#fic: a thread in the tapestry

[hopecomesbacktolife]

rereading your WIP plot summaries / future chapter sketches like ‘damn, this story’s gonna be so good once I write it’ and then realizing that in order to write it you actually have to write it

[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

[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.

[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.

[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?

[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.

[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

°°°

@ironmaiden1313 , @topguncultleader , @biglittlesecret , @gulabjamooon , @lovelyy-moonlight , @peachyplumsss , @mistrose23 , @copper-boom , @love4lando , @champomiel , @serenityleah , @iloveyou3000morgan , @angelwithoutmywings , @elleeeee21 , @youkissedareaderinthedark , @mikauraur , @thybulleric , @lpab , @fdl305 , @mellowarcadefun , @teti-menchon0604 , @vildetry06 , @bibissparkles , @aurora-maria , @lunnnix , @sya-skies , @Buckywifeyy , @dakotali , @rechtrecht , @noncannonships , @1eclerc16 , @pitlanebabe , @sopheeg , @avengersheart , @thatsadsmallchild , @peachiicherries , @idkiwantchocolatee , @callsign-scully , @mehrmonga , @badbatch-simp24 , @lissyontour , @din0nugs , @elliegrey2803 , @gay-for-victoria-de-angelis , @10vely-yutazen , @daggersquadphantom , @azriel-the-shadowsinger , @i-love-scott-mccall , @darleneslane , @mikauraur , @heartmetaphor , @darleneslane , @ellswilliams , @thxtmarvelchick , @nataliambc , @dontjudgeabookbythecover , @hockeyboysarehot , @thehistoryone

[neciebee]

Happy @acotargiftexchange !!!

@born-to-riot , my grubby, greedy gremlin, I hope you've enjoyed this experience! I see you panting and pawing at Santa baby, and she just won't give you no treats. Well here's a treat for you! I had fun working as many references, jokes, and your interests into a cohesive fic. Try to enjoy the story first, then go back and find the bits of you! (Ngl, it's pretty on the nose.)

Not Sorry

Azriel x Eris

4k words

Link to AO3

Summary: Azriel finds himself in an unfortunate position and reflects on the choices that lead him there. No regrets. Eris is barely holding it together, and does not appreciate the surprise his father has for him.

Azriel

Roiling shadows. Pressure throbbed at the base of his skull. The drip drip drip of water on stone greeted him as his consciousness pieced itself back together. There was an ache across his shoulders. Raw pain rubbed at his scarred wrists. He took the score of each part of his body. Yep, Azriel was not in the most comfortable situation.

Pulling on his shadows, he explored his surroundings.

deep deep deep down dark cold cold

Back in a dungeon. It seemed he'd never escape. He directed his familiars to the shackles around his wrists that anchored him to the cold, stone wall. He was hung up like a tapestry, threads of red and white weaving a compelling tale of blades on skin. Highlights of black and blue were painted with blunter instruments. He hoped his tattoos would heal aligned. The ash bolt scar above his heart slashed through his rune for Night.

can't can't can't blue poison blue pain

Everywhere his life had taken him, he'd always ended up buried deep in some place of hurt and isolation. For a winged fae, it was naturally abhorrent to be enclosed as he had been, but there was nothing natural about the shadowsinger. Since his earliest memories, he'd been forced to deny his instincts. He couldn't taste the wind, though he heard its song. He couldn't fight, though his bones felt the call.

Oh, he'd been given hope - barest temptations of it. An hour with mati. A glimpse of clear skies. An offer from his padron’s sons. Tantalising dust motes of hope so that he never slipped into catatonia in his first eleven years.

it got better better better better we found you made it better

Yes, it got better. Entering Windhaven was like being reborn. And he was just about as capable as a newborn. The shadows had brought him snippets of life from Above. They'd sung him his mati's songs. They told him about clouds and mountains and trees. But it wasn't until Aunty's brusque nurturing that Azriel had learnt how to Be. She'd given him so much hope, then eventually Cassian, and finally Rhys. Over the years and the centuries, he's collected more and more of it, storing it away, for the hope that someday he'll be free. He might even be happy.

But here he is again, in a dungeon.

Whether he's the tortured, or the torturer, these dark moments sap from that jar. They tap on the glass, venturing to crack through the vessel and Azriel would fear losing those fluttering wings that he had collected. In recent years, he'd become greedy, chasing more and more. He was not sorry. He couldn't regret feeding that jar, for hope was all he had. It was in pursuit of another modicum of hope that had landed him where he was now.

He had always been able to skirt the wards of the Forest House. Since the Battle of Hyburn,however, the wards had become thick and sticky as molasses. They were strong, yes, and tightly woven, but his shadows had inspected the barriers, and decided that they need not be of the same plane. It was disconcerting, the first time they took him through the Other. They could always travel in his plane, and through safer dimensions, just fine. This plane was different. This was somewhere unfamiliar. But the shadows discerned his burning need to cross these wards, and brought him through a plane unknown as their gift to him.

come with come through we show you we take you

Now it was as easy as holding his breath as he sank through his shadows. He still didn't like it. He'd rather stay on the planes that didn't give him an ominous feeling in his gut, but he needed to pass through these wards, so he passed through the wards.

Years of trial and error, searching through his shadows, honing his intuition, and a decent amount of espionage had given him almost perfect precision as stepped back into Prythian. He could pinpoint exactly where he wanted to re-enter the House. If it was after noon, he might venture to the study. At sundown he'd go to the library, or the sitting room. At midnight, the shadows took him directly to the foot of the bed, and there would be another butterfly that he could catch for his jar.

"Hello, shadowsinger."

Eris Vanserra. His Impossible, but oh, how it felt to hope.

At first, it was just to watch him. To see how Autumn ticked. His shadows had felt out the branches of power in Prythian's most hostile court. There were advisors, yes, lieutenants, commanders, academics too. As the shadows flowed along the webs of influence they always landed solidly on twin trunks rooted into the heart of Autumn. The trunk that was Beron Vanserra had begun to rot after his return from Under the Mountain. Those years had not been kind to him, not kind to anyone. There was a corruption that festered in him, drawing him away from rule and towards chaos. But growing from the detritus were vines that bolstered the other trunk, thickening, strengthening, until the Night Court spymaster knew that his focus should be on the Heir.

So he watched.

Night's intelligence on Autumn was second only to Autumn's itself. He knew the structure of the military, the roster of the guards, and who had a spat with whom. He could reasonably predict what the kitchens would be preparing, which servants worked what day, and how much excess was pilfered for the poor. He'd learnt which families were currying favours, which Houses were on the outs, and which nobles needed to be very very careful with the royal family.

He drank in anything he could know about Autumn, and he watched.

There were some things that he did not think were pertinent to include in his reports to Rhysand.

From the shadows, he noted the charming crease between the auburn brows as he read and wrote a flurry of letters. In the dark, he studied the elegant bend of pale, slender fingers as they cradled a glass of something smooth, something peaty. As the General drilled with his army and conferred with his Commanders, Azriel measured his lithe, lean, shirtless frame against the builds of his own race. It was nice.

Always hidden, he watched.

Hidden, until the night a second glass of fire whiskey was placed delicately on the bookshelf where Azriel was shrouded. Eris looked him directly in the eyes, then prowled towards one of two mismatched armchairs by the fireplace. The singer dispersed his shadows and took the glass, as well as the other chair. The low, narrow back allowed his wings a comfortable repose, though the velvet upholstery was far more decadent than anything he'd seen in the Night Court. This chair was custom made.

That first night, they spoke not a word. They watched the fire. They watched each other. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, in fact, Azriel had the feeling he was always meant to be there. They sipped at autumn's finest, and when the glasses were empty, the shadows carried him home.

Few words were said the next time he came to Autumn, but that didn't mean their mouths were unoccupied. The Heir was out late, flitting from one brother to the next. Always, the shadows followed, followed. Exhausted, he finally retired to his chambers. He grabbed fists full of his bright, luscious hair, heaved a sigh, then smoothed it back to perfection, as if he'd never lost his composure. Reaching directly into the shadows, cloaked under the orrery, he pulled the shadowsinger by the leathers, willing him corporeal.

"I've had a long day."

"I know."

The first touch of their lips was tentative, but that soon gave way to long, languid laps into each other. That second night, they did not touch the fire whiskey, but Azriel sipped from the lips of Autumn's Finest. The plush chaise was also low-backed.

The spymaster couldn't shadow Autumn as often as he'd like, but he appreciated each and every time, when he'd collect another morsel for his jar. It was slowly filling, but he kept the lid on tight. He'd peek into it, after his High Lord had put him to work under Hewn City, and find there was always something left. He cradled it as he watched his brothers' happy bonds, knowing that that happiness wouldn't be bestowed upon him. Though he was a monster, he could still have a flutter.

And so he collected. There was no hiding from Eris Vanserra, but the shadows continued to pull him through planes and mask his presence. Some days, he was content to watch. The Heir would continue with his work, but casually wove his fingers through an errant shade. Some nights, the only touch was a caress of long fingers through his umbra as the prince went straight from his duties to his bed.

One night - one beautiful night - the Heir had dozed off on Azriel's chest as they rested on the chaise. With a small, secret smile to himself, the shadowsinger set down his reports and carried the fae to his bed. As he turned to leave, Eris caught his wrist, and with a small voice, asked him to stay. So he stayed. He'd aimed to kiss his eyelids to sleep, but Eris's searching mouth found his. As their kisses heated, they knew they would not be sleeping for a while. A whisper of magic, and Eris was pressing a vial into Azriel's hand. It had been years, possibly a decade, since Azriel had been inside another male, but he'd never, ever remembered it feeling like this. Their hands and their mouths were hungry. Their eyes could not stop drinking in each other's gazes. No amount of contact was enough.

Eris had burst into flames when he came. And apologised. Sorry, sorry, sorry, he'd said. Your hands...

The flames didn't burn him. Somehow he'd known his Fireling couldn't hurt him. They did, however, send hot brushes of pleasure across his wings. He spread them wide and fanned them languidly through the flames. He was hard again inside the other male's tight heat. All he could think to reply was, I'm not. Eris smouldered like an ember as Azriel showed him how not sorry he was.

They spent many more nights in that bed. Sometimes they were writhing in the sheets until the dark horizon faded to pink. Sometimes the shadowsinger just held the bone-dead tired Autumn Lord as he recuperated for another day of courtly intrigue. The jar in his heart had become much, much bigger. It pressed against his ribs, and he could feel the flutters even when they were apart. As often as he could, though, he would fall through the Other to be with his Fireling. The shadows promised they were never too tired to see Autumn.

honest honest honest honest honest

One particularly harrowing instance, in the wee hours of the morning, the shadows found Eris bed-bound, swathed in blankets, cold as ice. His teeth chattered and he was shaking so violently, he couldn't speak. Azriel stripped down to his shorts and buried himself into the nest of covers. As soon as he touched the Fireling's skin, he sensed the residue of faebane. His shadows longed to soothe him, but shied away from the poison. Azriel had no such hesitance. He gathered the shivering form to his chest, pressing skin onto skin, and rubbed his hands along the chilled body until the tremors subsided. Although he detested what this fae's father had done to him, he was thankful that the shadows had brought him here to offer comfort and respite to the long-suffering male. He put that feeling in the jar instead.

For three days he stayed in the dark haunts of the Forest House, dismissing the talons in his mind with some pique. He'd had to answer for that, but it was worth Rhysand's anger to ensure that Eris recovered without further harm. For three more nights he warmed their bodies with his own, as the Fireling's magic slowly returned. The shadows were keen to touch his skin again, and as the last of the faebane dissipated, they cloaked him from head to toe. When the lord awoke and saw he was dark as midnight, he let out a laugh of undiluted mirth. It was the best sound Azriel had ever heard. They lay in bed all morning, talking softly and playing with the shadows. He returned to Velaris feeling lighter than ever, bolstered by the wings in his chest. He didn't even resent the dressing down his High Lord had given him, knowing that he'd made the choice for himself.

Rhys had put him straight back to work. The shadows slipped him through planes and Prythian, making up for lost time in pursuit of his Court's safety and security. On a mission to the Continent, his shadows betrayed him.

~

Eris

"We've apprehended a trespasser."

The Heir of Autumn had been summoned to the throne room by his father and High Lord. This in itself was not an uncommon occurrence, but the subject of this audience was new. Trespassers had not been heard of since Beron had bargained for Continental magic to bolster his power. The wards were crafted by a great sorcerer across the sea, and Beron's smugness as he cast them over the Forest House could turn a good fae to violence.

What Beron didn't know was that Eris had his own ally with inimitable powers. A confidant. A companion. A friend. A comfort without whom Eris might not have survived these past few years. His father had become more vicious and unpredictable as his borrowed magic infected his mind. It took all his cunning and persuasion to keep his mother safe, his Court running, his brothers out of The Pool. There were times when he considered giving up. It was hard, so hard, and one wrong move could spell disaster. He couldn't stand it if it was his fault. The burden on his shoulders was heavy, and his strength was not limitless. Every day he feared for his life. He feared exposure. He feared his failure. But when his thoughts darkened, so did the corners of the room. His watcher was with him. He was not alone. For his watcher, he would endure.

Beron didn't know. Beron couldn't know.

Could he?

They’d been so careful.

"I'm sure you'll get to the bottom of this, father. Your powers are unmatched."

Beron regarded him thoughtfully. "Yes, indeed." He rose laboriously from the throne and descended the dias. With a high, cold voice that belied his autumnal heat, he snapped, "Come, Eris."

The Heir's trepidation grew as he predicted their destination. What was the protocol? He couldn't slip up. He guarded too many secrets. Too many people relied on him to rein in his father. They descended under the holding cells, to the dungeon, too close to The Pool.

"It was a gift, actually. From our friend. You see, the trespasser was captured somewhere only our friend should be able to enter. And what do you suppose he found when he examined this interloper? Stains, Eris. Stains all over my Court. There is an intersection between his House and mine, to protect us. To protect Autumn. I made a great sacrifice in order to save us from the machinations of the young new Lords, and this vermin!" he spat the word. "This vermin has simply stepped around my wards. Into my House. Into my sanctum. Into my firstborn's bed!" His voice lowered to a venomous hiss. "Its contamination is all over you."

Eris watched his watcher wake.

~

Azriel

Continental magic felt foreign to Azriel senses, but he had always been the one fated to endure the most unpleasant situations. His skin itched beneath his leathers, and the shadows jittered, nervous in this alien environment. He swept soundlessly around the dark banks of the lake, testing the wards, tasting the air. He remained veiled in his shades, but it took an inordinate amount of coaxing to keep them in place. They clung like faelings to his ankles, hiding within him rather than hiding him.

The wards felt familiar. Sticky, fetid, thick, just like the ones around the Forest House. He really should wait for backup before he went anywhere too unknown. This mission was just reconnaissance. However, he felt that there were bigger answers, just a little further. As long as he stuck to the shadows, he'd make it.

Just a little further.

He pushed his shadows into the Other, as he'd done a hundred times before. They were abnormally discordant, some pushing with him, and others sinking under his skin, hiding beneath his wings. He sang softly, gently, persuading them to take just one more step. Some of the vacillating shades crept forward, but surprisingly few. Sweetening his song, he promised another visit with their fireheart, if they'd only complete this mission. Finally, eventually, he stepped into the Other.

He knew immediately that this was a bad idea. Instead of taking him back to the Continent, the shadows flew into a frenzy within the foreign plane. Some tried to pull him through, some pushed him forward. More sank into him, hiding, fearful.

we left we left we left don't want to go back singer hold us

One of the shadows, strong, sharp, and dark, yanked hard on Azriel. Smaller wisps, the hangers-on, echoed its chant.

daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy

They swirled around him and then Azriel was standing on an island.

Azriel was standing on an island in the middle of the lake.

There was a box.

Onyx.

The rogue shadows dove at it, rattling and needy. He commanded their return, but they tipped the box over.

An explosion of darkness engulfed the island.

who are you who are you how did you get here

There was a crack in the æther and a figure descended, impossibly tall and cloaked in roiling waves of black. He was shadow, the shadow of an apocalyptic sky, of the end of days. He was the Shadow of Death.

"So the prodigal son returns," croons Koschei. "Why are you still incomplete?"

~

Eris

Dread rooted Eris's feet to the floor. He was paralyzed, mute, frozen.

"It seems you are in need of another cleansing," snarled his father. "Soiling yourself with a filthy brute? Get in the water."

The drip drip drip of water from the blue stone stalactites into The Pool hammered into the Heir's eardrums, taunting, threatening. What would Beron do to his watcher if Eris doused his flame again? He'd only just recovered from the last time Beron stripped him of all magic and stole his fire. Memories of the strong, warm embrace cracked his heart. It would remain a memory of the past if Beron were to kill his... his... what? Companion? Lover? His Azriel. He would not get in the water.

His face stung as a bejewelled fist connected with his temple. Warm blood pooled in the gash and streaked down his cheek.

"Get in the water."

He stood firm and weathered a second blow. "No." And a third.

"You sully yourself with this filthy sodomite?" The High Lord drew an ornate dagger from his thigh and pressed the point into the throat of the shadowsinger. "Get in the water."

"Don't!"

"You were born to wield power over these lesser animals. You were born to strengthen the Autumn Court. I did not bring you into this world to be fucked by these lowborn beasts. You were born better." The tip of the dagger sunk into the hollow of Azriel's neck and drew a deep, red line down to his navel. It intersected several existing crimson scores, but Azriel's face remained set in stone. The fae who crossed paths had paths crossed on him. Beautiful. Terrifying. "Get in the water!"

Darkness spilled from the shadowsinger, spreading, reaching, yearning. A shadow caught around their fireheart's calf and twined up his leg. Two shadows. Five. Ten.

"You are a tyrant and you are the beast, father," Eris intoned with deadly calm. Flames burst from his hand and ignited his entire being. Twenty, fifty, a hundred shadows blended with the fire and flared, looming over his shoulders. "And I was born to riot!"

He shot a bolt of dark flame at his father, who shielded and roared in anger. "Taint! That magic is cursed! You dare attack your own father with black magic?" He pushed a wall of fire at his heir. "Purify yourself! GET IN THE WATER!" He spun back towards his captive and sunk the blade into his stomach.

Two hundred, four hundred, six hundred strong - the shadows cocooned their fireheart and hissed at the father. Not even the power of the High Lord of Autumn would pierce their shield.

The Heir whipped ropes of fire at his sire. Not yet ascended, his flames could not compete with that of the High Lord's, but Eris was the General of Autumn's armies. He had strength in more ways than one. With the grace of one who was practiced in the art of warfare, he drew his sword and called upon his little friends. The shadows landed him directly behind his father. Beron twisted and barely shielded as the sword came down. His feet were not where he thought they were. He over-balanced. Fell. Angry shadows swarmed over his arms, his legs, sniping with furore at the monster who carved up their singer and drowned their fire.

Eris pressed his boot onto his father's chest, sword tip pointed at his neck. Beron had not even freed his sword from his scabbard.

"You can't kill me, Eris. I am your father. I made you. I am your High Lord."

"You may have made me, father, but I made me better. He made me better. Your time is up. Your reign is over."

"Patricide, my boy, will steal your soul. How will you sleep at night?"

Eris appraised his father's face. This fae, this beast, held no regard for his soul. He hummed in contentment, satisfied with his decision. "Next to my mate," he declared, and pushed his sword through Beron's neck.

~

Azriel

Flames tore around the cavern, interspersed with flickers of shadows. The maelstrom was burning, roaring, screaming, but Azriel knew they couldn't harm him. The Pool boiled and steamed, vaporised within seconds. Blue stone turned to white ash, and his shackles melted to nothing. He collapsed against the wall, and watched in awe as the Power of Autumn entered his mate.

His mate. Of course he was.

The whirling heat abruptly collapsed into a single point, and at its centre, Eris opened his eyes of flame. A pulse of power rocked the foundations of the Forest House, rumbling through the Autumn Court, shaking the Land of Prythian. He turned to look at Azriel, and his Illyrian beheld the magic within his gaze. The fire, the shadow, the golden glow. Kneeling by his Azriel, the High Lord gently pulled the dagger free, pouring healing magic into the wound. Happy little shadows flowed back into their singer, relieved that he was free of the blue poison pain.

"I'm so sorry, Azriel," he whispered. "What he's done to you..."

He kissed the raw, bleeding wrists, sealing the wounds over with fresh, new skin. Azriel caught his mate's hands in his own. Their golden tether sung between them, nascent and precious, but growing, growing strong.

"It was worth it. It was all worth it. You were amazing." He huffed a laugh. "I'm not sorry for loving you."

~

On the Continent

The pulse of magic was felt far and wide. A flock of pure white swans took flight from their lake, but did not go far. They could not go far. The mournful wails of the ensorcelled firebird changed their tune.

Koschei looked to the west, where he sensed a House of Flames and Shadows sprout out of the Forest. His child, his son, finally, finally has come into his power. He will return. Soon, soon. And then Koschei can leave this fucking lake.

@acourtofladydeath @secret-third-thing @iftheshoef1tz @chunkypossum @mistandmemories @the-darkestminds @jules-writes-stories @astro-h0e-4azris @aurorasleeps-27 @packdontendwithblood @brunetterebel010 @buffy-vanserra @climbthemountain2020 @queercontrarian @g00seg1rl @greenvelvetcouture @fieldofdaisiies @a-novel-idealist @ysmtttty @jolenes-library @areyoudreaminof @molcat07 @mudandmire @hnyclover @catboyjamesbond @pippsmcgee @talibunny30 @fourteentrout @yanny-77

[sheepwavehdg]

HDG story thoughts: The Place Where We Can Stop Running

The Place Where We Can Stop Running by Dame Harmony is a utopian fiction HDG story that goes light on noncon in favor of examining the nature of caretaking.

I cannot stress this enough. read this story right now. go in blind. know nothing about it when you open it. I will not be spoiling, but just the shadow of what I am not saying may give things away. it is one of the best completed longform stories in HDG.

Now, for those of you who have actually read it:

Holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

When I first got into Stop Running, as it has been collectively shortened to, I was initially impressed by the remarkably well written kink scenes, the cozy vibes. It seemed to be the median average of a fluff fic, with some elements that left me unimpressed.

I was a fool. the elements I was responding to were a brilliant ruse, a tapestry of hidden threads in plain sight. It is a story that preys upon your preconceived notions and genre savvy, and skewers you with them.

Few stories in HDG have ever made me cry from joy rather than sadness (that is easy, lol). this is one of them. the brilliance of the twist to this story cannot be overstated. the sheer poignance of the themes of the story are incredible. It insidiously disguises itself as a more one-note story to be something far, far greater. an examination of how the Affini compact is for everyone.

The significance of the title makes me tear up and get full body chills if I think about it. It has altered the way I approach the setting, it has effected how I interact with the world as a disabled person.

while it is of a more minor note, the story does some incredibly clever things with emoji as signifiers for affini speech. If you opened it, saw the symbols, and were turned off by them, then trust me, they matter and are used brilliantly.

the only bad thing about this story is that it was released all at once like a netflix season, rather than drip fed, so it is criminally under-read, since AO3 and the HDG discord mechanically incentivize a slow release structure. Harmony was too good to all of us.

I wish I could say more, but everyone deserves to experience this story like I did, knowing nothing at all, and i know some will open the "read more" when they shouldnt.

[eddiediaaz]

Hiiiiii! After the ask you answered about Merthur fics, I was wondering what are you fav Buddie fics and what have you reread? Thanks ❤️❤️❤️

omg i have so many dsakjdsdsf, i'll list some of my faves that i've gone back to multiple times:

tell me about despair by hattalove

hurt locker by bvckandeddie

Leading with the Left by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels

Both Blade and Branch by Daisies_and_Briars

yet to come home by withoutthetiger

still by brewrosemilk

show your cards by extasiswings

good pretender by likeshipsonthesea

what we deserve by alkaysani

bare essentials by tawaifeddiediaz

i love you (and i like you) by withmeornotatall

All My Shattered Oaths by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels

stranger sunlight, still by mmtion

What is Love For $2000? by fayevian

i got all my sisters with me by ipretendtobesane

Buck Down Under by scarletmanuka

Mr LAFD Updates Man by hammersmiths

Those Two Firefighters by DarkFairytale

Objects in the Mirror by SevenSoulmates

Nothing Left But You by Daisies_and_Briars

Close My Eyes and Stumble (Right Into Your Love) by HMSLusitania

the meaning of the words you see by florenceandthemachine

would you lie with me and just forget the world by colonoscopys

Pulling Different Colored Threads to Weave Our Own Tapestry by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels

ripples all the way down by iriswests

Falling Slowly; Sing Your Melody (I’ll Sing It Loud) by Princessfbi

keep me as your finish line by thatbuddie

no one quite like you by hammersmiths

I Didn't Know I Was Lonely 'Til I Saw Your Face by HMSLusitania

smile to hide the truth by fallingthorns

round and round by calvingseason

Kiss Me Before it's Over (If Only for a Minute) by Bob_loblaws_lawblog

......i'm sorry i went a bit overboard. yes i have read all of these fics at least twice or more and yes i have issues. the way i could list more lol

[literallyjustforlurking]

War changes kids

I've only seen this fic concept once and it was lifechanging and I need to see it again.

The idea that CHB wasn't perfect before the war, the the survivors put a rose-colored tint over their memories of pre-war CHB and all the people who died before/during the Titan war, the idea that going through war changed all of these demigods.

In the fic they use time travel, which is a vastly under-used trope, and Percy and a few other campers travel back in time to their younger bodies to a few days before Percy arrived at camp.

Now that's cool and all but I think it would be really interesting just to see these demigods talk to their younger couterparts, and their past siblings and see just how their world view has changed.

Clarrisse for example she tells her cabin she fought in a war but didn't want to and they're all aghast, they've all dreamed of leading wars, how could she not want to? And Clarrisse being forced to realise the way these kids view the world with honor and glory through combat? Clarrisse looking at her brothers and sisters who died to war who are ecstatic at the idea of one? Clarrisse realizing this used to be her. The tired vertran watching the children who the war hasn't taken the light from.

Will meeting with his brothers and sisters from the past, fully prepared to talk about how the prep the infirarmy for the upcoming war, because having to choose who gets the ambrosia rations is a terrifying expierence he wouldn't wish on anyone. But none of them ask about the infirmary prep. Because they don't do infirarmy prep. They ask about his shooting, and his music and if his healing magic has gotten better. Will keeps bringing up how they need to start teaching first-aid courses to all cabins not just cabin 7. Will's talking to a bunch of kids who've only ever heard the songs of war through the side of the soldier. A grizzeled battlefield medic looking at a bunch of med-students who have never had to debate who they can afford to have die because they don't have engough medics for all the patients.

Malcolm bringing Nico to meet with his cabin mates to talk about how to make funeral shrouds but none of them want to talk about that, they want the glories to weave into their tapestries to impresse their mother. Malcolm explains the importance of starting the shroud when the demigod leaves for a quest and not when they fail to return. He wants to punch someone when he hears that maybe failures don't deserve shrouds. He says that then half of his siblings don't deserve the shrouds he made them. He wants to cry when they agree. Malcolm's talking to a bunch of children who've never gotten blood on a shroud because they've made so many in the past few days that the thread cut open their fingers. A tired brother looking at a fresh batch of soldiers who don't know the hatred that comes with having to dig a mass grave for your siblings because the energy needed to bury them are being used to keep someone else alive.

Annabeth meets with the other half of her cabin. She's nervous after hearing about how it went with the others. Thankfully they all want to talk about battle straegy. Annabeth brings up a hundred different failsafes you need to make in plans to keep people alive, she talks about back up plans and how to plan for a triage center and how to plan for the injured and how to make a plan to find the dead bodies and how too make a plan to organize rations and. They all stop up with the questions of who messed up. They sit around and pick apart stragies and make fun of screws ups of dead people, the same way you would nitpick stratagies of generals long dead. The same way she used to. She storms out as they debate the failures of her dead friends and family. Annabeth is sournded by people who have never had a plan that cost someone's life and don't understand the desperation that comes with it. A veteran listens to new recruits talk about how they would have done so much better, knowing that by the time any of them reach the rank where they would be the ones making the choices most of them would be dead.

I'm sure they're a lot more I could do but it is 11 o'clock at night and I am tired, I will probably add to this later but who knows.

If anyone has anything more to add please tag me or message me or both I would love to hear someone else's thoughts.

(Ps. If anyone has the name/link of the fic pls tell me I wanna credit the author and re-read it)