry," he whines instead and you laugh at his pout. "I'm kind of craving a greasy pizza."

"Should we go buy it? You can tell Mina to come so we can walk her back."

"I’ll ask her."

You shoot Mina a text, asking her where she was and telling her about your plan. She replies that she’s with Jeongin who just offered to take her home, so you could leave without her.

"We can go." You tell him and he nods. Minho shrugs his leather jacket off, gently placing it on your shoulders. His warmth engulfs you and you sink further into it. His arm hovers around your shoulder not touching you as he leads you out of the party. He has never touched your body, you note, it's like he was everywhere and nowhere at once.

You both walk to an open parlor near the frat house, and you order a Margarita pizza to share. You sit down on a nearby bench to eat it- the night breeze too liberating to pass up on.

As you both finish eating, a cat with white and orange stripes all over her body approaches the both of you cautiously, and you pat her head softly. "Aren't you the cutest thing ever?" you coo and Minho chuckles as he scratches the cat’s chin. She purrs at his touch appreciatively, and you smile at the soft look on his face. 

"Never knew you to be this gentle", you giggle and Minho shushes you, "Let's not do this in front of the cat."

"Why are you acting as if we are a divorced couple and she’s our child."

"Easy, yn. You make it sound as if you want me to marry you."

"Now you're just projecting," you chastise and he laughs, eliciting giggles from you. He had a melodic laugh, you noticed, and you always felt a surge of pride whenever you made him close his eyes and tip his head from laughter. You felt as if it's a sight only you can see.

"I have three cats", he says softly and you gasp, "Really? We spent all of our Sundays in a cat café and this is when you tell me?"

"I only tell my friends."

"So we're friends now?" You gush and he rolls his eyes at you, "I take it back."

"What’s their names?" You ask curiously and his eyes soften at your question- you could easily tell he loved them dearly.

"Soongie, Doongie, and Dori. They are rescues."

"That’s very sweet of you Minho."

"Most of my scars come from them though," he chuckles but you sober up at his words, quietly scratching the cat's ears.

"What’s on your mind?" He asks and you glance at him. It was scary how well he’s starting to know you. But it was also nice; to be known is to exist, after all.

"I just... Sometimes I wish that memories would leave physical scars on you. Because at least then, you could treat them, put a band-aid on, and watch them fade away day by day. Because when the scars are emotional, you can’t treat them, you know? And someday someone brings up a name or a place, or you smell a certain scent, and suddenly they reopen as if no time has gone by at all.”

Minho stays silent for a while, mulling over your words. You don't mind, you weren't expecting him to comfort you. You just needed to free those words from the mental prison you've held them in for so long.

"Do you know Kintsugi?" he finally asks and you shake your head no.

"It's a Japanese art. They put back together broken vases with molten gold. It represents strength despite our flaws."

"That sounds nice," you sigh wistfully and he nods. 

"It is. When you look at that vase, you know that it was once broken, but it doesn't take away from its beauty, on the contrary, it adds to it. Scars, whether they are emotional or physical are there for a reason. They remind us of how we pushed through whatever life threw at us."

"Am I supposed to be grateful I survived this?" You chuckle lowly, as your hand scratches the cat’s ear. Your fingers brush against Minho’s and you hesitate for a few seconds before moving them away.

"I wouldn't say grateful for what you went through," he speaks once again, "but grateful to yourself. At the end of the day, the reason why you're still here is you. You put yourself back together," he then bumps his elbow into your side softly, "and hey, even if your scars reopen there will come a time when they wouldn’t anymore. Sometimes, it takes a while to be okay again."

This was Minho’s way of telling you that someday it wouldn’t hurt anymore. That someday you’d be okay. And you needed to hear that. You needed to hear someone else other than yourself tell you that.

"Thank you, Minho, I needed that", you smile at him and he grins back at you before his smile turns to a smirk. "I charge 15 dollars for the hour by the way."

"Oh, come on! You didn't even say something revolutionary." You are lying. Minho's words will echo in your mind long after this night- a beacon of light to hold onto.

"Oh, so now it’s no longer ‘I needed that’. Tsk," he jokes a smirk still plastered on his face.

"Okay, Mr. Therapist. I’ll pay for your coffee tomorrow, sounds good?"

"I should have you as my client more often," he winks and you laugh, head tipped back. You were grateful more than ever for his teasing, loving how it wasn’t awkward between you after your discussion.

"You are a good listener." You tell him as you stand up, dusting your pants.

"I’m good at everything," he grins cheekily at you and you roll your eyes playfully, "And here I thought we were having a moment."

You both start walking side by side toward your home when Minho speaks again. His tone is quiet as if he wasn’t sure he wanted you to hear him. "About earlier, your compliment, I mean. I suppose I didn't thank you. So, thank you," he scratches the tip of his ears and you shrug nonchalantly. "It's the truth. You might get on my ass but that doesn't change the fact you are a pretty man."

He doesn’t respond and you tug at the sleeve of his shirt playfully, "You won't tell me I’m pretty too?"

"But then I’d be lying."

"Asshole."

"Pretty," he replies without missing a beat.

You laugh loudly, hand tightly clutching your stomach and he joins you. There is a newfound lightness in your steps now. Unbeknownst to him, Minho just managed to lift a small weight off your shoulders, allowing you a brief moment of respite.

"This is me," you say when you arrive in front of your apartment block, "Thank you for walking me home."

"Of course. Don't dream of me."

"Idiot," you laugh waving him off and he does the same. "Oh, and text me when you get home safely!" you shout before heading inside.

For the second time this night, Minho is blushing profusely at your words. He sighs to himself, waiting patiently until a light turns on in your place to leave.

✹✹✹

It’s been two months since the start of the new term. You still went to Limbo, every Saturday with Minho- even when you didn’t need to study. 

Sometimes you’d just grab a book and you’d both read, a cat lazily lounging at your feet. You started sitting at the same table too; you figured it was easier since one of you always pays for the other. When you have a bet, but also randomly, when you notice that the other person is feeling down and you want to cheer them up without saying anything.

That's why you bought three bubble teas for Minho in a row. He was quieter these days, you noticed. He didn’t talk to you nor did he retort back in class. It was the first time you’ve seen him this way. As if he was a simple shell of the person he usually is. 

You were walking out of your Communications Strategies class, which Minho weirdly didn’t come to when you realized that it was pouring rain. You smile lightly to yourself, grateful since you thought about picking up an umbrella this morning. 

As you walk through campus, everyone around you running to take shelter, you spot someone sitting on a bench, completely drenched from the rain. Their head is hung low and you frown to yourself. They would surely get a cold if they stay there.

But then the person raises their head and you quickly realize it's Minho. You jog up to him instinctively, standing in front of him and shielding him from the rain with your umbrella.

He looks up at you and you feel your heart clench. His eyes are void of emotion and he stares blankly at you. "Are you okay?" you ask and he blinks at your words, as if his brain hadn't yet registered that you were there.

"Yeah."

"You don't look like it", you tilt your head to the side and he looks down again. You have to strain to hear his next words, muffled by the rain and his mumbling, "I don't want to talk, yn."

You decide to put away your umbrella and sit down next to him on the bench. The rain falls rapidly on both of you, and you feel yourself grow cold from it. 

"What are you doing?" He questions, turning to the side to look at you.

"Enjoying the rain. It is kind of stupid that we have umbrellas, right?"

"You'll catch a cold."

"I mean we always complain about the drought and then when it rains, we hide from it. But it's really beautiful."          

"Stop, I don't want you to get sick."

"Well, neither do I. Let's go eat some soup. My treat."

"Yn, I don’t-"

"I thought you were smart enough to know I won't take no for an answer."

"But I-" you cut him off again. "Also, I’m doing this for me because when you order for two, they give you a lot of side dishes. Now come on."

You stand up and he looks doubtfully at you, before following suit. You open up the umbrella again and hold it over both of your heads. He has to huddle close to you, and your shoulders brush against each other. Once, twice. Not that you're keeping count. But your body is always hyper-aware of Minho’s proximity. You also notice how he silently moves from your right to your left, this way he's the one walking right next to the speeding cars. Your hold on the umbrella tightens. You were still not used to those small attentions of his. 

You arrive in front of your apartment block and he hesitates. "Come up, I won't murder you I promise." You joke and he smiles lightly back at your words. Progress.

He enters your dorm and you can see him eying his surroundings. You know that if it was another time, he would have teased you about something- anything. But he stays quiet, and you find yourself missing the sound of his voice.

"Would you like to shower?" You offer and he nods, "Please."

You lead him to your bathroom and show him where the washing machine is. "Put your clothes in there for a quick wash and dry. You can shower meanwhile."

He nods again as you hand him a towel. "I'll be outside."

You quickly leave the bathroom to place the soup orders, and Minho discards his wet clothes, walking into your shower. The water is piping hot, and he leans his forehead on the cold tiles. He doesn’t move for the first ten minutes, too tired at the prospect of lifting his limbs.

Nothing particular happened. But he’d go through days when he’d quiet down because everything around him was too much. The feel of his clothes against his skin, and the sun streaming through his curtains. But it always passes. Minho was a realistic man and he knew that his emotions would regulate themselves. That’s why he didn’t like appearing vulnerable in front of other people.

But for some reason, he didn’t mind lowering his guard with you. He knew you wouldn’t judge.

He sighs, grabbing your cherry-scented shampoo and pouring it into his hands. He can clearly smell you now. The scent of your hair that always tickles his nose, whenever you are sitting close to him. Your body wash is next and he wonders if this is how your skin smells, like vanilla and jasmine, and something entirely you. 

Forty minutes later, Minho finally steps out of the shower. His clothes are clean and he quickly puts them on. He dries his hair with the towel as he walks out of your bathroom towards the living room. 

He finds you sitting on the ground, in front of a heater that looks close to giving up. He makes a mental note of giving you the one he has since he doesn't really use it. You changed out of your clothes too, and you are now wearing a pair of pajamas with little bunnies sewn into it. The sight almost manages to make him smile. 

"Still cold?" you question when you notice him standing behind you, unmoving, and he shakes his head no.

"Good, the soup is here." You say cheerfully, pointing at the steaming bowls sitting on your table. Minho hums in reply and you stand up, grabbing the towel from his hands to place it on the drying rack.

You come back, a soft green blanket in your hands. You sit on the couch and pat the spot beside you. Minho sits next to you, and you lay the blanket on both of your laps, before handing him his soup.

You start the show you’ve been last watching, as you both eat in silence, your legs crisscrossed. You make some comments throughout the episodes. You figured that it was a safe territory, to talk about something as mundane as this. He didn't reply but you didn't mind. You weren't here to have a conversation with him. You just wanted to distract him.

You realize at that moment that Minho always looked so put together to you. But he had problems of his own too. That much was obvious. It made you feel closer to him, in a sense. You were both just trying to make it through the day.

Two hours later, you get up to grab a book, handing Minho the remote to put on a show of his own. You curl in a ball in the corner, reading where you left off last night.

"Can you... Can you read out loud?" Minho speaks for the first time in a while and you look at him. His eyes are closed, his head resting against your couch.

"Sure."

You start to read, and Minho further sinks into the couch. He feels at home here. Because the blanket is soft and the light is dim enough to not hurt his eyes. Or it could be that he smells like you, a scent so comforting he wants to bury himself in it. Or maybe it's your voice that floats through the air, slowly clouding Minho’s every sense. He feels as if he could see the words you were pronouncing dancing in front of his eyes. You enunciated each syllable clearly, making sure that no sound was forgotten.

As Minho gently drifted to sleep, he felt as if he was part of the words you read out loud. He felt as if you were treating him with the same care, making sure that he knew he wasn't invisible. At least not to you.

When you wake up the next morning, Minho is gone. And his place beside you on the couch is empty. He made you breakfast, scrambled eggs, and freshly pressed orange juice. And right next to it you find a note, "Thank you for reading to me."

✹✹✹

Minho didn't believe in having a lot of friends. He was content with the two people he had, Chan and Changbin. The latter was his high school friend, he skipped a year and ended up being in the same class as Minho. They didn't talk at first until the day Changbin dropped a book on Minho's foot. The brooding man started apologizing profusely, and that was the start of their friendship. They've kept in touch since.

Chan was his roommate at university. It's not that he particularly wanted to befriend him, but Chan was a social butterfly and he quickly managed to pull Minho into his friendly trap. He annoys Minho the most, but in an endearing way. And although Chan is older, Minho still strangely developed a soft spot for him. 

And he supposes he has you too now. At first, you weren’t friends, rivals at most. He enjoyed reeling you up and having you frown at his words in your heated debates. He also liked talking to you, because your ideas were interesting and you always gave him a new fresh perceptive to see things.

That’s how he strictly saw you as, an intelligent human who he liked to debate with.

But then he started to look forward to meeting up with you at Limbo. He no longer minded the fact that you took his self-assigned table, from his high school days. And he laughed more freely with you, enjoying how you always had a witty retort sitting at the tip of your tongue. 

That’s how he started to notice things that friends most definitely notice. How you have a charm bracelet you always fidget with whenever you are nervous. How you stray away from physical touch. How you scratch your eyebrow when you are deep in thought.

But also, how you seem to have an obsession with cherries. Your cherry pendant, your cherry-scented shampoo, and your cherry-tainted lips. A friend would most certainly think that your lips are like red wine-stained glass.

He remembers one of the many times when you were at Limbo, and he saw you reapply your lip tint, or so you called it. You caught him looking and he swiftly averted his gaze, but it wasn't quick enough. Suddenly you were in front of him, a tiny red bottle in hand.

"Let me apply it to you," you smiled and he pushed your head away with his pointer finger. "No."

"Please," you pouted and he couldn't help but find you adorable. You sometimes reminded him of a small kitten. But he didn’t dare to call you by that nickname. 

"Never."

"If I score more than you in our environmental assignment then I will do it."

"Fine." he huffed so that you'd leave him alone.

Minho didn't study for that assignment. He blamed it on a headache, not that it's ever stopped him before. And two weeks later you were in front of him, eyebrows scrunched in concentration. You applied the lip tint gently on his plump lips, carefully tracing over his cupid bow. 

Your face was mere inches away from his and he noticed how you were wearing a gloss today, for change. It was shimmering under the lights and he usually didn't like glittery things, but he couldn't take his eyes off your lips. 

"All done!" you clapped excitedly, snapping him out of his haze. You then shove your phone camera into his face so he'd look at the results.

"You should be a model. Your face is perfectly sculpted," you comment nonchalantly, before sitting back in your seat. 

“I know.” He replies confidently, but his hand kept fiddling with the tip of his now pink ears. He couldn't concentrate for the rest of the night.

You were his friend because he always worried if you were eating enough. That’s why he urged you to grab a bite in the convenience store near Limbo, whenever you finished up your studying late.

This was one of the many times you sat on the minuscule table outside, hot ramen bowls in front of the both of you. Minho huffed in annoyance between each bite, his bangs were getting longer, disturbing him when he leaned down to slurp his noodles. 

“Here,” you stand up from your place, a hair tie in your hands. 

“What are you doing?” He questions as you stand behind him. You don’t reply, silently grabbing his hair and putting it up in a tiny ponytail, this way it wouldn’t get in his eyes anymore.

“Voila,” you sit back down, resuming your eating. Minho was grateful for the dimly lit street because his entire face was burning up. Your fingers in his hair were gentle and he wondered how it would feel if you ran your fingers through it. 

This was something friends think about, right? 

"I’ll cut my hair tomorrow," he clears his throat. He didn't know why he told you. You certainly weren't interested in his hair endeavors.

"What?!" you yell, "Don't. Your hair is beautiful why would you cut it?"

"Because it's getting longer."

"But it suits you."

Minho also noticed how you always threw compliments his way. Not in a flirtatious way, but in a genuine one. He couldn't help but wonder what made you this way. Did you so freely give love to others because you knew how it felt to not receive it?

"I’ll still cut it."

Minho returned home; his hair still clipped back in a ponytail. Chan eyed him weirdly but he shut him off with a glare. The elastic remained at his bedside since.

He didn't cut his hair.

The moment Minho started to consider you a close friend, was when you invited him over to watch your show. You didn’t force him to open up that night, and he appreciated it, more than he let on.

That's how a week later, he finds himself walking towards your dorm again. The thoughts in his head got too much, and Chan was immersed in his makeshift studio, which meant he won't be free for the next four hours, minimum.

He didn't plan on going to you. It was late at night and you were probably asleep, but his feet naturally led him to the direction of your place.

He knocks softly on your door. He wasn't even sure if he wanted you to open. What would you think of him showing up at eleven pm? He should have thought this thro-

"Minho?" you call out, and he startles a bit, his feet already inching away from the door.

"This was a bad idea, I'm sorry," he starts to retract back but you grab the hem of his jacket to stop him. "Do you... Do you want to watch my show with me?" you ask, a soft smile on your face and he nods tentatively.

"Okay, come in," you open the door wider and Minho follows you inside. The look in his eyes reminds you of the day you found him sitting under the rain. You didn't like it, you wanted him to find his spark back, his usual demeanor. He wasn't deserving of anything but happiness.

"I’ve started a new show, this one's a bit more romantic, so don't go around imagining me as the main character," you tease and he scoffs at your words, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He doesn't reply, but you don't mind. There was this secret agreement between the two of you, you would talk and he would listen. He needed the distraction, and you needed the company. Sometimes the line between alone and lonely blurs, and on days like these, Minho’s presence fills the void inside.

You comment on the scenes and Minho hums in reply, you watch three episodes in a row, and your eyes are getting drowsy, so you close them.

"Minho," you call out gently and he turns his head towards you.

"Yeah?"

"What color are you feeling tonight?" You ask, referencing to what he told you on your dinner celebration. That felt like an eternity ago.

"Black." You stay silent and Minho fidgets with his hands before speaking once again. "I feel a lot at the same time, too much of every color. That's why- that's why I said black."

"How can I help you feel yellow?"

"You already do." His admission came softly and it made your breath hitch in your throat. You wanted to open your eyes and look at him, but you figured it will only make him close off even more.

“Okay. Will you stay for breakfast?”, you whisper. You were very sleepy, the soft chatter of the TV and your hushed conversation were like a lullaby to you. 

"You want me to?" he asks, and he sounds so vulnerable you can't find it in you to say anything but the truth.

"I do," you admit, and that's the last thing you remember before sleeping.

Your head falls near Minho’s lap on the couch, your hair tickling his exposed thigh. Minho shouldn’t feel this way, he thinks. He’s sitting on the leather couch and his feet are touching the cold floor and yet all he can feel is three strands of your hair tickling him.

He glances at you, at your now parted lips and your relaxed eyebrows. His hand hovers over your hair, but then he curls it into a tight fist. What is he doing? He thinks to himself as he drags an angry hand through his face. He sighs, before standing up and grabbing the blanket you had on the opposing chair. He gently lays it on your body before sitting next to you once again. 

You told him to stay for breakfast. He’ll stay.

✹✹✹

2 months later

"Yn!" Minho shouts in your ear as he plops down next to you. You startle, dropping the book you were reading. 

"I hate you," you grumble, picking up your book and he smiles cheekily at you, "No you don't."

You were laying on the grass of your campus garden, in between two classes, trying to kill the time. It was April so the weather was perfect for lying under the warm sunrays. You loved spring, it always held within it the promise of a better time. 

"What are you doing?"

"I was reading before you got here and started to annoy me." 

"Don't mind me. Do your thing." 

"And what are you doing?"

"Enjoying the sun."

"You couldn't find any other place to do so?"

"Nope."

"You're annoying" You try to sound mad but the smile on your face betrays you. You started looking forward to any moment Minho randomly shows up throughout your day. Sometimes it's late at night when he's suddenly craving sushi and he drags you with him because if he's not studying then you shouldn't be too. 

Sometimes it's during the day, when he takes you to a new garden where he found the quote "cutest cats in existence". Not as cute as his cats, of course. 

Sometimes it's late afternoon when he just knocks on your door, and he's there with Chan-his roommate who sometimes joins your study sessions- snacks in their hands. You've learned that what Minho doesn't say in words, he compensates by spending time with you. And you didn't tell him but waiting for these moments has been the joy of your life for the past few weeks.

It made you feel excited- like a child waiting up for Christmas morning to discover what gifts they are receiving. 

So, you resume reading, as Minho is lying next to you. You could smell his pinewood cologne and you wished you could pour his essence into a bottle and carry it with you everywhere. 

You notice how the sun is hitting Minho’s eyes directly, and how his eyebrows are scrunched up at the aggression. So, you grab your book with your left hand, and hover your right one over his eyes, shielding him from the sun. Minho's breath tickles your hand and you can feel goosebumps rising through your skin. 

It's as if every physical proximity with Minho made you feel hyperaware of every part of your body, and how he can lighten it with a simple breath from his part. It made you wonder what it would feel to have his hands on your skin.

As if Minho heard your thoughts, he gently wraps his thumb and index finger around your wrist, steadying your hand in place so it wouldn't strain your arm. You suddenly don't know what page you are in, too overwhelmed by the feeling of his hands on you. 

His touch is very featherlight and you are afraid to move, to break the bubble you are suddenly pulled into. 

"Read to me," he tells you and you gulp. You never understood why Minho enjoyed it when you read to him. 

"Like my voice that much?" you tease, in an attempt to hide how affected you are. You were so close to him; it would be easy to slide down and lay your head on his chest. You wondered how his heartbeat would sound. Was it steady, or racing just like your own? 

"Yeah, it's calming," he replies sincerely, catching you off guard. You didn't expect him to compliment you, and now you are racking your brain for a retort, anything to make you breathe again. 

"Growing soft on me Minho?" you say, the same question you asked on your first dinner out. The first time you truly saw him, the first time you felt as if you were two pieces of the same puzzle, just waiting for someone to connect the both of you. 

He doesn't reply. And you sit there, patiently waiting. His first answer came so easily, so naturally, because he was being sarcastic, "I’m basically in love with you", he told you back then. So why can't he say it again?

"Yes, I am." He finally replies and you feel your breath catch in your throat. You try to account it for your brain misguiding you. It wasn't Minho speaking, it was the rustling of the leaves and the singing of the birds that you just heard. But it was him, and now his eyes are open and he's looking at you. Your hand is still shielding his eyes and his fingers are still wrapped around your wrist. And you are suddenly feeling. You are feeling too much. You don't know what to do with those feelings cursing through your veins and you can't face them. Because they are scaring you.

"I'll just... Yeah, I’ll just read," you say quietly, too flustered by his intense gaze. You were already on the other side, you realize. His eyes pulled you in and you were stuck in there, swimming in a pool of honey. 

"Out loud," he says and you chuckle, "Fine, Min." The nickname slips out of your tongue naturally and you quickly snap your head towards Minho to see if he noticed. 

His eyes are closed, and there is a slight smile on his face, and you can swear that he just repeated the nickname to himself softly. 

✹✹✹

You've been so sick these past days, you barely managed to go to class. Your head throbbed with pain and your entire body felt as if someone thoroughly boxed it. 

You were grateful that Minho reeled down his teasing because you had no energy to retort back. He may have noticed how sick you felt and truthfully it would be hard not to. You stayed silent throughout the day, and you looked so pale, you avoided looking at the mirror altogether.

Though Minho didn't talk to you, he still silently placed water bottles and some of your favorite snacks on your desk. You'd down the water, grateful for the relief it brought your sore throat. And when you didn't touch the food, he'd immediately text you 'Eat up', followed by a simple 'Please'. Having someone else care for your well-being felt weird, but it warmed your heart beyond what words could describe. 

You only came today to pass your Criminal Law mid-term, but your head hurt so badly that you weren't even sure what you wrote on your paper. The words blurred in front of your eyes and you almost slept in the middle of your exam, exhaustion threatening to take over your body. 

You fucked up, badly. You haven't screwed up this much in years.

You thought that you were slowly getting better since Minho surpassing you no longer sparked an unworthy feeling within you. But apparently, you were wrong to believe so. Self-doubt crept up within you once again, and the ugly feelings it stirred slowly clawed at your throat, making it hard for you to breathe.

It was one test, and yet it reeled you back ages ago. 

Tears threaten to spill out of your eyes as you hurriedly walk out of your class. You make a beeline for the library, figuring that it will be mostly empty by now. 

You pull out a chair and sit on it, lowering your head down so no one will see you. Your tears are falling rapidly and you hit your thigh repeatedly.  You hated how weak you felt in that instant. 

"Yn?", someone calls out and you curse internally. You don't have to look up to see who it is, Minho's voice has become a part of you- you could easily recognize it between a thousand mingling sounds. 

You don't want him to see you, especially not like this, weak and vulnerable and on the verge of breaking down. So you quickly slip a pair of sunglasses on your eyes, before raising your head to look at him. "Hm?"

"Are you okay?" he asks, his tone so soft it makes you want to cry ten times fold. You hated it, hated how attentive he was to you. You didn't deserve it. 

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just here to pick a book," you lie, abruptly standing up and heading toward the rows behind you. You desperately needed to get away from him. 

You pause in front of a random shelf and then you feel Minho standing behind you. You grab a random book and he peeks above your shoulder to see it, "Economics? You hate this subject."

"Why are you following me?" you turn around attempting your best to sound mad. When in reality, your heart was brimming with hurt. You wished you could get away from your body and seep into someone's soul to feel what it's like to love yourself.

"You aren't okay," he asserts and you hate it. You hate that he sounds so sure of himself. Was it that noticeable? Were you not fooling anyone?

"I am," your voice is shaking but you are adamant about contradicting him. You couldn't let him see you. What if he runs?

"Then..." he steps forward and you take a step back until your back is against the shelf. His left arm cages your body, but his right one stays by his side. He is leaving you an opening, you realize, an outing in case you feel uncomfortable. Against all odds, you don't.

 "Why are you hiding from me?" he asks, gently taking your sunglasses off your face, and placing them on the top of your head.

You don't look up at him, and he hooks his finger underneath your chin, gently raising your head. When your tear-stained eyes meet his, he frowns deeply, "Why are you crying?"

"it's nothing."

"Yn..."

"I fucked up, okay?! That was the worst test I’ve ever given in years." The tears start to flow at your words and you wipe them away aggressively. You despised crying in front of people. 

Minho raises his hand to wipe the tears away for you but he quickly retracts it- you probably wouldn't want him to touch your face. It was enough that he had grabbed your wrist a couple of weeks before this. He quickly racks his brain for something to do, because the sight of your tears is making his heart ache in a way he hasn't felt before. It's as if he's feeling your emotions deep within him.

In desperation, Minho pinches your arm and you yelp, startled. "What was that for?" you whisper-shout and he raises his hands in defense, "I didn't know what else to do."

"So, you thought about pinching me?" you chuckle in bewilderment and he scratches the top of his hair sheepishly. 

"I mean, it worked. Look, you stopped crying," he points out raising his brows at you proudly and you shake your head at him.

"Remind me to never cry in front of you again." 

Minho grins at you before his face turns serious once again. "Look, you are the smartest person I know," he pauses, adding with a cheeky smirk, "After me of course." Which makes you giggle against your will. 

"Shut up", you lightly punch his chest and he smiles. "One test doesn't define you. You always work very hard. I wouldn't lie to you."

"Mm," you hum and he frowns at your lack of enthusiasm, but still, he doesn't comment. 

"No more crying," he wiggles his finger in front of your face and you roll your eyes, wiping the rest of your tears away. "Fine. Pretend as if this never happened."

"What are you talking about?" he asks as if confused, and you can't help the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It's as if Minho knows exactly what to say to cheer you up. 

"Come with me," he tells you, gently pulling you by the sleeve of your hoodie. 

"Where to?"

"I’m craving ice cream."

"And why do you need me?"

"You're craving ice cream too," he says in a matter-of-a-fact tone. 

"Only if you're paying," you add with a giggle and he whines loudly, "I feel so so used around you." 

True to his words, Minho takes you to the nearest ice cream parlor. It's a 20 minutes walk away and you are grateful for the distance because it helps you clear your head a bit.

Minho lets you pick whatever flavors you want, and when you hesitate between two of them, he tells the cashier to put them both into your cup. This is how you end up with a container of 5 scoops of ice cream. You insisted you'd share, and Minho begrudgingly agreed when you threatened to walk out and leave him.

You then walk to a deserted alley and sit on the sidewalk. You didn't want to be around people right now, and thankfully, Minho understood without you having to say a word.  

You munch silently on your ice cream and Minho does the same, the both of you lost in your thoughts. You naturally take turns holding the freezing container, so it wouldn't numb the fingers of one of you.

When you're done, Minho stands up to throw it away in a nearby trashcan before sitting back again next to you. 

Suddenly you feel him gently tapping your hand. You look down to find that you've curled your fingers into a tight fist, so much that there are crescent indents visible on your palm now. 

"Let's play thumb war," he tells you and you giggle at his words. You never knew what to expect from him. 

Still, as your fingers hold each other, and your thumb circles one another, you feel yourself calm down slightly. You play a couple of rounds, and you know he's going easy on you, allowing you to quickly trap his thumb down. 

No one has gone to such lengths to cheer you up, and you suddenly feel so grateful for Minho’s presence in your life. You didn't care in what shape he was in, you just needed him to be in it. Which in turn makes you think how bad it'd hurt if he ever leaves. 

You don't want Minho to leave. You've gotten so attached to him that the thought of not talking to him again makes your heart race in panic. 

Minho notices the change in your expression, suddenly melancholic once again. Your hand has gone limp in his, the thumb war long forgotten by you. 

He curses under his breath, before looking at you. "If I dance for you, will you quit being so sad?"

"Dance for me?" you repeat incredulously and he nods, "Yes. I’ll show you an upcoming choreography just... Please smile?" 

"Okay," you giggle, plastering a wide grin on your face. 

"Not like that you look scary."

"Get to dancing!" you clap excitedly and he rolls his eyes, standing up and looking through his phone for a particular music. 

"Oh and no comment!" he looks pointedly at you, and you nod, pretending to zip your mouth and throwing away the key. 

'Finesse' by Bruno Mars starts playing and you are left mesmerized by the way Minho dances. It's short but it leaves you yearning to see more. His body moves smoothly, hitting each beat effortlessly. He made it look as if dancing was second nature to him, that it came as easily to him as breathing. 

You were speechless, rightfully so. You wished you could build a world where all Minho did was dance. 

"That was-" you start when he stops the music but he cuts you off instantly, "I said no comment."

"But--" Minho places his finger on your mouth to silence you, seemingly not thinking too much of it. But the feel of his finger on your lips makes you dizzy. Minho quickly takes off his hand, a blush evidently creeping up his neck. 

"Let's just go home," he sighs in defeat and you laugh despite the intense feelings cursing through you.

You don't know if you are imagining it but you swear that your pinkies brush against each other on your walk back. As if there was this magnetic force pulling them together. You wondered what would happen if you just linked your pinky with his. Would he grab you by the hand or will he let go of you entirely?

You were too much of a coward to find out. You were scared of messing up anything with him. So, you'd settle for this. Stolen glances and random outings. You just need him in your life. 

"Thank you for today," you tell Minho once you arrive and he shrugs, as what he did wasn't a big deal.

"No, I mean it. Thank you," you repeat, trying your best to convey how sincere you were being. You take in a deep breath, before grabbing his hand and squeezing it, for a fleeting second, before dropping it again. 

Minho is sure that your hand will now be imprinted into his, that the lines tracing over your palm will merge with his as one. Your touch was barely there but it had electrocuted him. He wondered to himself if his body would be able to handle more from you. But he'd gladly burn in your fires for the sake of holding you. And he'd wait, unwaveringly, as time stretches alongside the two of you. He'd wait as long as it takes for you. 

"Yn, I..." he stammers, taking a step closer to you. His scent engulfs you and you shamefully close your eyes, inhaling it. When you open them again, you find Minho glancing down at your lips. You gulp, dazzled by his proximity. 

"You have a mole on your nose," you suddenly speak up and his eyes snap back to yours, an adorable confusion drawn on his features. 

"I like that mole," you continue and you wish you could dig yourself a hole and bury yourself in it. 

"Thank you," he chuckles and you nod vigorously, "You're welcome." 

"Can I ask you something?" he says and your breath hitches in your throat. "Sure."

"You don't like it when people touch you, right?" 

"Yeah."

"Can I ask why?" 

You want to confide in him, to tell him that it’s because you long for it, you crave it so badly. That this need has woven itself into the very fabric of your being. An ache so raw that it scares you at times. You’ve never known what it feels like to be held- it was uncharted territory to you. 

"Isn't everyone scared of the unknown?" you settle on saying, and he nods in understanding. Of course, he understood. No one knows you as well as him. 

"It's okay. I just wanted to know if I ever overstepped my boundaries."

"You didn't," you reply instantly. 

"Good. You'll tell me if I ever do, right?"

"I will." 

"Okay." 

"Um. I'll get going," you point behind you and Minho smiles at you, waving you off.

You walk for a few steps before coming back again quickly. You then grab Minho’s hand, gently squeezing it like before, "You are an amazing dancer." 

And then you drop it, running back towards your apartment block without waiting for a reply. 

Minho stays frozen in his place. You think he's an amazing dancer. And you held his hand for five seconds. 

That's four seconds more than the first time. 

Progress.        

✹✹✹

You haven't gotten out of your house for the past three days. 

Everything crashed around you rapidly, it made you realize that the ground you once stood on was only an illusion, elusive and fleeting. 

You were doing well; you were getting better. But then Monday came and you went out for a walk in the park near you. As you sat there, you saw a little girl playing on the swings, delightful joy dancing across her features. But then she fell to the ground and you instinctively stood up to help her, only to notice her mother running to her. 

The world stilled around you as you clearly saw it- how the little girl clung to her mother's embrace, her embodiment of hope and love. You never had that. You don’t even know what perfume your mother used because she never allowed you to get that close to her. 

You stood up abruptly, quickly heading back to your apartment block. As you ran up the stairs, you ended up bumping into one of your neighbors. You were quick to apologize but they ignored you, and the feeling of being invisible came back to haunt you ten times fold. 

You knew you shouldn’t have done it, you knew you should have deleted your mother’s number when she sent you away to university without a backward glance, relieved at the thought of you getting a full-ride scholarship and not needing her anymore. But you didn’t, you kept her number in the hopes that she’d call. On your birthday, on holidays, on a random Thursday to tell you that she did remember who you are. 

With trembling hands, tears welling in your eyes, you dialed your mother’s number for the first time in a year. You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe she regrets it. Maybe she misses you. Maybe she didn’t find the courage to mend her wrongdoings and that's why she never called. 

"Hello?" her voice rang through your apartment. Goosebumps erupted on your arms and your hold on the phone tightened. Her voice took you back to memories you thought you had buried. How you spent countless nights yearning to hear the sound of her voice, how you regretted it once she spoke to attack you.

You hate her. You miss her. You want to hang up. You need to ask if she's doing okay. 

“Who is this?” Her voice was devoid of recognition, freezing you in your tracks. You felt as if a bucket of ice was thrown over your head, dousing the flame of hope that flickered in your heart. 

She deleted your number.

You quickly hung up, placing your phone down on the table. The tears refused to fall. It was as if your body had long anticipated this outcome, leaving only your wounded soul to bear the pain. 

Healing isn't linear, you've read about it in books and heard it in shows and movies. One step back doesn't mean that your entire progress is gone. You know this, you've memorized those sentences. So why do you not believe them? Why does it feel as if you can never be free from the past? Why does it feel as if you’ll always seek something out of her? 

Those questions roamed your mind for the past three days, making you too tired at the prospect of lifting your limbs, let alone leaving your apartment. You sent your two friends a text, telling them that you're sick so they wouldn't worry. Not that you believed they would. Nothing made sense to you anymore.

You laid on your bed in utter silence- a tense quiet that was disrupted on the third day by someone knocking on your door. You didn't know who was there; you just hoped that they'd leave you alone.

To your surprise, you open the door to find Minho, some notes in his right hand and a coffee in his left. He sends an easy smile your way. You don't smile back.

"What do you want?" your voice is cold, but Minho doesn't bristle. A cheeky smile settles on his lips as he leans on your doorway.

"You didn't come to class for the past three days, so I brought you the notes. So, you wouldn't think our competition is unfair."

"Competition," you chuckle coldly, heading inside your apartment, and he follows suit. You start to pace around furiously, and Minho looks at you worriedly. "Competition?" you repeat, the word dripping off your tongue like venom. You turn around, marching towards Minho and standing a few inches from him. "You know what? Fuck you and your competition!"

"Yn-"

"Did it ever occur to you that I never wanted a part in this competition? That all I wanted was to be left alone?" you say, growing louder as you jab your finger into his chest repeatedly. "I never wanted any of this! Do you understand? I never wanted to be this way," you shout angrily in his face.

The worried look in Minho’s eyes snaps you out of your haze. You realize that you are being utterly ridiculous lashing out at Minho, when the one person you are mad at is yourself. 

Your anger quickly deflates, leaving in its trail an agonizing sadness. It's so sudden that it knocks the breath out of you, and you clutch your chest as if it could soothe the burn in your heart. Suddenly you are twelve years old again, crying in your room because you feel like no one has ever loved you.

But this time you aren't alone. Minho is in front of you, and his eyebrows are so furrowed you want to lean forward to ease the tension between them. His eyebrows, you liked his eyebrows, they were arched, and they framed his eyes nicely, and his eyes are brown and so big, and they always look at you softly and why is it getting so hard to breathe-

"Did I do something to you? Whatever it is I’m sorry," Minho panics, cutting off your frantic train of thought. But now, the weight of guilt adds to your overwhelming emotions. You shouldn't have lashed out at him, he brought you coffee and you yelled at him. Maybe your mom was right after all.

You shake your head left and right furiously, your words coming out in hiccups. Since when did you start crying? "It isn't- it isn't you."

"Then let me help you-", he steps forward, hand outstretched, but you take three hurried steps back and wrap your hands around yourself protectively. "Don’t. Please, don't."

"Why are you pushing me away?" his tone isn't accusatory. You've learned time and time again that Minho wouldn't do anything that made you feel uncomfortable.

"You won't understand."

"Then make me."

"Because I’m afraid!" the words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them. "I’m afraid if you ever hug me, I wouldn't be able to go back to hugging myself. I'd need you and I can't afford to need someone else."

You regret the words as soon as they fleet away from your mouth. He would look at you differently, he would find you pathetic and then he’d leave. And you wanted him to leave. But you also wanted him to stay. It was all so confusing. 

You felt as if your being was torn between two great forces, each one of them trying to win the war raging inside you. You wished someone else would make the decisions in your place, for once.

Minho places the coffee and notes on the ground before approaching you, his palms facing up in a gesture of surrender. "I won't leave you," he says softly. "I’ll be by your side for as long as you'll have me."

"Minho..." your voice catches in your throat as you utter his name- like a broken prayer. He stands before you, his eyes shimmering like the reflection of a river on a sunny day.

"Please, let me make it better." 

You nod tentatively and Minho comes even closer to you. He was treating you like one would with a wounded animal, giving you a chance to ultimately back out. But for once, you listen to what your heart has been yearning for. Your bones are aching to be held, to feel the warmth of a body against your own, to feel safe and secure. 

Minho embraces you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and bringing you to him. You slowly bring your arms up and lace them around his waist. You are afraid, deathly afraid. His grip is loose, and you almost can't feel him around you, but when you lay your head on his chest, he tightens his hold on you and you instinctively let out a sob. 

He's hugging adult you, the woman whose heart was once again broken by her mom. But he's also hugging little you, the girl who was craving affection from everyone around her. In that instant, Minho is hugging every single version of you that ever needed a hug. 

You were right to be scared because you don't want to let go, you want to stay in his arms because they feel safe, like a shield protecting you. You can't go back to not hugging Minho. 

The sensation is overwhelming and your knees buckle underneath you. But instead of holding you up, Minho falls to the ground with you, as if you are two inseparable pieces of one puzzle. He isn’t here to fix you, he’s here to break down with you and help you pick up the scattered pieces.

You think back to that night in the park when Minho told you about Japanese vases. At this moment, it dawns on you that Minho has found a way to become a part of you. He was the molten gold binding your broken parts together. He was the invisible thread stitching your wounds back together.

Who were you fooling? It was him; it was him all along. 

Minho rocks you gently as you cry and cry and cry. His hand finds your hair and he plays with it as you sob. He tells you you'll be okay, you'll feel better and you try to believe him, his words wrap around your bruises like a healing balm. 

"There, there, love. You are okay", he murmurs, tenderly patting your head. A fresh set of tears wells up in your eyes. Love.

"I’m sorry. I'm so sorry," you apologize as you pull away from his embrace. 

"Why are you apologizing? Is it because you wet my shirt? I don't mind," he reassures you with a smile and you shake your head. 

 "I was mean to you and you didn’t deserve it," you explain through hiccups.

"It's okay, you weren't mad at me, were you?" he asks, wiping your tears away so gently with his thumbs, careful not to irritate the sensitive skin.

"No. Still, it isn't okay and I’m sorry. I'm so sorry." 

"Shh, don't apologize. It's okay." you look at him doubtfully and he rolls his eyes playfully, "Here I’ll even do your silly pinky promise, okay?" he laces his pinky with yours, but then he suddenly leans forward and places a chaste kiss on your thumb pad. "There, sealed forever."

You giggle faintly as a blush dusts your cheeks, "That's not how it works."

"I know."

Your giggle was far different from the ones Minho was accustomed to. It was small, and it didn't brighten up your face like usual. But he was grateful for it nonetheless. He realized how much he missed your laugh, and how all the other sounds in the world pale in comparison to it.

In that moment Minho thinks to himself that he'd do anything to make you smile again. He'd make a fool out of himself if it meant making you happy. He'd settle for a simple tug at the corners of your mouth, anything but the sadness that seemed etched in your face, as if it was blended into the colors that drew you.

You tentatively move around, before laying your head on his lap. Minho's hand instinctively finds your hair and he starts to gently play with it. It feels as if you've done this a million times before, when in fact it was the first. 

There was something wildly intimate about laying on the floor with the man who just comforted you. It made you want to spill all your secrets to him, one by one, and have him hug you through them.

"Did you mean it? When you said you'll stay?" you felt so vulnerable in his hold, as if he could twist you whoever he liked. But you trusted him. You trusted yourself with Minho.

"I did. Your walls are always up. It's hard to peek behind them. But I don't want to tear them down. I want you to slowly unbuild them. I want you to do it for yourself."

To do it for yourself, it's hard to even know who you are anymore. 

"I want to tell you."

"You don't need to."

"I know, but I want to."

"Okay. Take your time, kitten." he pats your head gently, and you try to sync your breathing to the rhythm of his touch. You were grateful that you were lying on his lap since you couldn't see his face. It made talking feel a little less daunting.

"On my 9th birthday... I was very excited. I'd been on my best behavior that month, trying to please my mom in the hope that, for once, we'd celebrate my birthday. Like a normal little family," you smile sadly, you were so hopeful back then.

"My birthday came, I woke up, excited. My mom was still asleep, nothing out of the ordinary. So, I made my breakfast and walked to my school. I wore my prettiest dress and put on pigtails with hair clips. It was my birthday after all," Minho smiles softly at your words, his hand now resting on your own.

"I got back home and waited for my mom to come back. She remembered my birthday, I thought. And then, she came but she didn't talk to me. So, I thought, oh a surprise party!" you chuckle, but this time the smile on Minho’s face is gone.

"It was then 11 pm, and the hope had slowly died in me. So, in my stupid innocent self, I went to my mom, and asked her "Did you forget my birthday?". And I remember... I remember the way she laughed. Cruelly. Like I had told her the funniest joke in the world. And then. Then she looked me dead in the eye and said 'I hate the fact that you are born. Why would I celebrate that?'"

Minho sucks in a deep breath at your words, and you exhale one right out. It felt comforting, to have someone else stomach the hurt for you. To take the weight off your shoulders, allowing you a few moments to breathe.

"I confronted her about it one day, but she said she doesn't remember saying that. It's funny how it was a random Thursday for her, but for me, it shaped my life." you smile bitterly, "I remember how jealous I was of the way the other kids talked about their mothers. They said the word so lightly. It must have reminded them of sunshine and ice cream and rainbows. But for me, it held an uncharacteristic heaviness to it. I grew to hate the word."

"I drove myself crazy, Min", you whisper and he brings you closer to his body, "was it me or was it her? When did it start? Was it because I was too loud as a child or maybe too quiet? Did I not cater to her fantasies of a kid? I wanted to remember every single thing that happened throughout my childhood, thread through every single memory. I tried to pinpoint the exact moment my mom stopped loving me."

Minho squeezes your hand tightly in his, and you feel as if he was pulling you away from the memory that had long trapped you. You were now watching it unfold from outside of the window, your hand in his, safe from the hurt it had inflicted on you.

"It's not you. It could never be you. Some people are simply not fit to be parents. It's never their kid's fault."

Minho tries his best to keep his touch soothing, to make his voice sound as soft as possible. But he was angry, he was so angry at the world for not taking care of you when you were younger. His heart broke, thinking of 9-year-old you being told such cruel words.

He wanted to turn back time and tell you that you were enough. He wanted to make the pain that seemed so anchored in you float back to the surface, and dissipate like sea foam meeting the shore.

But he couldn't do that. All he could do is comfort present you.

Minho gently pulls you up from his lap, making you sit upright. He crisscrosses his legs and you do the same. Your knees brush against each other and you feel a shiver run down your spine. You didn't know that even knees could emanate such warmth.

"Yn, look at me. The world wouldn't be the same without you in it," he cradles your face between his hands, "You hear me yn? I’m so thankful you exist."

His doe brown eyes are sincere, and it made you want to believe him badly. That's a good start, right?

"I’ll be back," he tells you, letting go of your face and standing up.

You hear Minho rummaging through the kitchen and you take the time to calm yourself down. Sharing those parts of you with Minho felt therapeutic. As if you were healing parts of your inner child. You have never talked about this with anyone before, maybe this is why it still hurt as badly.

Minho comes back five minutes later, his hands behind his back. You raise a brow at him inquisitively and he just smiles secretly at you. "Close your eyes," he tells you and you giggle, doing as he says. He crouches in front of you, and you hear him shuffle in his place for a bit.

Then, "Open your eyes yn," and you find him, in front of you, a cupcake you had stored in your fridge in his hands, and a makeshift candle lit up. "Happy 9th birthday, love. You did well."

You stare at him in utter bewilderment. You couldn't believe your eyes. How could this man be so thoughtful? He was wishing you a belated birthday, to compensate for the 9th birthday you didn't celebrate.

You panic, at the look in his eyes. You've never seen it, never dared to dream of it, of someone caring for you unconditionally. So, you try to scare him, to push him away. You didn't want him to regret knowing you.

"There are things I need you to know um", you chuckle nervously, "When I... When I throw up, I hold my hair, and when I’m sick I nurse myself back to health, and when I have a nightmare I- I hold my hand in the dark. It will be hard for me to hold yours instead."

"We'll start a finger at a time, yeah?"

"It will take time."

"I have time," he speaks easily, as if loving you was effortless and not a strenuous task. You couldn't fathom it.

"You are too busy-", he cuts you off instantly, "Not for you." 

"The world doesn't stop because we need it to." Your voice is quiet; this is your very last try. You are tired of fighting. You are putting down your armor and waving a white flag.

"We'll make it stop. Here, the two of us. On this floor. We'll take as long as we need to."

"I never deemed you as an optimist", you smile a little, a hint of teasing in your tone.

"I’m not," he pauses, gazing down at the cupcake between his hands and then at you. "But I feel that we deserve a bit of happiness together, don't we?"

"We do."

"Then make a wish."

You close your eyes for a few seconds, before blowing on the candle.

"What did you wish for?" he asks a fond smile on his face.

The answer came naturally to you, you didn't even need to think about it. "I wished for you."

Minho's lips come crashing down on yours, and you imagine that this is what it feels like to see colors for the first time. To discover a new world beyond the one you've always known.

The kiss isn't urgent nor feverish, it is one of comfort. Your lips spilling the words you have not yet said to each other. "I love you," he kisses you, "I love you too," you kiss him back. "I need you to stay," you swipe your tongue across his bottom lip, "I’m never leaving you," he opens his mouth allowing you entrance.

As you kiss him, you remember a fact you once learned in high school. The human body possesses seven trillion nerves. And for the first time in your life, you feel as if each of these nerves is alive. You feel that even the smallest atom is electrocuted with Minho’s love and it’s all you know within you.  

You feel as if the pain, the hurt, and the ache you've been through are slowly unraveled, and in their place, a timid happiness is starting to bloom. You imagine that when Minho’s lips met your own, the seven trillion nerves inside you exhaled in relief 'We've made it', they said, 'we'll finally be okay.'

Epilogue

You've always thought that epilogues were useless. How can you resume the rest of your life in one sentence, boil down the rest of your existence in mere pages? Because life doesn't stop at the epilogue, and a new book can start once again, right where you left it off.  

But with Minho, you didn't mind an epilogue. On the contrary, you longed for a soft one. You wanted to rest on this last page, you wanted to lay your worries on the words and tuck them into the syllables. And you wanted to wake up anew.

And this wasn't the end of your story with Minho. A lot happened after it. But it didn't worry you, because epilogues are about the one thing that doesn't change throughout the long march of time. And luckily for you, that constant was Minho’s love for you. From that day he held you, he has never let go.

It took time, for his warmth to seep through your bones. It took time, for your heart to forget the cold. But you wanted to do it. With him. You wanted to love and be loved.

The sound of cats mewling fills your apartment, pudding can always be found in your fridge and you haven't felt invisible in years.

[diamonddaze01]

Bound by Blood and Fate

pairing: hong jisoo x f!reader | wc: 9.9k genre: assassin!shua, hacker!reader, red string of fate au warnings: close encounters with death, blood, weapons, injuries a/n: for @ddeonghwa-s secret cupid collab! this fic is for the wonderful @uhdrienne i hope you enjoyyy <3 // enormous thanks to @ylangelegy helping me flush this idea out and to @okiedokrie @chugging-antiseptic-dye and @chanranghaeys for beta-ing <333

check out the masterlist for the collab here!

summary: “Tell me something, soldier,” you whispered, your voice low, carrying just enough venom to draw blood. “Does your fate feel like a noose?”

Joshua always thought dying would feel quieter.

But the city roars around him: the hum of neon lights, the shriek of sirens in the distance, the metallic taste of blood pooling in his mouth. He’s lying on the ground, spine pressed against the cold, wet asphalt, staring at a sky he barely recognizes. The weight in his chest isn’t just from the bullet—it’s from the thought of you.

The red thread around his pinky is taut, glinting faintly in the chaos. It’s not supposed to fray. It’s not supposed to break. But as his vision blurs and his pulse stutters, he wonders if fate has finally run out of patience.

They say the last seven minutes of your life are a highlight reel—a 420 second long tapestry of moments unraveled, thread by thread, until only the essence of you remains. Joshua doesn’t see his childhood, or his family, or the countless lives he’s taken. All he sees is you.

And as the thread tugs, dragging him deeper into the past, he knows it’s not his life flashing before his eyes. It’s his mistakes.

420 seconds…. 419…. 418….

Joshua feels the world slipping away in pieces, the edges of his vision fading to static. The asphalt beneath him is slick and sticky, blood blooming out in slow, deliberate pulses, like an hourglass emptying grain by grain. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows how this ends. He’s seen it too many times before.

His hand twitches toward the gun holstered at his side, instinct overriding logic. There’s no one left to shoot. Not now. Not anymore. But the weight of his Glock is familiar—steady in a way that his body isn’t, unlike the wavering thread tied to his finger.

The thread glints under the fractured glow of the streetlights, bright enough to mock him. Bright enough to remind him of what’s still out there, waiting. He feels it more than sees it: taut, fragile, pulling faintly in a direction he can’t follow.

Joshua forces his head to turn, every muscle in his body screaming against the effort. The pain is sharp, biting. Somewhere beyond the flicker of broken neon signs and the hum of distant sirens, he hears the faint echo of footsteps, slow and measured. They’re retreating. Whoever pulled the trigger isn’t sticking around to watch him bleed out.

Coward.

The word sears through him, but it doesn’t feel satisfying. He isn’t sure if it’s meant for them—or for himself.

The thread burns against his hand now, its crimson glow cutting through the haze like a knife. It’s not slack. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? That the connection between him and you isn’t broken. That maybe, if he can move, if he can crawl his way out of this alley, he can still get to you.

But it doesn’t tug. It doesn’t pull him toward safety. It sits there, unmoving, as if waiting. As if mocking.

The sound of the gunshot echoes again in his head, sharper this time, louder. He tries to place it—tries to grab hold of the pieces slipping through his fingers—but his thoughts fracture before he can make sense of them.

All he knows is the voice he heard before the shot. Low. Steady. Unshaken in a way that cuts deeper than the bullet ever could.

"You should’ve stayed in line."

Joshua’s breath hitches, a broken sound that’s more of a  gasp than an exhale. His chest tightens, and the thread yanks hard, as if trying to rip him out of the present entirely.

The asphalt disappears. The sirens fade.

And suddenly, it’s raining again.

360 seconds…. 359…. 358….

The sound comes first, the patter of raindrops on glass, a dull rhythm that seeps into the silence of his memories. Joshua doesn’t need to open his eyes to know where he is—it’s etched into his mind like a scar.

A car. A stakeout. The dim glow of a streetlamp haloed by mist, barely piercing through the rain-slicked darkness. The memory is so vivid it almost feels like he’s back there, his fingers ghosting over the grip of the Glock resting in his lap, his breath fogging the window. The dull hum of a police scanner crackles from the passenger seat, and across the street, a single light flickers in the third-floor apartment of a crumbling high-rise.

That’s where you are.

He hadn’t known your name then. Not your face, not the way your voice could twist words into knives or lullabies. All he’d known was your alias—Nyx, a ghost in the wires, a shadow who’d dug too deep and found something that should’ve stayed buried.

Erebus.

Even now, Joshua feels the weight of the name, the way it sank into his chest the first time he heard it whispered by his handler. A database so encrypted, so labyrinthine, that even his organization only spoke of it in fragments. And yet you, a hacker originally hired to expose the rot of corporate corruption, had stumbled upon it like you’d tripped over a landmine.

The details were sparse then. A whistleblower had paid you to scrape dirt off the edges of one of the conglomerates tied to Joshua’s organization. You’d gone deeper than they ever intended, though, uncovering shards of Erebus—just enough to understand its value and the danger it posed.

Joshua hadn’t been sent to kill you that night. Not yet.

The organization wanted to know who you were working for. If you were working alone. And more importantly, what you’d uncovered about Erebus.

The first time he saw you, it was through the crosshairs of his rifle, the rain streaking across his scope. The building you’d chosen was a hacker’s dream—tucked away in the middle of nowhere, just off a grid dense enough to hide you for a while. He’d been told you were smart, but that didn’t quite prepare him for the sight of you, illuminated by the pale blue glow of multiple monitors.

You’d been working on something—typing so quickly it looked like you weren’t even touching the keys. There was nothing remarkable about the way you looked, and yet he couldn’t stop watching.

Joshua didn’t know it then, but he already hated how the thread around his pinky seemed to hum. He thought he’d imagined it—the faint pull, like it was tethered to something in that room, even if he couldn’t see it.

His comm crackled to life, interrupting his focus.

“Got eyes on the target?” It was Sangyeon’s voice, low and unbothered. He was in the adjacent building, watching from another angle.

“Yeah.” Joshua had kept his tone neutral, even though he hated that Sangyeon was there at all. The mission was observation. That’s what they’d told him. But he knew better than to believe in simplicity when it came to his line of work.

Across the street, you paused, tilting your head as if you could feel him watching. His hand instinctively moved to adjust the rifle, finger brushing against the trigger, but he froze when he saw what you were holding.

A USB drive. Plain. Ordinary. And yet, even from this distance, he knew what it was.

Erebus.

Your gaze flicked toward the window then, just for a moment, and though it was impossible for you to see him through the rain and shadows, Joshua swore you were looking directly at him.

“Target’s on the move,” Sangyeon’s voice came through again, sharper this time.

Joshua blinked, the spell broken. He watched as you stood, shoving the USB drive into your pocket and grabbing a bag from the floor. You glanced toward the window one last time before disappearing from view.

“Stay put,” Joshua said, already moving.

He didn’t know why he said it, or why his pulse had quickened at the thought of losing you in the rain-soaked streets. All he knew was that the thread tied to his fingers felt tighter than it ever had, and no mission briefing had prepared him for that.

The first time you spoke was the second time Joshua saw you.

He tracked you through the rain, his footsteps silent against the slick pavement. The USB drive—Erebus—burned in his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to lose it, but there was something more than protocol driving him forward. He told himself it was just the mission, but every step had felt heavier, weighted by that invisible thread coiling tighter with every second you stayed out of sight.

You slipped into an alley, a narrow cut of darkness between two forgotten buildings. Joshua followed, his Glock raised, the streetlight behind him casting his shadow long and sharp against the brick wall. You hadn’t flinched when he rounded the corner, gun trained on you. Instead, you turned, slow and deliberate, your expression calm, as if you’d been expecting him all along.

For a moment, there had been only the sound of the rain dripping from the eaves above, pooling around your feet.

“Well,” you said, your voice low but cutting, “they sent someone fast.”

The words hung in the air, but Joshua hadn’t responded. His aim was steady, but his pulse betrayed him, thrumming too loud in his ears. You hadn’t looked like someone running for their life. You had looked composed, calculating, almost amused.

“Go ahead,” you continued, taking a single step forward, daring, reckless. The glow of the streetlight had caught in your eyes, turning them sharp and bright. “Pull the trigger. But I’ve already copied Erebus. Killing me won’t stop what’s coming.”

The threat in your tone was subtle, but it was there, wrapped in defiance. You were testing him, weighing him against whatever expectations you had built in your head. And for the first time in years, Joshua’s finger hesitated on the trigger.

“Who are you working for?” he asked, his voice quiet, a sharp edge beneath the calm.

You had tilted your head, a smile ghosting across your lips—barely there, more of a challenge than an answer. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” you said, and there had been something bitter, something wounded, in the way you had laughed after.

The thread coiled around his pinky had tugged sharply, and he hated it. Hated the way it pulled him toward you even when every logical part of him screamed to put a bullet in your chest.

The sound of footsteps cut through the tension—a deliberate, heavy cadence. 

Sangyeon.

Joshua’s mind sharpened, instincts kicking in. He knew the second Sangyeon rounded the corner, he would shoot first and ask questions later.

Joshua acted before he could think it through. He lowered his gun, the decision instinctive, a betrayal of everything drilled into him.

“Get out of here,” he muttered, his voice cold to cover the inexplicable tightness in his chest.

You blinked, surprise flickering in your eyes for just a second before you recovered. Then, you smirked. The expression had been infuriating, and yet it had rooted him in place, as if the thread between you had knotted tighter.

“See you around, soldier,” you had said, your voice dripping with mockery and something more dangerous—promise.

Joshua hadn’t watched you leave, but he had felt it, the absence of you almost as heavy as your presence had been. He had clenched his jaw, forcing his grip to relax on the Glock. When Sangyeon appeared moments later, Joshua had already stepped out of the alley, shoulders tense.

“Lose her?” Sangyeon asked, suspicion lacing his tone.

Joshua hadn’t looked back. “No. She’ll resurface. They always do.”

But even as the words had left his mouth, Joshua couldn’t shake the way his pulse had quickened at the sight of you, the way your voice had wrapped around him like a noose. He had told himself it was just the mission. Just Erebus.

But the thread knotted on his finger had hummed, and deep down, he had known better.

300 seconds…. 299…. 298….

The third time Joshua saw you, the fluorescent lights in the cold, windowless interrogation room cast sharp, unforgiving shadows. It felt as though the world had been stripped of color and warmth, leaving only stark grays and the faint hum of tension in the air. You’d been brought here under orders—captured during a raid on one of The Syndicate’s safehouses.

He hadn’t been the one to catch you. No, it had been a lower branch of the organization, an overeager unit that had stumbled across your location by sheer luck. The details of your capture had been messy: a shattered window, a scuffle in the dark, and your wrists bound with rough rope that still left faint marks on your skin. By the time you’d arrived at their facility, you’d already outsmarted half the guards with a sly smile and a sharp tongue, making them regret underestimating you.

And now, here you were.

Joshua sat across from you, the assigned interrogator, chosen for the job by someone higher up who’d claimed he had the right temperament for extracting answers. He’d been told you were dangerous—The Syndicate’s rising star, a name whispered in intelligence reports and backroom briefings. He’d expected you to be cold, calculating, maybe even desperate.

But you were none of those things.

You sat in that metal chair, your arms tied behind your back, the cuffs biting into your skin, and somehow, you still looked untouchable. A faint smirk curled at the edges of your lips, your confidence an act of rebellion all its own.

“Is this the part where you torture me for answers?” you teased, leaning back in the chair like you were perfectly at ease.

Joshua’s jaw tightened, his gaze flitting to the chains binding your wrists, then to the cut on your forehead that was still oozing blood. The sight of it filled him with a sudden, inexplicable rage. It wasn’t logical—he barely knew you beyond the file he’d been handed an hour ago. But seeing you restrained, sitting there with your arms pulled behind you as if you were a threat to be neutralized, made his chest twist with a fury he couldn’t name.

The thread tying him to you seemed heavier than ever, an unbearable weight that tugged at something deep inside him. He stayed silent, his gaze flickering down to it almost unconsciously.

You noticed. Of course you noticed. The flicker of his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides—all of it gave him away.

And for the first time, your smirk faltered.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” you asked softly, the amusement in your tone giving way to something sharper, quieter. “The thread. It’s fate, isn’t it?”

Joshua stiffened. His first instinct was to deny it, to scoff at the idea of threads and fate, but the burning weight on his pinky betrayed him. He stayed silent, and his silence spoke louder than words ever could.

You leaned forward, the motion deliberate, the cuffs digging into your skin as you closed the distance between you. There was a gleam in your eyes now—not of defiance, but something more dangerous. Something that made Joshua’s pulse quicken.

“Tell me something, soldier,” you whispered, your voice low, carrying just enough venom to draw blood. “Does your fate feel like a noose?”

The question hit harder than it should have, knocking the breath from his lungs. Joshua’s throat tightened, the thread burning hotter, twisting tighter. He hated it—hated how you could cut him open with words as sharp as blades, hated the anger bubbling beneath his calm exterior. But most of all, he hated the truth in your question, the way it echoed the thoughts he couldn’t bring himself to confront.

He didn’t get the chance to respond.

The door creaked open, and Sangyeon strode in, his boots echoing sharply against the tiled floor. The cold presence of his commanding officer shattered the fragile intimacy of the moment.

Joshua rose instinctively, his body moving faster than his mind. He stepped between you and Sangyeon, his arm outstretched to block the path.

“We’re not done here,” Joshua said firmly, his voice steady even as his pulse thundered in his ears.

Sangyeon raised a brow, his expression colder than the room itself. “The prisoner doesn’t decide when we’re done,” he replied curtly. “She’s being transported.”

Joshua bristled. He couldn’t explain it—not to Sangyeon, not to himself. But something about this moment, about you, felt like a line he wasn’t ready to let anyone else cross. He could feel your eyes on him, steady and unyielding, burning into his back.

And for the first time in years, Joshua hesitated. 

He didn’t meet your eyes when Sangyeon all but dragged you out of the interrogation room. 

The transport convoy had been tense from the start. Joshua sat rigid in the lead vehicle, his jaw set and his gaze fixed on the road ahead. You were in the back of an armored truck, hands cuffed behind you, your expression unreadable. The radio crackled with static, the air heavy with a silence that pressed on his chest like a weight. His orders had been simple: ensure the prisoner—you—made it to the facility alive.

But the moment the first gunshot rang out, everything spiraled.

The Syndicate moved like ghosts in the night, their ambush precise and ruthless. Bullets ricocheted off metal, shouts filled the air, and the stench of gunpowder clouded the chaos. Joshua leaped out of the vehicle, his weapon drawn, scanning the darkness for threats. Amid the frenzy, his gaze found you.

You stood in the middle of the chaos, unarmed, your hands still bound behind your back. And yet, you weren’t panicking. You weren’t cowering. You were watching him with a calm intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.

Your eyes locked with his, and in that moment, the world seemed to slow.

“Come with me,” you pleaded, your voice raw and almost lost amidst the gunfire. It was a stark contrast to the sharp, unyielding person he’d faced in the interrogation room. There was no mockery now, no edge to your words—only trust.

Joshua hesitated. His grip on his weapon faltered, the weight of his loyalty pressing against the thread on his pinky, which burned with an almost unbearable ferocity. He felt it pulling him toward you, urging him forward, and for a fleeting second, he let himself imagine it—letting go of the lies, the bloodshed, the endless cycle of orders and betrayal. Letting himself be with you.

But the spell broke as quickly as it had been cast. Before he could respond, you turned on your heel and ran. You vanished into the shadows, slipping through the chaos like smoke.

Joshua stood frozen, the thread tugging so hard it felt like it would snap. He should have called for backup. He should have tracked you immediately. Instead, he lingered in the wreckage, the ache in his chest growing heavier with every passing second.

By the time he’d made up his mind, you were long gone.

It took him hours to track you down. The thread burned hotter with every step, guiding him to a decrepit safehouse on the outskirts of the city. The building leaned precariously, its windows cracked and its walls streaked with grime. He stepped inside cautiously, his weapon drawn, every muscle in his body tense.

You were waiting for him.

The safehouse smelled of damp wood and dust, the faint hum of the laptop filling the silence between you and Joshua. You leaned against the edge of the table, exhaustion etched into the lines of your face, but your eyes remained sharp, unyielding. The pistol sat within reach, a quiet reminder of the life you lived—a life Joshua should want no part of.

“Took you long enough,” you said when he finally stepped through the broken doorway, his silhouette outlined by the dim glow of a street lamp outside. There was a bite to your tone, but it wavered just enough to betray the relief hiding beneath it.

Joshua hesitated. He didn’t know what he expected to find—maybe a trap, maybe nothing at all. But here you were, waiting for him like you knew the thread had left him with no choice.

He nodded toward the pistol on the table. “You expecting someone else?”

You smirked, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe. But not you.”

The weight of his steps seemed heavier as he crossed the room. His presence was quiet but impossible to ignore, like a storm brewing in the distance. He stopped a few feet away, just close enough for the tension between you to spark.

“They’ll kill you,” he said, his voice low, steady, but laced with something softer. Something closer to worry.

You laughed, bitter and tired, the sound almost foreign in the stillness. “And you’re here to, what? Warn me? That’s rich. What’s next? You’re going to tell me to turn myself in?”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. You didn’t need him to answer; the hesitation in his silence was enough.

“You’re swimming in dangerous waters,” he said finally, his tone quieter now, less an accusation and more a reluctant observation.

“Then teach me how to stay afloat,” you shot back, meeting his gaze head-on.

The words hung between you, heavier than the air in the room. His eyes flicked over your face, cataloging the shadows beneath your eyes, the faint bruise on your cheekbone, the cut just above your eyebrow. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the cut. You flinched, inhaling sharply like the touch burned you.

He pulled his hand back as if scalded, the thread on his pinky burning like it had come alive, searing his skin with every beat of his heart. The pull was unbearable now, as if fate itself had decided to wrap its unyielding fingers around his throat.

“Fate’s a cruel mistress,” you murmured, almost to yourself, your voice barely above a whisper.

Before he could reply, your hand was on his face, fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw with a softness that shouldn’t have belonged in this world of violence and lies. He froze, caught between instinct and the undeniable gravity pulling him toward you.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, your voice steady even as your eyes searched his face. “You don’t have to keep fighting against it.”

Joshua’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he let himself lean into your touch. Just for a moment. Your hand was warm against his skin, grounding him in a way he couldn’t understand but didn’t dare question.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said quietly, his words faltering as his gaze dropped to the thread burning bright red between you.

“I know enough,” you replied.

It wasn’t a confession. Not exactly. But it was enough to make his resolve splinter.

He stepped back, the moment breaking like glass. The room felt colder without you in reach, the distance between you suddenly unbearable. Joshua turned toward the door, his jaw tight, his hands trembling with something he didn’t want to name.

When he reached the threshold, he paused, glancing back at the table. The pistol still sat where you’d left it, untouched.

“If they come for you, run,” he said without turning to face you. “Don’t wait for me.”

You didn’t respond, but when the door closed behind him, the pistol remained exactly where it was.

He was sure he would never see you again. 

240 seconds… 239… 238…

Months slipped by, but the weight of you never did. 

Joshua buried himself in missions, but each one left him more fractured than the last. The Organization sent him from one corner of the world to another—extracting assets from hostile territories, infiltrating Syndicate bases, and dismantling black-market operations. The missions were a blur of violence and precision. A high-stakes extraction in Prague left him dangling from a helicopter over the Vltava River. In Istanbul, he spent weeks undercover in a Syndicate safehouse, passing information to the Organization while pretending to be one of them. In Bogotá, a firefight in a crumbling warehouse left his shoulder grazed by a bullet, the heat of it a reminder that he wasn’t invincible. 

You, meanwhile, had gone dark. No trail, no whispers of your whereabouts. He told himself it was for the best, that this was what survival looked like. But the truth twisted inside him like a knife: he wanted to find you, even if it meant breaking everything he’d built.

So in every city, in every crowd, he found himself scanning faces for yours. It wasn’t just  habit—it was compulsion. He looked for you in reflections, in the muted buzz of computer screens during late-night debriefings. It was irrational, foolish, and entirely unavoidable. You had taken root somewhere deep inside him, and no matter how many miles he traveled or how many agents he eliminated, you remained.

You were in the quiet moments between missions, in the brief silences before sleep claimed him. In the hum of static on his comms, he thought he heard your voice. And in the shadows, he sometimes swore he saw the outline of your figure, only to blink and find you gone. When the adrenaline wore off and exhaustion crept in, he caught himself tracing the thread on his wrist—the one that connected him to you. He hated it. He hated you. He hated himself for not hating you enough.

When he saw you again, it wasn’t planned. He told himself that, over and over, like a mantra meant to absolve him of guilt. 

The café was crowded, its warmth a sharp contrast to the biting cold outside. He’d come in for a quick reprieve, seeking caffeine and anonymity. But there you were, sitting by the window with your laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard. The light from the screen cast a faint glow on your face, and he stopped in his tracks.

For a moment, he didn’t move. He couldn’t. His heart thundered in his chest, and his mind screamed at him to turn around and walk away. But his feet refused to listen.

You noticed him before he could decide. Your eyes flicked up from the screen, narrowing slightly in recognition before your lips curved into a smirk. You stood and approached, your movements so casual it made his stomach twist.

“Following me now?” you asked, sliding into the chair across from him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I should be,” he admitted, his voice low.

Your laugh was soft, disbelieving. “You’ve got other things to worry about, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “But you have a habit of making yourself hard to ignore.”

You arched a brow, amused. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Take it however you want.”

The edge that usually laced your conversations was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate. The café buzzed around you, but the noise faded as you fell into a rhythm, a shared bubble that felt fragile and fleeting.

You talked about nothing and everything. You mentioned a book you’d been reading—something about espionage, fittingly—and he countered with a story about a mission that reminded him of it. You argued over music, his disdain for synth-pop clashing with your guilty admiration for it.

“Places you’ve never been?” he asked at one point, watching as your fingers traced idle patterns on the rim of your coffee cup.

“Japan,” you said softly. “I’ve always wanted to see Kyoto in the fall. The colors, the temples… it feels like a dream.”

He smiled faintly. “You’d hate the humidity.”

“And you’d hate the crowds,” you shot back, grinning.

It was dangerous, this fragile intimacy. Joshua felt it with every word, every moment that passed. He couldn’t remember the last time he talked to someone like this, like the world outside didn’t exist.

When his hand accidentally brushed against yours, the thread ignited, searing into his skin with a heat that made him pull away too quickly. You noticed, your gaze flickering between your own hand and his, but you didn’t comment.

He was about to say something—he didn’t know what—when his instincts screamed at him. 

Syndicate operatives. Their movements were too deliberate, their eyes scanning the room too carefully. Joshua’s hand went to his Glock, hidden beneath his jacket, and his body tensed.

“Get down,” he said under his breath, but you were already aware.

The fight was quick and brutal. He moved like a ghost, his Glock barking twice before the café erupted into chaos. People screamed and scrambled as tables overturned, coffee spilling like blood. Two agents fell, their bodies hitting the floor with sickening thuds, and Joshua didn’t give the others a chance.

By the time the last operative dropped, the café was eerily silent, save for the panicked whispers of bystanders.

You stared at him, your chest heaving.

 “You just killed Syndicate agents,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“I know,” he said, his voice tight. He reached for your wrist, his grip firm and unyielding. “We need to go. Now.”

The rain outside was relentless, soaking you both as you ran. He didn’t let go of your wrist, and you didn’t pull away. The thread between you felt like a live wire, sparking with every step.

 210 seconds… 209… 208…

The motel room was a piss-poor excuse for shelter - it was suffocatingly small, air thick with the dampness of your rain-soaked clothes. Joshua’s hair clung to his forehead, water rolling down his sharp jawline. He paced the room like a caged animal, his movements sharp with anger.

“You’re too reckless,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the still air. “Do you even understand what you’re doing? What you’re risking?”

You crossed your arms, defiant despite the chill that had seeped into your bones. “I know exactly what I’m playing with. This flash drive? Erebus? It has the names of every agent in your Organization. Every. Single. One.”

His jaw tightened, and he stopped pacing to glare at you. “The Syndicate isn’t just some petty operation. Erebus has everything—data on every agent in the Organization, their families, their locations. Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you if they find out you have that?”

“What they’ll do to me?” you shot back. “What about what they’ve done to everyone on that list? I’m not just going to stand by and let them—”

“This isn’t some noble crusade!” he interrupted, his voice rising. “This is suicide.”

“And what’s your solution? Pretend it doesn’t exist? Turn me over? Let the Organization do what they want with me while the Syndicate kills every last one of you?”

The argument escalated, voices overlapping, words cutting deep. But beneath the anger, there was something else—fear. Fear of losing, of breaking, of being undone.

When Joshua finally stopped pacing, you realized how close he had gotten. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his breaths, his hands curling into fists at his sides as though he were holding himself back.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, his voice low and strained. “If they catch you, they won’t just kill you. They’ll make you wish they had. And I can’t—” He cut himself off, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“Can’t what?” you demanded, your voice softer now but no less insistent. 

His nails cut into the meat of his palm. The thread tugged, searing against his skin as he exhaled defeatedly. 

“You need to leave,” he said, his voice raw and quiet.

“Why?” you demanded, refusing to look away.

His jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest moment before snapping back up to your eyes. “Because if you stay, I won’t let you go.”

The air between you was heavy, suffocating. Neither of you moved, but the tension pulled taut, the thread between you burning like fire against his skin.

And then it snapped.

He kissed you like a man unraveling, his mouth desperate and unrelenting against yours. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as though proximity could fix whatever was broken inside him. You melted into him, matching his hunger with your own, your fingers tangling in the soaked fabric of his shirt.

Time blurred after that. The world outside ceased to exist, the rain pounding against the windows the only reminder that it hadn’t stopped spinning.

By the time dawn broke, the room was silent save for the faint sound of your breathing. Joshua stood by the door, fully dressed, his back turned to you. He didn’t look back as he stepped out into the rain, but the thread knotted around his finger burned brighter than ever, searing his skin with a pain he refused to acknowledge.

You woke to find the bed empty and the USB drive still clutched in your hand. He was gone, but the faint imprint of his touch lingered—on your skin, in your chest, and in the hollow ache he left behind.

 180 seconds… 179… 178…

The present clawed its way back to him in sharp, agonizing bursts as Joshua lay sprawled on the rain-slick asphalt. Pain tore through his side, hot and searing, every breath shallow and wet. The alley spun in shades of black and gray, the rain streaking his face like tears he’d never shed. Blood pooled beneath him, thick and warm against the cold, uncaring ground.

And yet, it wasn’t the physical pain that consumed him.

It was the mistakes—the ghosts of every choice that had led him here.

They unraveled in his mind, one by one, sharp-edged memories that wouldn’t let him rest. The mission in Berlin: Joshua had been too slow, a fraction of a second of hesitation that had cost his partner a bullet to the leg. He could still hear the crack of gunfire, the way his partner’s shout of pain cut through the chaos, and the look of betrayal that followed. He’d apologized—of course he had—but in their line of work, an apology wasn’t enough. The Organization didn’t care about remorse; they cared about results.

Then Madrid. Joshua had miscalculated the Syndicate’s response time, thinking he had ten minutes when he only had five. The extraction had turned into a massacre, the Syndicate responding with brutal efficiency. Civilians—people with nothing to do with their mission—had been caught in the crossfire. Joshua had stayed up that night, staring at his trembling hands, the smell of blood still clinging to him. He hadn’t spoken about it, hadn’t dared to, but the faces of the innocent haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

Seoul had been worse. The Syndicate asset had been within his grasp, mere feet away, but Joshua had underestimated their desperation. They’d slipped through his fingers with a single, calculated move, leaving him standing in an empty apartment with nothing to show for weeks of planning. He’d reported the failure with a steady voice, but inside, he felt the crushing weight of disappointment—the Organization’s and his own.

He could name every mistake, every failure, each one etched into his mind like a scar. And yet none of them—none of them—compared to the monumental fuck-up that had shattered everything.

Telling Sangyeon about the thread.

140 seconds… 139… 138…

It had been during a debrief, just days after the café incident. Joshua had killed two Syndicate operatives in broad daylight to protect you. The aftermath had been a whirlwind of blood and chaos, and somehow, through it all, he’d managed to get you to safety. He swore up and down he hadn’t seen you since. 

But the Organization demanded answers.

He could still see the stark room where it happened, its fluorescent lights humming overhead. Sangyeon sat across from him, his expression cold and unreadable. The air between them was heavy with tension, suffocating in its intensity.

“You killed two Syndicate agents,” Sangyeon said, his tone sharp, cutting. “In public.”

“They were going to kill her,” Joshua had replied evenly, refusing to flinch under Sangyeon’s glare.

“Her.” The word lingered, dripping with accusation. “Nyx.”

“She’s not a target,” Joshua said, his jaw tight.

“No,” Sangyeon agreed. “She’s a liability. She holds the very thing that could kill us all.”

That should’ve been the end of it. Joshua could’ve deflected, could’ve buried the truth like he had so many times before. But the thread burned against his fingers, the weight of it too much to bear.

“It’s not just her,” Joshua said, his voice low. “It’s... the thread.”

Sangyeon’s brow furrowed. “The what?”

“The thread,” Joshua repeated, leaning forward. “It’s real. It’s... fate. It connects us.”

For the first time, Sangyeon faltered, his expression shifting from confusion to something darker. He leaned back in his chair, the lines of his face hardening. “You’re saying you’re tied to her. That you’re bound to her.”

Joshua nodded once, the motion stiff. “It doesn’t change anything. I’ve kept my work separate—”

“It changes everything,” Sangyeon snapped, slamming a hand on the table. “You’ve compromised yourself. You’ve compromised us.”

“I haven’t,” Joshua shot back, his voice rising. “I’d never betray the Organization.”

But Sangyeon’s laughter was cold and cruel, a sound that made Joshua’s stomach twist. “You already have,” Sangyeon said.

And then he reached into his jacket, pulling out a Glock. He placed it on the table with a slow, deliberate motion, the click of metal against wood reverberating in Joshua’s ears.

“Prove it,” Sangyeon said, his voice unnervingly calm. He gestured to the gun, his eyes piercing. “Prove your loyalty right now.”

Joshua froze, his pulse hammering in his ears. The room seemed to shrink around him, the air too thick to breathe.

“Kill her,” Sangyeon said, his tone colder than ice. “If the thread is nothing, if fate is meaningless, then prove it. Take the gun. End it.”

The words sliced through Joshua like a blade. His hand hovered over the weapon, trembling, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force himself to move.

His mind betrayed him, flashing with images of you—your defiance, your laughter, the rare moments of vulnerability you’d shared. He thought of the thread on his finger, burning with a purpose he couldn’t deny.

“No,” Joshua said finally, his voice breaking.

Sangyeon’s jaw tightened, his disappointment a palpable weight. “I knew it,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re weak.”

Now, lying on the asphalt, Joshua clenched his jaw, the memory of Sangyeon’s words echoing in his head.

“You’re weak.”

The thread pulsed faintly, a cruel reminder of the one thing he could never sever, no matter how much he tried. Rain soaked through his clothes, his blood washing away in rivulets, but he clung to the memory of you.

The only thing he’d ever chosen over the Organization.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice a ragged breath lost to the storm.

120 seconds… 119… 118…

It took him days to find you again. The string tugged him south, sharper and more insistent than it had ever been before. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t slept in three days, that his ribs ached from a Syndicate operative’s well-placed kick, or that Sangyeon had started leaving bodies in his wake just to bait him. None of it mattered. The thread knew where you were, and Joshua had learned—finally, painfully—to trust it.

He found you in a dingy motel room in Bangkok, the kind of place where the sheets were stained and the walls were peeling, the fan overhead spinning lazily against the heat. The sight of you hit him like a punch to the gut. You were alive, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a laptop open, a half-eaten bowl of noodles on the nightstand. Relief surged through him so violently that he had to grip the doorframe to steady himself.

The door slammed shut behind him, and for a moment, there was silence—just the sound of the rain pattering against the cracked window and the faint hum of the overhead fan.

Then you moved.

Your hand flew to the gun on the nightstand, your instincts honed from years of survival. Joshua's hands shot up, palms open in surrender. “It’s me,” he said quickly, his voice low and soothing.

You hesitated, your fingers brushing the grip, before your eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“And you shouldn’t still be in Bangkok,” he retorted, his words sharper than intended. “Do you have any idea how close they are?”

You glared at him, your expression hardening as you crossed your arms over your chest. “Close enough that you’ve led them straight to me?”

It was a low blow, but Joshua swallowed the sting. He stepped closer, shaking the rain from his jacket. “I didn’t lead them here. I came because I—” He cut himself off, his jaw tightening. “I came because you need to leave. Now.”

You didn’t move, didn’t flinch. If anything, your glare hardened. “Big talk from someone who left me in a shitty motel room.”

“I did it to protect you,” he countered, his voice breaking on the last word.

The argument spiraled quickly, your voices rising to fill the tiny room.

“You think I don’t know how to handle myself?” you snapped, your body tense, ready for a fight.

“Handle yourself? You’re a walking target, and you know it!” he fired back, his voice rising. “They’ll drag you back in chains if they don’t kill you outright.”

“And what’s your brilliant plan, huh? To swoop in and save me like you always do?”

“I’m trying to save us both!”

The words hung in the air, heavy and raw.

You stared at him, your chest heaving with anger, and then shoved him, hard. “You don’t get to decide that for me, Joshua!”

He stumbled back a step, more stunned by the fury in your voice than the force of the push. But when you tried to step past him, he grabbed your wrist.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

You yanked your arm free, your eyes blazing. “You don’t own me.”

“I never said I did,” he shot back, his voice trembling. “But damn it, I—” He paused, running a hand through his soaked hair, struggling for words. ���I can’t stand the thought of them getting their hands on you.”

You stared at him, your expression unreadable, but when he reached out to touch your arm, you didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “This thread, this... connection. But I know that every time I think of you  in pain, it kills me. And the thought of you in their clutches…” He shook his head, his hand tightening around your arm. “It makes me want to tear the world apart. So please, for once, just run.”

90 seconds… 89… 88…

His voice cracked, raw and desperate, and the room fell into silence.

You stared at him, your expression unreadable, before tilting your head. “Run where?”

“Anywhere,” he pleaded. “I’ll keep them off your trail. Just... go. Disappear.”

Your gaze softened ever so slightly, and for a moment, he thought you might relent. But then you asked quietly, “And what about you, soldier? Will you come with me?”

70 seconds… 69… 68…

The nickname hit him like a blow, dredging up memories of whispered conversations in coffee shops and fleeting touches, of a time when things had been simpler. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said, the word a vow.

You nodded, swallowing hard, and moved to open the door.

That’s when you both saw him.

Sangyeon.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, but his expression was anything but relaxed. His eyes were cold, calculating, as they flicked from you to Joshua. “Going somewhere?” he asked, his voice smooth as silk.

Joshua’s heart sank.

60 seconds… 59… 58…

The rain came down in sheets, each drop striking your skin like tiny needles. Sangyeon’s voice echoed behind you as he shouted orders to his men, his tone sharp and commanding. He was close—too close. The three of you had been darting through the maze of alleys and narrow streets, but every turn seemed to bring his shadow closer. Joshua’s grip on your wrist tightened as he pulled you along, his pace relentless despite the exhaustion that clung to both of you. “We can’t outrun him forever,” you panted, glancing over your shoulder. The sight of Sangyeon’s silhouette closing in made your stomach twist.

Joshua didn’t respond, his jaw set in determination. His eyes darted around, scanning for an escape route. Finally, he spotted a low wall covered in ivy and debris, just high enough to give Sangyeon trouble but not impossible for the two of you.

“This way,” Joshua muttered, pulling you sharply to the left.

You reached the wall first, your breath hitching as you realized what he intended. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you hissed.

“No time to argue,” Joshua snapped. He bent slightly, locking his fingers together into a makeshift foothold. “Up.”

You hesitated, but the sound of Sangyeon’s boots splashing through the puddles behind you left no room for debate. Gritting your teeth, you stepped into Joshua’s hands, using his strength to launch yourself up and over the wall. You landed awkwardly on the other side, the USB clutched protectively in your hand.

Joshua scrambled up after you, his movements less fluid but just as urgent. As soon as he hit the ground, he grabbed your arm again, tugging you forward. “Keep moving,” he said, his voice low and urgent.

The two of you ran, weaving through the labyrinth of alleyways, but Sangyeon was like a wolf on the hunt, his presence a constant pressure on your backs. You could hear him yelling into his radio, summoning reinforcements.

Joshua’s steps faltered as he realized the inevitable: there was no escaping Sangyeon together. His lungs burned, every breath a knife in his chest, but he pushed through the pain, his mind racing.

45 seconds… 44… 43…

“Stop!” he suddenly barked, pulling you to a halt.

“What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice rising in panic. “He’s right behind us!”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to you, his eyes searching your face as if trying to memorize every detail. His hair was plastered to his forehead, rivulets of rain carving paths down his cheeks.

“I know,” he said, cupping your face in his hands. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, even as his eyes searched yours desperately. “I know, but listen to me.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look on his face stopped you cold.

“I need you to run,” he said, his voice breaking. “Don’t stop. Don’t look back. No matter what you hear, just keep running.”

You shook your head, your hands gripping his jacket. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to,” he insisted, his thumbs brushing the rain from your cheeks. “I’ll find you, I swear. But if Sangyeon catches you…” He trailed off, his voice choking on the thought.

Your lips parted, words hovering on the edge, but he didn’t let you speak. Instead, he kissed you.

33 seconds… 32… 31…

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—this was the kind of kiss born of desperation, of finality. His lips crashed against yours with an urgency that left you breathless, his hands sliding to the back of your neck to hold you close. The rain slicked your skin, mingling with the tears you didn’t realize you’d shed.

His kiss was everything he couldn’t say.

I’ll protect you. I’ll find you. I’ll love you, one day. When we have time.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

“I’ll find you,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

Before you could protest, he shoved you away. “Go!”

For once, you listened.

You stumbled, your heart twisting as his hand slipped from yours. For once, you listened. You turned and ran, clutching the USB to your chest, the sound of your footsteps swallowed by the rain.

Joshua stayed frozen, watching until you disappeared into the darkness. Then he turned, his hand dropping to the knife at his side as Sangyeon stepped into the alley.

25 seconds… 24… 23… 

“Well,” Sangyeon drawled, his voice laced with mockery. “I didn’t think you’d stoop this low, Joshua. Running off with her? Betraying everything for—what, love?”

Joshua didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead, he lunged.

The fight was brutal from the start.

Joshua lunged first, catching Sangyeon off guard with a shoulder tackle that slammed him into the wall. But Sangyeon recovered quickly, driving his elbow into Joshua’s ribs with enough force to make him stagger.

“Still as reckless as ever,” Sangyeon sneered, dodging a wild swing and countering with a sharp punch to Joshua’s jaw.

Joshua spat blood, his eyes blazing as he charged again. This time, he feinted left and struck right, his fist connecting with Sangyeon’s temple. The blow sent Sangyeon reeling, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he kicked out, catching Joshua’s knee and sending him to the ground.

Sangyeon didn’t waste a second. He grabbed Joshua by the collar, hauling him up and slamming him against the wall.

“You’d throw everything away for her?” he hissed, his breath hot against Joshua’s face.

Joshua snarled, shoving him back with all his strength. “You don’t know a damn thing about her.”

Sangyeon’s laugh was cold, cruel. “Oh, I know enough. And when I bring her in, I’ll make sure she’s in chains. You can watch every second of it.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. Joshua froze, his blood turning to ice.

20 seconds… 19… 18… 

That moment of hesitation cost him.

Sangyeon drove his fist into Joshua’s stomach, doubling him over, and then swept his legs out from under him. Joshua hit the ground hard, the asphalt tearing at his skin.

Before he could recover, Sangyeon pulled out his gun.

The muzzle flash lit up the rain.

10...Joshua's eyes fluttered open, barely. The pain—the sharp, blinding agony in his chest—wasn’t there anymore. It was strange, almost peaceful. His body felt weightless, as if the rain had washed him clean of everything, even his senses. So this is it, he thought. This is where it ends.

9...Out of the corner of his vision, the red thread glimmered faintly against the darkness, slick with rain but unbroken. He had forgotten about it until now, a lifeline he hadn’t dared to hope for. It felt absurd, this fragile thing tethering him to someone in a moment like this. And yet, without fully understanding why, he reached for it. His fingers were trembling, weak, but they managed to curl around the string.

And then, he tugged.

8...The thread pulsed, faint and distant, like a heartbeat far away. Joshua blinked through the haze clouding his vision, confusion prickling at the edges of his fading mind. Was it always this warm? The rain poured harder, soaking him to the bone, yet the thread seemed to thrum with something else entirely—something alive. He could feel it pulling back, gentle but insistent.

7...Images began to flicker in his mind - a life that he so desperately wished to be his: your laugh echoing on a summer night, your hand in his as you pulled him through a crowd, the softness of your gaze when you thought he wasn’t looking. Each one burned brighter than the last, brighter than the rain-soaked world around him.

6...He heard it then—footsteps. They were frantic, splashing through puddles, growing louder with every heartbeat. His grip on the thread tightened instinctively, the pulse of it quickening in response.

Was it you?

5...“Joshua!”

Your voice cut through the storm, raw and desperate. His heart lurched at the sound, even as his body refused to move. It was you—he knew it was you. He wanted to call out, to tell you to stop, to stay back. But no words came.

4...The thread flared, glowing like fire, as your hand found his face. The warmth of your touch spread through him, chasing away the cold, the darkness, the fear. It was grounding, anchoring him to the world he thought he was leaving behind.

3...“Joshua,” you sobbed, your voice breaking. He felt the hot sting of your tears against his skin, mingling with the rain. “You need to fight. Do you hear me? You need to fight!”

His lips parted, but no sound escaped. He wanted to say your name, to tell you he was trying. He wanted to tell you everything.

2...“Soldier!” you screamed, your voice fierce and trembling all at once. “Wake up!”

Something inside him stirred—an ember reigniting. The thread between you burned white-hot, a tether he wasn’t ready to let go of yet. Not now. Not like this.

1...Joshua felt your hand shake against his face, your tears slipping over his lips as they parted slightly. He wanted to answer, wanted to give you something—anything—but his body betrayed him. The warmth of your hand began to fade, the glow of the thread flickering like a dying lightbulb.

He tried to move, to hold onto you, but everything felt heavy, as if the earth itself had decided to bury him in its arms. Your sobs were the last thing he heard clearly, breaking apart with a rawness that pierced deeper than the bullet ever could.

“Joshua,” you choked out one last time, his name a plea, a prayer, a demand.

But the world was already gone.

Joshua’s eyes flutter open, the harsh fluorescent lights above blinding him for a moment. The world is blurry at first, a smear of color and sound, like he’s waking from some fevered dream. He doesn’t feel the weight of pain anymore. In fact, he doesn't feel much of anything, save for a subtle warmth spreading across his palm.

The thread.

The faint pulse against his skin is all it takes to bring him fully back to reality. It burns, but in a way that makes him feel alive—makes him feel like he didn’t just escape death. Like he’s been given another chance.

He turns his head slowly, wincing at the movement, and there you are. You’re slumped in a chair next to the bed, your head resting against the edge. Your fingers are intertwined with his, holding on to him with the kind of tenderness that feels unreal. His heart beats faster, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest. Is this real?

He squeezes your hand instinctively, half because he’s convinced he’s dreaming and half because he’s sure he’s entirely undeserving of this second chance.

The moment his fingers tighten, you stir. Your eyes flicker open, disoriented at first. Then you meet his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you moves. It’s like time itself is holding its breath.

But then, without warning, you lunge forward, your hand flying out to smack him across the face with a force he didn’t know you had in you.

“If you ever,” you hiss, your voice low and threatening, your eyes sharp with something that could easily pass for murderous rage, “do some stupid shit like that again, I swear to God I’ll kill you  myself.”

Joshua blinks, stunned into silence for a moment. He half expects you to break down in tears, but instead, you're breathing hard, your face flushed with fury.

A chuckle escapes him, soft at first, but it grows, shaking his chest, almost delirious with the relief that floods him. The laughter feels like freedom. Like the sun breaking through clouds. And that’s when you breathe out, your body visibly relaxing. You lean back in your chair, exhaling deeply, as if letting go of a breath you’d been holding for far too long.

Then, without missing a beat, you smile—wide, so wide, that Joshua is certain the sun couldn’t compete. It’s pure, unbridled joy, the kind of smile he hasn’t seen from you in what feels like forever.

You lean down, kissing him softly, the kiss tender and sweet, as if he’s fragile, as if the world could break him again at any moment.

“Welcome back, soldier,” you breathe against his lips, your voice warm with affection.

He smiles faintly, the corners of his lips curling up. "Where are we?" he asks softly, his voice hoarse with the remnants of sleep.

“Some hospital in Bangkok,” you say, your hand sliding to his cheek, gently cupping it as you meet his eyes. “Pretty sure I scared the staff half to death when I dragged you in here.”

He laughs quietly, his body still too sore to do much else. “I’m sure you did.” He pauses, something lingering between you both. He studies the way the light from the window catches the strands of your hair, the way you seem so alive, so full of strength despite everything. "What do we do now?"

You don’t say anything at first. Instead, you pull out a set of passports from your bag, holding them out to him. The photos are undeniably of the two of you, but the names... they’re someone else’s. The last names match.

He raises an eyebrow, his lips curving up in a teasing smile. “Are we brother and sister?” he asks, his voice light.

You smack him again, but it’s gentler this time, laced with affection. “If you want to keep joking, I’ll slap you again,” you warn, but there’s a warmth in your eyes.

“Then what do you say, soldier?" you ask with a grin. "Wanna see Kyoto in the fall?"

Joshua leans back, chuckling, despite the sore ache in his body. "I told you, you’d hate the humidity."

"And you'd hate the crowds," you tease right back. "But is that a yes?"

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he hums against your lips, the sound full of quiet amusement. He pulls you in for another kiss, his hands sliding to your back, pulling you closer.

Later, after a few quiet hours, once you’ve crawled into bed beside him, Joshua’s hand rests against your waist, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. The heart monitor is the only sound in the room, its rhythmic beeping the only proof that he’s still here, still alive.

“You asked me once,” Joshua says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If my fate felt like a noose.”

You nod slowly, tracing the outline of his hand with your fingers. “And? Does it?”

He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, lost in thought. Then he turns his head, looking at you with a quiet intensity. “No,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “It feels like life.”

You don’t speak right away, letting the words sink in, letting them settle between you like an unspoken truth. Then you smile, a soft, knowing smile, and kiss him once more, gentle and full of promise.

And as you close your eyes in the silence of the room, the only sound is the ticking of the clock on the wall, counting up slowly, a reminder that time, even after everything, keeps moving forward.

1... 2... 3...

tagging: @ottersmind @blvenote @kyeomsworld @cookiearmy @armycarat2612 @rjea @xylatox @flwrshwa

@christinewithluv @headlockimnida @letwiiparkjay @cherr-y-eji @codeinbelle @baguette-atiny @whoa-jo @noiceoofed

[goldenstring6123]

helloooo! i’d like to request a short fic with this glorious prompt i thought about last night 🤭

let’s say reader gets a tattoo of xavier’s sword (like the design behind his latest promise outfit) all the way down their back ;) i would die to see how he would react to this nyehehehe

it can be either fluff, suggestive, smut, up to you with whatever you’re comfy with <3 tysm hehe

Xavier: Ink & sword

Warning: Very suggestive! 16+ only, showering together, nudity, kissing, sensual touching, fem!reader, reader is not the mc but works as a hunter

Author's note: :>

MASTER LIST | Buy me a thread?

"I'm sorry—I knocked you back too hard," Xavier's hand reached down towards yours, and you, on the other hand, were buried underneath some plastic crates at the corner of the training room. He waited for you to take his hand. "Are you alright?"

You took his hand and used him to hoist yourself back to your feet, a tinge of pain and ache flowering from different parts of your back. You dropped the sword that you were holding, and it immediately dissipated into thin air. You looked at Xavier and patted his chest, trying to ease out that slight frown on his face.

"I'm alright. We deal with worse stuff on the battlefield."

Right above the entrance, a big digital clock projected the time in neon blue colors: 23:03. You and Xavier had been training for over three hours, and now the training grounds had been rid of people except for the two of you. Well, it couldn't be helped; Xavier's training regimen requires more time to perform, considering the complexity of his fighting style and condition.

Still, the fact that you can keep up is very noteworthy even in the eyes of others, though the only thing you were doing was defending and keeping your stance. The only worrying thing is that sometimes, Xavier forgets that you're just a normal hunter and tends to exert a bit more force when sparring.

You let out a small groan while you moved towards the shower room, and Xavier was walking right beside you, ready to reach out in case you toppled over. The frown was still on his face as if he regretted showing you that magnificent finishing blow. "Do you need help?"

You glanced at the shower room and hooked your index finger under his chin, turning his head slightly, the cheeky little teasing mood suddenly erupting from within you. "Are you offering to help me bathe? How daring of you."

"Uh...I didn't—" Xavier's doe eyes went wider than the moon, his nose and ears turning pink upon realizing your words.

You just loved finding the opportunity to fluster this little man.

Unbeknownst to Xavier, you knew how he has a little ongoing crush on you—credits to Tara for having that habit of snitching when drunk. And for a strong fighter, it feeds your ego to have him wrapped around your fingers.

"Can you just hand me the menthol patches in the kit?" you pointed at a small box nearby, one attached to the metal post. It was a first aid kit reserved for them. Xavier strode to the said post while you entered the washroom.

You opened your locker with your thumbprint and undid the brown leather support. Swiftly, you unbuttoned your blouse, picked at how it clung to your body, damp and riddled with dust and sweat. Finally, the stuffy bathroom air brushed against your sweat-ridden back.

"I got the patches..." Xavier entered the bathroom, the white menthol patches in his grasp. When he lifted his head to look at you, his eyes trailed from the curve of your form—eyes landing on the intricate tapestry of dark blue and white ink tattoo carved onto your back.

The shame of walking in on you naked disappeared in an instant.

You stared as Xavier slowly stepped beyond the room's threshold. You kept your blouse pressed against your chest, and even if you were nearly topless, Xavier's eyes never broke contact from your back. Why would he? The image of his very own sword was on your back.

"Is this why you wanted to take a picture of my sword?" His cold fingers slid down the dip of your spine, his eyes absorbing every bit of nitty-gritty detail about the tattoo. As much as he admires his real pristine sword, the image of it on your back is simply...breathtaking.

"Maybe? Do you like it?" You kept still, facing the locker. At that moment, every touch he made on your body was amplified beyond normal. The coolness of his fingers felt good against your warm back.

"It's beautiful," he uttered. The thin saber was positioned perfectly downwards to your spine, ending just above where your pants began, curving whenever you moved. The handle was positioned just between your shoulder blades. Feathers littered the rest of the space, some in blue and some in white. The intricate carvings on the side of his sword were perfectly captured. "Why did you choose my sword?"

"Well," your hand chucked the blouse in the locker. You glanced over your shoulder, the silver-haired man anticipating your answer. "It's because it was beautiful; I can't get my mind off of it." It just so happens that the man wielding it is beautiful as well. A beauty beyond the stars.

You turned back to face the locker, folding your blouse, thinking that Xavier had had enough of seeing the tattoo. Your lips opened, prepared to ask him to leave as you were nearly topless, if not for that low-back bra you're wearing, but before you could blurt a single word, Xavier pressed his lips on your shoulders.

It was as if his kiss had flicked a switch within you. You stiffened, leaning over while your hands hung at the edge of the locker. "Xavier? Did you just—"

The man placed another kiss lower. You could feel his tongue graze the surface of your skin. "Mhm, your skin is salty."

His words sobered you up; it wasn't exactly an insult, but that made you think. You stood up straight and faced him, your eyes coated with a sheen of lust and desperation. "I'm full of sweat. Do you really intend on having..." You held yourself back from spouting such vulgar words. "Never mind. Wait for me. I'm going to take a shower."

You took the towel and ran to the shower areas. It was dead silent. You pondered. Was Xavier really doing what you think he was going to do? Did the sword on your back push him to the edge?

All the thoughts crept at the back of your neck, but the softness of Xavier's lips remained. The hot water drizzled all over your body, releasing you from the stickiness of the fluids. You combed back your hair and looked up at the shower head, relishing the comfort of the rain-like sensation—for a few seconds at least.

The shower curtain shifted, and Xavier took a step in. His bare chest pressed against your back, and you spun quickly at the contact. Your eyes widened at the sight of his bare body—it's not the first time you saw it, but still—"Why are you here?"

"Let's take a shower together. Turn around, I'll wash your back."

"Do all training partners do this? Bathe together? Is this new?" You panicked, instinctively covering your areas while backing up against the cold porcelain wall. You stared up at him, the soft eyes no longer there. He looked intimidating now that he was towering over you.

"Do training partners sleep with each other when they get stuck in the mountains?" he uttered.

At that moment, the hazy memory of that stormy night flashed inside your head—the warmth of his touch, the flickering of the makeshift fireplace, his skin against yours, and his mouth exploring your body. Your face began to grow red at that memory.

Xavier's hands crawled to your hips, gently nudging you to turn. You didn't want to go against him, and at the same time, you were expecting something to happen because you would admit that Xavier was good. He felt good. His taste, his skill, and his size—what you didn't expect was that it wasn't going to be a one-time thing.

His hands were gliding on your back, and his burning stare trailed down to your ass. You bit your lip at the embarrassment. His hands, which were on your waist, found themselves holding on to your love handles, and gently, Xavier pulled your hips backward, coming into contact with his semi-hard-on.

"Shit," you uttered under your breath. Even if it wasn't fully hard, you could still clearly feel it. A million thoughts raced through your head, but there was one emotion that was prevalent: Erotic desire.

Xavier's lips came into contact with your back again, but this time, you couldn't help but flinch at every contact because his tongue and teeth grazed and gritted, intentionally leaving marks at Xavier's whims. Just by that, you were gasping for air, anticipating where he would bite next.

His fingernails scraped at your skin, tracing every curve and line of the tattoo; his touch was electrifying, but you craved more. How can he be so gentle but leave you feeling unexplainable things?

He peppered your back with light kisses from the dip of your back slowly, slowly crawling back up to your exposed nape. "Don't leave marks on my neck," you uttered between breaths. A loud pop of Xavier's kiss bounced off the shower room.

"Turn around, please. I want to see you," Xavier whispered. You looked over your shoulder, and you could see him stepping back a little bit, eager to see your body.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and turned to him, still covering your body. Admittedly, he was a little perplexed at seeing you acting all shy when it was you who was provoking him earlier, but poking fun at you wasn't right for the moment.

He brushed a stray hair that stuck onto your cheek and smiled, looking into your eyes fondly. "There's no need to hide," he said, taking a step closer. "You're beautiful."

His big hands caressed your elbows and slid up to your biceps, nudging you to loosen up. Your hands dropped from your body, but instead of letting them fall completely, you wrapped your hands around his neck.

You pressed your lips together, but all of a sudden, footsteps erupted.

"Is anyone in here?" the lady guard called. "Security!"

You covered Xavier's mouth and stared into his eyes, saying: 'Don't make a sound.'

"Oh, yes! I just finished training!" you yelled back.

"Alright, but please leave after 5 minutes. We're about to turn down the power for the entire floor."

"Sure! I'll be out in a minute," you replied. You and Xavier waited for a solid minute before moving. You let go of the breath you were holding, took the bar of soap from the holder, and gave it to Xavier. "Let's continue that at your apartment when we get home."

Author footnotes: Cockblocked by me, the author. Layout by me, using canva premium | Do not repost |

MASTER LIST | Buy me a thread?

[box-writing]

Loving you brings heartache.

⇥ summary— He knew falling in love with you would only bring heartache. But he fell in love with you anyway. ⇥ contains— Lilia Vanrouge x Gn! Reader, Reader is a human, long-lived species x short-lived species, Lilia's POV, Angst, medieval/fantasy au?? Does not follow the plot of the game. ⇥ a/n— English is not my first language. Apologies in advance for any grammatical errors. I actually hesitated to post this cuz idk if this turned out alright. ANYWAY, have some lilia vanrouge fic <3.

The ancient moon hung like a silver coin in the vast expanse of the dark sky, bathing the world in its soft glow. A lonely fae wandered, untouched by the relentless march of time. For centuries, he had lived in solitude, a sentinel to the beauty and fragility of mortal lives, until one fateful evening, love drew him into the warmth of humanity.

At a vibrant festival in a village, where laughter mingled with the melodies of distant flutes and the sweet scent of blooming flowers filled the air, he caught sight of a cute human. You.

You were radiant—a fleeting burst of life whose very essence seemed to dance within the glow of the lanterns that adorned the night. Lilia felt a pull, a magnetic connection that transcended the barriers of his eternal existence. 

Don’t get attached to a human. His mind echoed, yet his heart betrayed him as he approached you, and the two souls intertwined in a way Lilia had never anticipated.

Don’t fall in love with a human. It would only bring heartache. The voice in his head repeatedly echoed, yet he fell in love with you anyway.

Time together was a gift wrapped in fleeting moments. Every shared glance, every whispered promise became a jewel he tucked away in the depths of his heart, knowing full well the inevitable sorrow that would follow. He chose to love you despite understanding the cruel fate of mortal lives—the brilliant flame would flicker and fade, leaving him in an unending twilight of longing.

Seasons flowed like a river, and you blossomed through the years, your laughter echoing in the quiet corners of his soul. Together, your love crafted a tapestry woven with memories: sunlit picnics by the riverbank, secrets shared beneath starlit skies, and the simple joy of being together. Each heartbeat resonated with profound beauty, yet every joyous moment Lilia had with his human was laced with a lurking shadow—the relentless passage of time. 

You would change, while he remains the same.

As the years turned, he noticed the changes—the gentle silver streaks in your hair, the way your laughter sometimes carried a weariness that hadn’t existed before. It struck him with a quiet horror, for every cherished memory, he could count the strands of time that separated your spirits. He held your now wrinkling hands in his scarred one, feeling the warmth recede like the sunset, and felt as though the very earth beneath him trembled.

On a day that arrived much too soon, Lilia found himself beneath the ancient oak tree with his beloved human, where both of your love had first ignited. Its gnarled branches held witness to your unwavering bond; he wanted nothing more than to freeze that moment in time. But time was a relentless tide, and as you leaned against the sturdy trunk, he felt an emptiness grow, a contrast against the love that filled the air around them.

“I would trade everything for just one more moment with you,” he murmured, despair threading through his words. He caressed your hand, seeking your fading warmth.

With clarity that shone through your fading eyes, you responded with a small smile, “You are the reason I have lived each day so fully.” Your voice grew softer, making Lilia’s heartache. Why must you leave him so soon?

“If I were reborn, will you love me again?”

“Of course, my love. I would travel each corner of the earth just to see you again,” Lilia swore as his grip tightened on your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips. “I’d find you in every life and love you again.”

"Thank you for loving me. I love you." And in return, he would love you for all eternity.

As you slowly closed your eyes, Lilia felt the last flicker of your warmth fade away like the final ray of a sunset. As the light left, silence enveloped him, heavy and profound. Falling in love with a human hurts.

Grief became his only companion, a shadow that walked beside him as he roamed the world deprived of his lover’s laughter. He carried your memories—each shared gaze, each moment of joy—like a delicate glass ornament, fearing it might shatter if exposed to the truth of his existence. Time, it seemed, was no longer a gift but a curse, stretching out endlessly before him in a hollow landscape devoid of color.

“I love you, my dearest human.”

Loving you hurts. But he will still love you anyway.

wc— 747.

[babybenn]

HEAR ME OUT :

AU where Erik is a renowned painter, and Charles is his timeless muse.

Across every lifetime, their paths inevitably cross and each meeting is a thread in a tapestry of love, passion, and creativity that transcends time itself.

Erik is the only one to ALWAYS remembers Charles, and yet he always falls harder for him.

Charles on the other end, NEVER remembers his past lives, but always feels attracted to that grumpy young man who he seems to see everywhere.

Their lives have never been calm. They have always been a complicated mixed of emotions, danger and uncertainty, but in the end, no matter what, they always seem to find each other.

In this fic we would follow their different encounters through the ages, from the Antiquity to the modern ages. And every time, Erik would end up creating a new work out of his love for Charles.

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I had this idea for about two months now and I really want to write this fic for my best friend’s birthday in about a month and a half, but I’m really afraid to not finish it in time, so I need people to tell me to write bc I’ll never do it otherwise LOL.

[outofconcheol]

bloodline (JWW x F!Reader) - Teaser

pairing: vampire professor!wonwoo x TA!reader

genres/aus/rating: romance, angst, smut, fantasy au, 18+

summary: Cursed to a solitary existence, Wonwoo seeks a cure for his condition - enlisting the help of his diligent teacher's assistant. However, you refuse to let Professor Jeon go through with the cure without first teaching him the wonders of having something worth living for. When your tired souls find solace in your shared loneliness, friendship (and something more) blooms. But what happens when that isn’t enough? When the secrets that both you and Wonwoo have been harboring finally catch up to you? Will you and Wonwoo make the most of every moment, or will the aftermath of his quest leave you both even lonelier than before?

warnings (to be updated with final fic): tw: this fic deals with Wonwoo being tired of his vampirism and essentially wanting to end his life as a vampire (whatever that may entail - stay tuned), mentions blood, Wonwoo has dark and depressing thoughts, that's all for now but just know we are in for a ride :)

word count: 619 for the teaser, TBD for final fic

a/n: I've been thinking about this for a long time, and with me wanting to write more for SVT, I decided it was finally time to take the plunge! Please note that this is going to be an angsty journey, with lots of inspiration from pieces such as Thirst (2009), Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), and the Vampire Tapestry by Suzie McKee Charnas. As always, if these themes are not for you, please take care of yourself (your wellbeing comes first always). Also, thank you to the lovely sèvn (@aaagustd/@xscoupsx) for the banner. I hope you enjoy!

The bust sits in the corner of the office, nestled away in an alcove by the window. On sunnier days, when the light would hit it, the marble would reflect brilliantly, its ivory tones taking the appearance of an angel, a silent guardian watching over Wonwoo while he worked. Most of the time, it loomed in the shadows, its unsettling presence doing nothing more than to serve as a reminder that despite his physical appearance, Wonwoo was closer to the cold, unfeeling marble than he was to any of the human peers he’d encountered through the centuries.

Wonwoo can’t recall when in his travels he’d come across the statue, eight hundred years blurring together into a muddle, countless memories fading into oblivion, delicate threads disappearing in the intricate fabric of his mind. Maybe at one point it’d been a gift from a dear friend, or maybe even a lover, but Wonwoo simply couldn’t remember any of it at all. A lifetime of indulgence and hedonism meant that seeking pleasure had long lost its charm.

What more was there to study when Wonwoo had studied it all? From stepping into battle during the middle ages, joining the height of enlightenment during the Renaissance, and witnessing the advent of modern technology in the past century or so, Wonwoo had lingered in the background, slipping easily into the folds of human society. And it all lead him here, to this room that felt more like a box than an office, sifting through countless essays from a batch of college students who were as disinterested in learning about anthropology as Wonwoo had become with his own life.

Even now, he casts his gaze over to his faint reflection in the window, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, lean and lonely-looking. To the untrained eye, professor Jeon Wonwoo was the picture of innocence, milking the image of a solitary bachelor devoted to pursuing a lifetime of knowledge, much to the chagrin of many of his pupils. But Wonwoo saw what no one else did - the faint tinge of red in his eyes, a sign that he’d gone hungry for too long, the needle-like barb under his tongue that had known the taste of blood too many times. All signs of the monster that layed within. 

The efforts of concealing his true nature had finally caught up to him - the mask that he’d put on, feigning interest in human art, science, and culture finally slipping from his face. Simply put, Wonwoo was tired - restless from years of fighting the hunger, pretending that he cared for this life he’d crafted for himself. In reality, it was all a farce. Wonwoo had given up human blood long ago, but feasting on animals wasn’t enough to quell the burning inside him. 

In the end, he craved. Wonwoo was a thief, because he craved the one thing that was a lifesource for humans - their anima, their joie de vivre. He craved it because he didn’t have one of his own, nothing that drove him, that fueled him to keep going. Humans felt things - they felt happiness, sadness, anger and love. Emotions were so intertwined into the mesh of their lives that they craved any experiences that would give them more - from weddings and parties for families and friends, to random hook-ups, to even the thrill of dangerous situations. 

He’d read the essays his students had written - some of them talking about how humanity loved the society they’d crafted so much, that science was constantly coming up with new ways to prolong life, to keep on living. And yet, it didn’t move him. Wonwoo was tired of living just to live. Which is why he’d chosen to die.

a/n pt. 2: if you'd like to be tagged, please let me know! I work a pretty busy job, so I'm not sure when the anticipated release date, will be, but I'm going to try to work on this as much as I can. As always, any comments or feedback are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi <3

[stylesispunk]

"The not so invisible string"

not outbreak! Joel Miller x f! Reader

masterlist | next chapter

summary: you and Joel were made right for each other in the wrong time. Now, thirteen years later your paths crossed when both of your daughters get in trouble at school. Would be the right time for you now?

word count: 5k>>

warnings: angst, implications of cheating (emotional). Probably some grammar mistakes because I write things fast.

a/n: New fic alert! Hello, I got this idea and I wanted to write it, so this is going to be a series depending on how this part performs. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. Happy reading 💌

masterlist

dividers by @/saradika

When you’re young, you’re naïve

When you’re young, you know everything

But when you’re young, they assume you know nothing,

That’s why two people falling in love at the age of seventeen doesn’t seem interesting. People will assume a love like that, at that age is just a phase with a tragic ending. Tears, broken hearts, and the promises of never falling in love again.

But this one was different. You and Joel were different, two souls that had met at the age of five, growing up together as best friends, until one fell and then the other. One shared a kiss, and the best friends turned into lovers. 

Isn’t that typical?

It was. Both of you knew, but still, you didn’t listen. Both of you become one soul, destined to be together since you were two kids playing hide and seek together. 

Joel and you traveled the twisting roads of adolescence hand in hand as the years passed. Your shared love was a tapestry woven from the thread of shared dreams and whispered secrets. 

Everything around you changed as well. From the carefree days of children to the turbulent storms of adolescence, your friendship has survived it all. Some tears fell like soft rain, washing away the doubts that crept into our hearts, and there were times of joy that resonated through the halls of your shared history.

Yet, with every rock on the road, you found the strength to rise again, your hands tightly intertwined. Joel became your confidant, the keeper of your fears, and the little light of hope during the darkest nights.

When you both turned seventeen, the very age at which outsiders claimed to be the year of mistakes and growing, one kiss changed everything. The connection between you both only deepened. And when the world might have seen you as naïve, you understood the profound love of your bond. It wasn’t a youthful infatuation; it was a love story written in the stars long before you were aware of its existence. 

People whispered their doubts, predicting heartbreak and the inevitable end of your love story. Yet, in the quiet moments when it was just Joel and you against the world, you knew that your love was timeless. The promises made weren't born out of youthful exuberance; they were the solemn vows of two souls who had found their way to each other, over and over again, since the age of five.

Not even when you left Austin to go to college, the odds against you weren’t able to separate you. The odds seemed stacked against you, with skeptics murmuring that the challenges of a long-distance relationship would surely spell the end of your story. But you defied those expectations.

Letters and late-night calls became your lifelines, bridging the physical gap between you. Each word written and every shared moment over the phone felt like a testament to the enduring strength of your love. You didn’t let the rust grow between you, neither did he. 

He was there the day you graduated, being the first face, you found across the room smiling back at you with proudness. Through that look and grin, there was an oath behind, not only the survival of your love but to distance emerging even stronger. He being there meant that, after this, you both could build your life together, get married, have children, and grow old together. 

“I can’t wait to marry you” he whispered against your lips that night as you made love. 

“And I can’t wait to be your wife” you whispered back, whimpering under his touch.

But with the past of the months, the fights started. He coming home late from work, and your struggling with finding a job added a layer of stress to your relationship. Frustration crept into our conversations, and what were once gentle whispers of love turned into heated exchanges, grappling with the frustration of job rejections and the sense of inadequacy that came with each disappointment. Joel, burdened by the demands of his career, found solace in the late hours at the office.

Spending time with a colleague you dislike because of their closeness, because he seemed to treat her the way he wasn’t treating you now. 

Conversations about the state of your relationship became unavoidable. One evening, as the weight of your unspoken grievances hung heavy in the air. 

"Joel, we can't keep going on like this. I need more from our relationship, and I can't shake off the feeling that you're finding solace elsewhere."

His response was a defensiveness grunt, speaking about the pressure at work, how he needed to prove himself, and how your job search struggles only added to his burden.

“So is it my fault?” You shouted. 

Joel's expression shifted, caught off guard by the sharpness of my words. The defensiveness waned, replaced by a hint of realization. "No, it's not about fault," he began, his voice softer now, "but the pressure at work has been consuming me. I feel like I'm drowning, and I don't know how to balance everything." He sighed, “And you’re not even able to find a job” he added, the words hitting like a sharp jab amid our emotional battlefield.

He ended up calling you a mistake, and you called him a coward. 

 The room fell silent for a moment as the weight of your words sank.  The frustration that had been simmering boiled over into a heated exchange. "A mistake?" you retorted, your voice edged with hurt and anger. "Is that how you see me? As some kind of burden or failure?"

Joel's expression shifted again, torn between regret and the lingering pressure that had driven him to lash out. "I didn't mean it like that," he began, but his attempt to backtrack only fueled the growing storm.

As the argument escalated, each word became a weapon in our emotional battlefield. Accusations flew, and the once-clear path of our relationship was now obscured by the fog of resentment and hurt. The dreams we had whispered to each other now seemed distant and unattainable, replaced by the harsh reality of you present.

“Maybe we should break up,” you said, motionless, tired of the fights. “And I will leave, and take the job I didn’t want to because I didn’t want to leave you here” 

continued, the weight of the decision evident in my voice. The sacrifice echoed the painful truth that sometimes love, even when genuine, isn't always enough to weather the storms life throws your way.

Joel's eyes reflected a mix of surprise and realization, the gravity of the moment sinking in. The prospect of parting ways, of unraveling the life we had built together, cast a shadow over the room.

“Oh, are you surprised I’m not the failure you thought I was?” you asked, a bitter laugh escaping through the tears that spilled down your cheeks.

The room felt charged with the emotional storm of your shared history, the dreams you had woven now frayed and brittle. The vulnerability of that moment exposed the raw truth that love, no matter how deep, could sometimes prove inadequate in the face of life's relentless challenges.

Love has not always survived. 

Joel's silence spoke volumes, his eyes reflecting the complexity of emotions that swirled within. The air felt heavy with regret, sadness, and the painful realization that a choice needed to be made.

And when the lack of words persisted, and in the heavy silence, you walked towards the bedroom, the weight of the decision settling into every step you took. The room, once a shared bright sanctuary, now witnessed the dismantling of a life we had built together.

In the dim light, you fumbled for your suitcase, hands trembling as you threw clothes inside. Each piece of clothing now felt like a painful reminder of what was slipping away. The vulnerability of that moment, intensified by the tears that blurred your vision, underscored the reality that sometimes love, despite its depth, couldn't shield us from the harshness of life's trials.

The sound of the zipper closing echoed in the room, marking the final choice that had been made. Joel remained in the doorway, a silent observer of the disintegration of a shared reality. His eyes, a mosaic of conflicting emotions, spoke of a recognition that what once was could no longer be sustained.

As you carried the suitcase, its weight mirrored the heaviness in your heart. The room, filled with the echoes of your memories from the past, felt emptier with every step toward the door. The unspoken pain lingered a palpable energy that accompanied you through the threshold of a life I had known so intimately.

The choice had been made, and in that moment, the gravity of our decision settled in—the dreams you had shared now relegated to the shadows of what could have been. The door closed behind you, and at that exact moment, you didn’t know how you were anymore, not when this was the first time you would start navigating life without Joel.

And then, when the months passed by, you were face to face again. He tried to change the ending, but it was late. He was going to be a father of a child that wasn’t yours. 

And weeks later, on a night you were out, drinking all your tears and sadness, you met a guy, and three months after, you found out you were pregnant.

Joel and you were going to become parents, but with different people. 

And it seemed like all people were telling the truth. 

When you’re young you know nothing.

Thirteen years later...

Eyes focused on the road, breathe in, breathe out, thoughts wild around your head. 

You were driving back to Austin, back to your past self, to the five-year-old you, back to the seventeen-year-old you, back to…

No, you thought.

Tara was sitting in the backseat, earphones in her ears probably listening to a song that would take her away from her reality, from moving from her home, leaving behind every single thing she grew up loving.

Just like you, you said to yourself. 

“Hey, sweets are you okay?” you asked, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.

“Can we stop for a burger? I’m hungry” She avoided the question, again

“Your father is waiting for us at our new house, then we will get lunch, okay?”

She nodded, not uttering more words. She nodded, offering no more words. Then, she broke the silence. "I’m mad. I’m mad at you for leaving your life behind for Dad."

Confused, you asked, "What are you talking about?"

“You just had your job that you loved back at home; you had your friends. I had my life too and now we have to move here just because Dad said so?” Tara's frustration spilled out.

“He got a better job, that means—”

“That means nothing,” she interrupted. “Look, Mom, I know he loves me, and that he may love you, but he has always loved himself more than us. I think it's unfair for you to leave all that behind just for him.”

“Tara,” you whispered, struck by her perceptiveness. You thought it was incredible how at thirteen she was so aware of every single detail, and how much he knew you.

“I know if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t leave that life behind,” Tara spoke, her words cutting through the tension in the car. "I know there’s no man you would have done that for.”

You took a moment to collect your thoughts, the weight of the revelation settling in before you spoke. "There was one man before," you confessed, catching Tara’s attention. "His name was Joel," you said, the words heavy with the weight of memories, almost feeling a lump forming in your throat.

As you mentioned Joel's name, the car seemed to carry an unspoken history. Tara's eyes widened with curiosity and surprise.

“He was my best friend when we were kids,” you began, a nostalgic smile playing on your lips. “We grew up together, faced the challenges of growing older, and eventually, we fell in love.”

“What happened to him?” she asked. 

"We broke up, and just when we tried to get back together, he found out he got another woman pregnant," you explained.

"He cheated," Tara concluded, a hint of judgment in her tone.

"No, he didn’t, but... I couldn’t bear to be with him, so I left."

"And then you met Dad," she deduced.

You nodded, acknowledging the sequence of events that had shaped your life. The car carried the weight of shared revelations, and the road to Austin became a journey not only through physical landscapes but also through the landscapes of your history.

Tara sat in the backseat, absorbing the complexities of your past.

"But," you added, "even though Joel and I didn't end up together, he will always hold a special place in my heart. People come into our lives for a reason, and Joel was a significant chapter in my story."

The air inside the car was a combination of anxiety and reflection as it approached its new home in Austin. Tara sat quietly in the backseat, her thoughts appearing lost in the stories you had told, still absorbing the specifics of your past.

As you approached the curb, your tires crunched on the cobblestone driveway. The foreign exterior of the new house appeared before you like a blank canvas waiting to be painted with the colors of your new existence. Dwight, your husband, stood on the porch, a bright smile on his face as he noticed the car.

Exiting the vehicle, you opened the back door for Tara, and the three of you stood together in the driveway. Dwight approached, a mixture of excitement and curiosity in his eyes.

"Welcome home!" he exclaimed, wrapping both of you in a warm embrace.

Tara offered a half-smile, still processing the weight of the move and the revelations that had unfolded during the journey. Dwight, ever perceptive, sensed the mix of emotions in the air.

"How was the drive?" he inquired, glancing between you and Tara.

"Long," Tara replied tersely, her eyes flickering with a hint of weariness.

Dwight, aware of the challenges the move presented, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I know it's not easy, Tara, but I promise you'll find your place here."

The aroma of fresh starts penetrated the air as the three of you entered your new home. Dwight gave Tara a quick tour of the house, pointing out the right closets and stating to her that moving would be a good thing.

Dwight and Tara began to develop their rhythm of connection while unpacking boxes and settling into the unfamiliar home. The new place of residence began to turn from a new area to an area where shared memories would be established as the day progressed.

You couldn't help but think about Joel as you gazed around at the shifting landscape of your life, the echoes of the past fading into the background as you welcomed the present and the promise of a new chapter in your life in Austin.

It had been a week since Tara started school here, and she had begun to settle at the new school, at the unfamiliar hallways, and faces that were yet to become friends. Adjusting to a new environment, especially in the tumultuous teenage years, was never an easy feat. 

That’s what you feared the most. 

One afternoon, as you were going about your routine at the new house, your phone rang. The caller ID displayed the school's number, and a wave of concern washed over you. You answered with a sense of trepidation, already fearing the worst.

"Hello, this is Mrs. Evans from High School. Am I speaking with Tara's mother?"

"Yes, this is her mother. Is everything okay?" you asked, your heart racing.

"I'm calling to inform you that there was an incident at school today involving Tara. There was a fight, and we need you to come in for a meeting to discuss the situation." 

A mix of worry and confusion filled the air as you tried to process the information. A fight? This was entirely out of character for Tara.

"Of course, I'll be there," you replied, a knot forming in your stomach.

As you arrived at the high school, a knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. The unfamiliar hallways seemed to close in around you as you made your way to the principal's office. Tara and another girl with curly hair stood outside the door,

Behind the curly-haired girl, a man loomed, and for a moment, your heart skipped a beat at the possibility, dismissing the improbable thought as wishful thinking. As you walked ahead, the distance between you and the trio narrowed.

Entering the principal's office, the air seemed charged with tension. Mrs. Evans greeted you, her expression stern but professional. However, your attention was drawn to the man beside you, and when you finally looked, Joel stood there, his mouth agape, his eyes locked onto yours.

Time seemed to hang suspended in that moment as a flood of emotions washed over you—surprise, disbelief, and a surge of memories that had long been tucked away. The collision of your past and present felt surreal, and the room seemed to blur around the edges.

You were 22 again.

Neither of you said anything, instead, you allowed the principal to talk about the situation that had happened. 

Mrs. Evans, proceeded to share the details of the incident with a measured tone, bringing the focus back to Tara and her well-being. As she spoke, you and Joel maintained an uneasy silence, glancing at each other intermittently with expressions that betrayed a mixture of emotions.

"There was an unfortunate incident earlier today," Mrs. Evans began, her gaze shifting between you and Joel. "Tara and another student, Sarah, found themselves in a situation where a group of boys was bothering Tara. Sarah intervened to defend her, and the situation escalated into a physical altercation."

Your concern for Tara heightened, but a glimmer of gratitude surfaced as you heard about Sarah's protective stance. You stole a glance at Joel, whose eyes betrayed a complex mix of emotions—perhaps a reflection of his own memories and regrets.

"Both Tara and Sarah are being appropriately addressed," Mrs. Evans continued, her eyes shifting between the individuals in the room. "We take any form of violence seriously, but we also recognize the need to ensure our students feel safe and supported."

As the principal delved into the steps being taken to address the situation, you couldn't help but feel a sense of unease at the reunion with Joel in such unexpected circumstances. The shared concern for Tara momentarily bridged the gap of years and unresolved emotions, creating an unspoken connection.

The meeting concluded with an agreement on counseling for Tara and a commitment to monitoring the situation closely. As you rose to leave, the weight of the encounter lingered. So, you took Tara, delicately by the arm, and walked away from the ghosts from your past. 

“Hey, Tara wait!” The voice of Sarah called out, getting closer to us. 

Tara stopped in her tracks and turned to face the girl with beautiful curly hair, with a smile on her face.

“What?” Tara asked delicately.

“I want you to know I don’t regret what I did for you” She began, “And I have no idea what is like to be in new a place because I’ve always been here, and I also want you to know that you have a friend here. I will defend you from all those stupid guys making fun of you” 

A grin appeared on your daughter’s face at Sarah's words, and she enveloped the girl in a hug murmuring a quiet “thank you” you had still been able to hear. 

Your heart burst, not only for the happiness of your daughter finding a friend but for the tranquility she would feel from now on. Yet you couldn’t bear to lift your gaze from the girls because you knew once you did it, you would have to look at the same face that made you leave this city.

“Okay, Tara it’s time to go home,” you said, delicately grabbing your daughter’s arm, “and thank you, Sarah, for what you did for her”

“No problem” she said, smiling at you.

Once you both, said goodbye, you and Tara walked toward the car until a voice made you both stop your pace, and your heart beated like a drum.

“Yes?” you turned around, finding the strength to face Joel.

“I think it may be great for us to talk about our daughters” Joel spoke, buying some more seconds of your presence.

“Everything is clear." your voice came in a monotonous tone.

“But not between us” he said, with an undertone.

But instead of words, a heat overcame you, and you felt the skin around your eyes burn, you lifted you hand to your eyes, preventing the tears welled up in the corner to fall. But once you did it, you started crying, not knowing how to react and facing your past in front of you, how facing the man you had loved your whole life after thirteen years without any trace of him.

Joel took a step closer, his expression concerned. "I didn't mean to upset you," he said, his voice softening.

You took a deep breath, attempting to compose yourself. “It’s okay,” you said, taking a step back from his touch “I’m just stressed with all the changes” you lied, and grace a tiny smile towards him “We can talk another day when I’m settled.”

He simply nodded, caressing his chest with the palm of his hand in an attempt to take away the pain and confusion of seeing you again. 

With a daughter, and probably married to another man.

“Drive safe,” he said, with a caring touch in his voice.

You nodded, turning on your heel, walking towards the car without looking back. 

“You know her, don’t you?” Sarah asked his father, after seeing his longing expression as he watched you walking away from him. 

“I did once,” he said, still looking at your car as if you would get out and tell him you wanted to try again. 

And inside the car, the events weren’t different from outside. Once you put your seatbelt, Tara kept looking at you as if you were going to break at any moment. 

“He is that Joel, right?” She asked you carefully, trying to get her answer. 

You nodded. 

Tara nodded, her expression was pure concern "Are you okay, Mom?"

You managed a reassuring smile, even though the tears still lingered in the corners of your eyes. "I'll be fine, sweetheart. It's just unexpected to see him again after so many years." 

You took a glimpse in the rearview mirror as you drove away from the curb, leaving Joel standing there. As your mind lingered on a sudden encounter, the familiar surroundings began to blend as well. Your heart was heavier with the burdens of the days gone by, and the tears you pushed back threatened to spill over, again. 

As you drove home, the stillness between you and Tara was loaded with unspoken feelings. Your mind raced with old memories, and you couldn't shake the overwhelming feeling of weakness that Joel's comeback had caused in you.

What were the odds? You thought.

Meanwhile, Joel stood still, watching the car disappear into the distance. The question asked by Sarah still hanging in the air. "You know her, don't you?" Sarah questioned her father, who appeared to be absorbed in the memories that your presence had triggered.

As he tried to make sense of what was happening, his mind was in a rush of emotions. It felt strange and overwhelming to see you after thirteen years. The agony of the past came forward, and he felt for just a moment like an outsider in his own life, watching the movie of the both of you being played all over again.

Joel paused briefly before breaking the silence. "I've missed you," he said, his eyes scanning your face for signs of reconciliation.

You nodded, attempting to conceal the residual worries that had grown during the three months you had spent away from each other “I've missed us as well. Perhaps we should try again," you reasoned.

However, as the talk progressed, the truth began to appear like a storm on the other side of the sky. Joel's hesitation hinted at something more serious, something he had been holding him back. 

"But first, I need to tell you something," he finally admitted, looking down at the floor. "I got involved with someone else during our time apart."

The look on your face was enough for him to know that the news he was about to deliver was going to change everything between the both of you.

“She is pregnant.” He confessed, almost inaudible. 

The room seemed to shrink as the weight of his words settled in. Shock and disbelief mingled with the pain of what it seemed as a betrayal in your mind, but you knew it wasn’t. You had hoped for a fresh start, but this revelation shattered those hopes.

He had a girl to take care of, a baby he was going to love.

"You're going to be a father?" you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper. The reality of the situation was a heavy blow, and you struggled to comprehend the magnitude of the news.

Joel nodded; his eyes filled with remorse. "I didn't plan for this. It just happened."

“No. I don’t need an explanation of what you did when we weren’t together” Hurt, and resignation welled up inside you. "But we cannot be together. No, when you’re going to have a child with someone else. It’s not fair to any of us.” 

Joel's remorse-filled gaze met yours, and he nodded in acknowledgment of the reality you both faced. The dreams of rekindling what once was seemed to crumble in that moment, replaced by the harsh truth of divergent paths.

"This doesn’t change anything between us," Joel whispered, his voice laden with regret, trying to reach for you.

“It does!” you called out, “It does change everything” You took a deep breath, steeling yourself against the waves of emotion crashing within. "I hope you find the happiness you're looking for, Joel. But it can't be with me."

You stepped closer to him, cupping one side of his face with your hand, tracing his cheek with your thumb, and trying to take a picture of him with your eyes. 

One last picture, the last time you will have him this close to you. 

And you leaned in, sealing this goodbye with a last kiss, savoring the sweet taste of his lips mixed with the salt of his tears streaming down your face. He grabbed your face with his last strength holding you back from slipping from his fingers, but once you pulled away, and looked at him one last time. 

Then, you turned away, leaving the room, and, in a way, leaving a chapter of your life behind. The door closed with a soft click, sealing the end of a love story that had once held a promise, but it ended with Joel losing his princess. 

“Let’s go, baby girl,” he said after a moment, wrapping his arm around Sarah, and walking to the car. 

Tara kept stealing glances at you from the passenger seat, sensing the urgency of the scenario. The worry could be seen in her eyes, and you couldn't help but notice how perceptive she had become.

The car pulled to a stop in front of your house, which had become your new home in a place of spirits of the buried skeletons plotted to ruin your life. Tara unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to face you; her face filled with apprehension. "Mom, if you ever want to talk about it, I'm here."

You smiled, grateful for the depth of understanding and maturing in your daughter's eyes. "Thank you, sweetheart. I appreciate that."

As you both entered the house, the now familiar surroundings did little to ease the whirlwind of emotions within you. The past had a way of resurfacing when you least expected it, and Joel's reappearance had reopened wounds you thought had healed.

Once inside, in the quiet living room, your Dwight welcomed both of you with a smile on his face, “Hey is everything okay with you Tara?”

“Yes, Dad, just a misunderstanding,” he said, as if the matter wasn’t important, passing beside upstairs. 

As you and your husband were left alone, he sensed something wrong with you.

"Hey, love, is everything okay?" he asked, his eyes searching yours for a glimpse of the truth.

You forced a smile, attempting to push away the turmoil that threatened to surface. "Yeah, just a blast from the past today.”

Dwight wrapped his arms around you, a gesture of comfort that, for a moment, allowed you to forget the complexities of the day. He pressed a gentle kiss on your lips, and as the warmth of his touch enveloped you, a pang of guilt swept through the figment of your mind, and you couldn’t help but feeling ashamed of yourself for tasting the lips of a man you had settled with because you couldn’t stay with the love of your life.

And you feel disgusted of wanting for him to be Joel.

And at the same time in a different place in the same city, Joel was dreaming of you again.

[aventurineswife]

hiiiiiii i’ve got a poly fic idea for you!! :3

can i get uhhhh ratio x aventurine x vidyadhara!reader? tysm and please take care of yourself! <3

Fate’s Unseen Thread

Summary: In a shared home filled with knowledge and intrigue, Ratio, Aventurine, and you, the Vidyadhara, find yourselves drawn together by fate, intellect, and hidden desires. The three of you, each carrying your own burdens of past trauma and complex personalities, engage in a tense yet intimate interaction where the lines between intellect, chance, and connection blur. As you come to understand each other’s unique perspectives, a new bond forms—one that transcends your differences and intertwines your fates. What begins as a game of words evolves into something far deeper, as the trio navigates the delicate threads of trust, vulnerability, and shared destiny.

Tags: Aventurine x Vidyadhara!Reader x Ratio, Polyamory, Intellectual Rivalry, Manipulation, Complex Relationship, Slow Burn, Character Development, Flirting (?), Emotional Depth.

Warnings: Mildly suggestive themes, Complex interpersonal dynamics, Mentions of past trauma (Aventurine’s survivor’s guilt, Ratio's arrogance), Emotional tension and vulnerability, Some darker tones.

A/N: uhhh again, I'm not good at writing poly fics so yeah... 🧍‍♀️ (Also I don't ship them 🙏)

The air inside the shared house was thick with an electric tension. The faint scent of incense mingled with the faint hum of distant magic as the three of you sat in the spacious room, scattered with books and curious artifacts from across the universe. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries that depicted cosmic maps and ancient dragon motifs—a subtle nod to the connection between each of you, even if you hadn’t quite fully realized it yet.

Aventurine sat casually on the edge of an armchair, his signature grin playing on his lips as his eyes darted between you and Ratio. The faint flicker of amusement in his gaze never quite matched his words, always careful with how he spoke, like each sentence was part of a game. He adjusted his overcoat, his posture one of calculated nonchalance.

"You know, Ratio," Aventurine teased, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm, "I find it quite amusing that the intellectual giant has yet to decipher the most obvious game in the room."

Ratio, as always, was a study in contrast to Aventurine’s flamboyant demeanor. His sharp eyes focused intently on the calculations in his mind, as if the interaction wasn’t even worth his full attention. His wavy hair cascaded over one eye, his muscular form seemingly out of place in the elegant attire he wore—an intricate blend of intellectual flair and battle-ready sophistication. The golden adornments gleamed in the soft light of the room, but he didn’t react immediately to Aventurine’s jab.

"You are no match for strategy, Aventurine," Dr. Ratio responded coldly, though the faintest spark in his eyes betrayed the fact that he wasn’t truly dismissing the challenge. "You gamble with luck and chance. I... operate in certainty."

His words hung in the air, sharp and clear, as if he were stating a fundamental truth. Yet, the slight shift of his posture, the soft clink of his golden bracelets as he gestured toward Aventurine, hinted that beneath his cold exterior, there was something else. A layer of intrigue—perhaps a curiosity about Aventurine’s unpredictable nature.

You watched this banter unfold from the cushioned seat at the center of the room, feeling the subtle pull of both men’s contrasting energies. Aventurine’s calculated chaos was magnetic, yet Ratio’s calm intellect was a force that rooted you to the present moment. The two were so different, yet somehow, their interplay created a sense of harmony.

But what about you? What place did you occupy in this delicate balance?

The sound of your shifting position must’ve caught their attention, for both men turned their eyes on you in unison, a curious and somewhat knowing glint in their gazes. Aventurine's smile widened, and he leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting like a predator about to make its move.

"Ah, our beloved Vidyadhara," he said with an exaggerated sigh, his voice as smooth as velvet but underlined with something darker, something more dangerous. "You’ve been awfully quiet tonight. Surely you’ve something to say?"

You met his gaze, the draconic sharpness in your eyes mirroring the sense of weight that had been hanging in the air between the three of you for some time. Despite your long-lived existence, your past of continuous rebirth had left you wary, unsure of the cycles of fate that seemed to bind you to this place. The language of your people—the Song of Rebirth—whispered through your veins, but you’d never quite understood the meaning of the threads that wove your life together with theirs.

Aventurine’s presence was chaotic, and Ratio’s intellect seemed like a precise, unstoppable force. Both forces were more than mere opposites—they were intricately tied to your own existence, like pieces of a puzzle that you hadn’t yet figured out.

"I do not see this as a game, Aventurine," you responded softly, your voice a low, melodic hum. "This... this is not luck nor intellect. It is the will of the cosmos."

The room seemed to pause as the two men absorbed your words. The temperature seemed to rise slightly, the energy between the three of you thickening, like the air before a storm.

Ratio was the first to respond, though his voice was tinged with something rare—respect, perhaps, or the recognition of a fellow mind that understood the deeper threads of existence. "You believe in fate, then?" His tone was calculating, as though the mere concept of fate was something to be analyzed. "I would never claim to be bound by such forces, but you... You seem to think otherwise."

Aventurine’s smile was more restrained now, but his eyes glittered with something akin to curiosity. "How interesting," he mused. "Perhaps fate isn’t something to be fought against, but a game we have yet to fully master."

You looked between them, your sharp, pointed ears catching the subtle shifts in their body language—Ratio’s intense focus, his golden owl-like shoulder piece catching the light, and Aventurine’s casual lean, his left hand hidden behind his back as if it held something that didn’t belong.

In that moment, a thought settled within you, a piece of the puzzle that had always seemed out of reach. The three of you, in some strange way, were bound together by fate, by choices made long before any of you had met.

"The game you both speak of," you said slowly, your voice softer now, yet steady. "It is not one of intellect or chance. It is a game of balance—of knowing when to yield, when to act, and when to let the threads of the universe guide us."

Ratio seemed to ponder this, a fleeting flicker of something like admiration crossing his face. Aventurine, ever the master of intrigue, tilted his head slightly, his smile now tempered with a rare seriousness.

"You speak as though you know," Aventurine mused, his voice quieter, almost vulnerable. "Do you?"

The weight of your words seemed to resonate between the three of you, and for a brief moment, the usual playful banter was replaced by a profound silence.

And then, as if on cue, both men shifted closer, drawn to the unspoken connection that had begun to thread itself between the three of you.

Perhaps fate was not something to be feared or resisted, you thought. Maybe, just maybe, it was something to embrace—together.

Aventurine reached out first, his fingers brushing against your own with an unexpected tenderness. Ratio followed suit, his presence more deliberate but equally potent. And as your hands touched, you felt the weight of centuries, of calculated risks and intellectual pursuits, all converging into a single, shared moment.

In the quiet, you realized that this was more than a game. This was the beginning of something much deeper, something that would transcend intellect, luck, and even fate itself.

It was the beginning of something bound by the threads of all that had come before—and everything that would come after.

And for the first time in ages, you allowed yourself to feel the stirrings of something you hadn't thought possible. Connection.

The rest of the world could wait. Tonight, the three of you would write your own fate.

[thepersonnamedsam]

she got this - op81

pairing: oscar piastri x academic!girlfriend

summary: oscar visits his girlfriends bachelor thesis defending

word count: 1.3k

face claim: phoebe bridgers

warnings: a swear word, some angst - mentions of a panic attack

note: this is for my baby @lissyontour, you got this, pls wish her good luck for today <3

oh and it’s my first oscar fic, hihi, enjoy it

and there is some of the bachelor thesis… i had to include some of it, thanks to chat gpt

masterlist / taglist

Fuck, was she nervous. Her head was spinning and her legs were jelly - no, scratch that - her legs were liquid.

Her eyes were trying to focus on something, just something that would help her back to reality. She knew she was somewhere else right now, somewhere where she shouldn’t be.

Why wasn’t Oscar with her? Why was she alone? This was not how she planned it!

Her heart was beating, she felt it nearly pop out of her chest. It almost hurt. Oscar should’ve been here with her, but a last minute meeting with Zak just threw her plans overboard.

Her breath quickend and her hands searched for the only safe thing she could think of, her phone. Her fingers quickly glided over the screen and Oscars answer made her hold her breath for a second.

Standing in front of the auditorium, the heavy red doors made her uneasy. It’s gonna be time soon.

Oscar had to hold himself back not to text her that he was actually sitting in the front row and waiting for her to enter the room. He knew it was cruel. But he just had to do it.

He was so much more nervous than her. He watched her write that bachelor thesis for over six months now. At every race she was sitting in his drivers room with at least ten books and her laptop. Only just for the last five laps she came out of the room to watch him race.

He appreciated her coming, she could’ve just stayed at home and studied, but she always came with. Multitasking her way through her studies. And he was so proud of her. There was no way he would miss her final step of the way.

And he knew his cruelty was all worth it, as she stepped into the room and her eyes spotted his. Her whole face lit up and he could almost spot some tears of relief.

„What are you doing here?“, she mouthed. A small smile on her lips. „Supporting you“, he mouthed back, matching her smile.

„Welcome Ms y/l/n!“, her professor welcomed her. „I am exited to hear you defend your bachelor thesis about; How Greek Mythology influenced modern literature.“

She smiled at her favourite teacher and took out her thesis. She closed her eyes for a second, breathed in and out again. She was ready. Oscar knew she studied English literature and oh did that make her sexy.

But he had no idea of Greek Mythology or modern literature by any means. Yes, he read her thesis at least twice, but did his brain understand anything she meant? It did not. Being the smart one was all her job.

„Welcome Professor McAllister, dear colleagues, guests and friends. I hereby welcome you dearly to my defending of my bachelor thesis: How Greek Mythology influenced modern literature.“

Oscar listened intently and always smiled when she looked at him for reassurance. His heart was swelling with proudness. He soon had a girlfriend with a bachelor degree.

„In the vast tapestry of literary evolution, Greek mythology stands as an enduring thread, weaving its timeless narratives into the very fabric of modern literature. As contemporary authors navigate the labyrinth of inspiration, they find themselves entwined with the rich tapestry of gods, heroes, and mythical creatures that originated in ancient Greece.

The resurgence of interest in Greek mythology can be traced to its profound impact on archetypal storytelling. From the lofty heights of Mount Olympus to the depths of the Underworld, these tales resonate with universal themes that transcend temporal and cultural boundaries. Authors draw from the exploits of Zeus, the sagas of heroes like Achilles, and the tragedies of figures like Oedipus to explore complex facets of human nature. The gods' capriciousness mirrors the unpredictable forces that shape our destinies, while the struggles of mortals against divine intervention echo the perennial human quest for agency in the face of cosmic uncertainty.

Prominent literary figures, from James Joyce to J.K. Rowling, have paid homage to Greek mythology, infusing their works with echoes of ancient narratives. The hero's journey, a concept rooted in the mythic structure of heroes like Perseus and Hercules, serves as a narrative template for protagonists in contemporary novels. These echoes are not mere nostalgic nods; they represent a perennial dialogue between past and present, a dialogue in which timeless themes find new expression.

Moreover, the enduring allure of Greek mythology lies in its malleability. Authors wield the myths as allegorical tools to explore issues ranging from power dynamics and hubris to the nuances of morality. The Hydra of Lerna becomes a metaphor for societal challenges that sprout anew when seemingly eradicated, and the labyrinthine trials of Theseus mirror the complexities of modern ethical dilemmas.

In essence, the enduring influence of Greek mythology on modern literature is a testament to the universality of its themes and the perennial resonance of its characters. As authors continue to delve into the wellspring of ancient tales, they discover not relics of a bygone era, but rather a living reservoir of inspiration that fuels the imagination of generations, perpetuating the eternal dance between the ancient and the contemporary.“

Her voice angelic as it could be, drew in people who never even heard of the topic. You didn’t have to be interested in Greek Mythology to listen to her thesis, because she delivered her speech that even Oscar understood and left him wanting to know more about it.

My god was he proud. He was in awe, his beautiful girlfriend standing up there, speaking about her passion and delivering it in a way he never thought she could.

Even the look on Professor McAllister made him proud. She looked at his girlfriend with a proud smile, nodding along with her and reassuring her. She was gonna ace this.

Oscar was snapped out of it when the whole auditorium clapped. She was standing with the biggest smile on that stage. Oscar just had to get a picture of her. His new wallpaper.

„Thank you, Ms y/l/n. This was magnificent! We‘ll just discuss real quick and we‘ll be back with your grade. You can be proud of yourself, Ms y/l/n“, Professor McAllister told the young woman on stage.

And as soon as they left the room, she squealed and ran to Oscar. He opened his arms and let the girl spring into his embrace. „Hi“, he whispered. „Hi“, she whispered back. „I thought you weren’t coming?“

He laughed, a real deep belly laugh. „I had to surprise you!“ She hit his shoulder and said: „I hate you, but I’m glad you came.“

„You did so well, my love. I am so proud of you! We have to celebrate afterwards, anything you want.“

The time together was cut short, when the door opened again and the four professors walked in again. „Ms y/l/n, please, have a seat“, her professor said and pointed to the chair sat in front of the four.

She nervously walked over to them and smiled at them. „No need to be nervous, you did well, you can be proud of yourself.“

They talked stuff Oscar didn’t understand. But when he saw a big smile form on her face, he knew she received the best grade she could’ve. Proud, that’s the only word that came to Oscar’s mind.

„I love the boys“, she told Oscar. He smiled up at her and said: „I know you do, but only I can celebrate with you today.“ She giggled and would’ve almost kicked her feet, if it weren’t for the others in the room.

Professor McAllister handed y/n her diploma and told her they’d see each other at official ceremony. After that, Oscar and his girlfriend almost sprinted out of the auditorium.

oscarpiastri

liked by yninsta, landonorris and 82‘729 others

oscarpiastri how did we get from that to this?

view all 22‘219 comments

yninsta the first one is NOT me, idk where you got this from

user1 weren’t we all at that point during our studies?

user2 yes, yes we were

yninsta glad i wasn’t alone…

oscarpiastri so it was you

yninsta oop-

landonorris congrats, y/n! when we gonna get a lecture about greek mythology from you?

yninsta any day you want

landonorris now?

oscarpiastri no, now she’s busy with me

landonorris ewww, my eyes are scarred, don’t ever come back to the mclaren garage

oscarpiastri i didn’t mean it that way

yninsta he did

landonorris you’re just kids

user3 we love an academic wag

user4 so proud of you, y/n!

mclaren congratulations, y/n, next podium is for you 🍾

yninsta thank you, admin

yninsta thank you, baby

oscarpiastri i am so proud of you, darling

loganseargant i cannot believe i have a friend with a bachelors degree…

yninsta better believe it, american boy

user4 do u even know what a bachelors degree is..?

user5 american slander, we love it

alex_albon we are all proud, y/n

user6 we really are

yninsta thank you all so much, i love you guys so much

georgerussel63 oh no, she’s getting sentimental, let’s stop here guys

°°°

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