#pulling out of the power-up death spiral

[nikovraskol]

crack baby ; four

wc ; 2114 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ?

tw ; brief mention of death, cursing, neglect, panic attacks

prologue, one, two, three, four, five, tbc..

The rain outside casted a shadow of gloom over the morose city, the rhythmic pat-pat-pat on the windows creating an uncomfortable backdrop to your inner thoughts. Your head was resting in your hands, fingers scrunching at the edge of your scalp, tangling your hair with such force it felt like your mind was being split in two.

The pain was nothing compared to the pounding of your heart, ricocheting so loud that you felt it in your shoulders, in your fingertips – in each cell of your body.

What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck? Those three words echoed in your mind like a beat rebounding off a drum, what is going on? This is–..

When you miraculously turned back in time, you naively believed it would be easy – you’d silently leave without fuss, everything would progress as it should and you’d live life away from the looming Manor they called home. 

So why, why does it feel like every time you try to leave, someone’s there holding their hand on your neck. Why? Why can’t you just leave? It was so easy before, you could leave the Manor, disappear for days on end and nobody would notice, now it feels like someone is always hovering around.

Every time you leave your room, every time you try – they’re there! Why? What caused this sudden shift? You didn’t do anything drastic. So why? What changed? You’d spent years of your pathetic life scrambling for any sort of attention. For them. What secret trick have you pulled to put yourself in their spotlight? And why now?!

“Fuck.” You grumble, crumpling into yourself pitifully. There is absolutely no light at the end of this stupid tunnel. One of those stupid circus clowns is always there to stand before the small glimmers of hopes that shine through, much like the sun through a window. They curtain the light, under the pretense of protecting you from the sun’s burns, but how can you live without the sun’s warmth?

The rain outside grew more intense as you spiral, a testimony to the raging shit-show inside you. There is– one option. An option you loathe to think about. Bothering her would be.. It’s not something you’d like. You’d promised yourself – all that time ago, that you would never look her in the eyes, that you’d never speak a word to her. For her sake, not your own.

It’d be selfish, you really, really shouldn’t. But still, as a precaution, you open up your night stand, reaching to the very, very bottom to pick out a letter. A letter with an address and a phone number. Just in case.

The rain doesn’t seem to be stopping, which is a shame – you’ve always hated the rain.

“What is wrong with you?” A voice calls out, and you just narrowly avoid screaming. You tilt your head with much effort, your eyes zeroing in on Damian. Of course, it’s like a fucking roster. You’re not even safe in your own room.

“I don’t know what you mean.” You respond curtly, resting your head in your hands once more. You can’t stand looking at him. You can’t stand him. You can’t stand his stupid expression, always so prideful. Always so above you. You hate him.

“Why are you acting like this? You’re a Wayne, stop being so… pathetic.” You let out a sharp laugh at his words. Again, a few years ago, those words would’ve filled you with immense joy – enough to power yourself through the loneliness that plagued your whole being. But you’re not that pathetic waste of space, ghosting through the Manor. You’re just [Name],

“I don’t know what you mean.” You repeat, not picking up your head as you sigh. The rain is heavy, you really hate rain. “I’ve always been pathetic, right?”

You can’t see Damian, but you feel the air in the room shift. It’s strange, everything feels surreal. You almost have half a nerve to–

“Why are you trying to leave?”

His voice sounds weird, he sounds concerned. That’s impossible, you’re speaking to Damian. The boy who’s refused to acknowledge you as his sibling, the one who made it very clear what he thought of you. You raise your head once more to meet his eyes. 

He looks young. Younger than you’ve ever seen him look. 

“Why does it matter to you, this is what you’ve always wanted right?” Your hands begin to tremble, why are you trembling? You’re not scared. You’re– You’re angry. The fearful knot in your stomach frays, anger burning the rope until it tightens around your organs like a springtrap. “You’ve made it very clear what you think of me, don’t try to take the high road now.” “[Name]--”

“I’ve spent my whole life, chasing like a fucking stray for something – anything. Now you wanna act concerned? I’m fucking sick of this. I’m sick of you– I’m sick of everything!” Words were spilling out before you could catch them, the raindrops on the window fueling your anger. The patting making your head fucking pound, you wanted to rip your filthy mind out – everything was loud, too loud.

“Calm down, you’re acting–” 

“Out of everyone in this house, I hate you the most.”

“Huh?” Damian’s voice was soft, quiet – barely audible over the relentless pounding of the rain.

“However much you might hate me, I hate you a hundred, no, a thousand times more.” 

You pushed past him, your anger exploding inside your very core. Your blood was rushing through your veins, squeezing until it threatened to blow. If you had half the mind to look back, you’d see the expression on his face.

The walls in the Manor had never felt so looming, so large. It felt like each painting was looking at you, mocking you. The eyes of the soulless characters locked on your form as you marched down the halls.

You had no destination, no goal, but you needed to get out. Each wall was closing in, the roof threatening to collapse – to swallow you whole, to crush you under it’s unforgiving weight. Would that be better? Would you be happier under the sweet mercy of death?

Well, you’re not willing to find out. You’re not that gone, yet.

You could barely register anything as you stormed out the Manor, you heard nothing but the ringing in your ears as you walked. 

The moment the cold rain hit your skin, you ran. Your legs moving before your brain could process it. The downpour soaked you. Your hair and clothes sticking to your body. You weren’t wearing a coat, you had some shitty shoes that you had on from earlier, your whole body felt like it was aflame.

And then you stopped. Your frustration wore off leaving only the ache in your body behind. Your lungs were being squeezed against your ribs, air clawing against the sensitive flesh leaving you breathless. Your legs were shaking, your bones too weak to hold you as you slump against a tree.

Your body hit the cold, wet ground below you. Your head falls on your knees as you cradle yourself. Curse Bruce for living in some fancy ass Manor, away from the rest of Gotham like some fancy jackass. Curse him for being a billionaire. From behind the tree you had slumped yourself on, you could hear some lingering paparazzi – eager for some sort of scoop.

It’d be funny if you jumped out and gave them a real scoop. But you’re too caught up in your own shit for any scandals.

“I really hate the rain.” You mumble, a warm raindrop falling from your eyes. Strange, isn’t rain supposed to be wet? Whatever. 

You felt pathetic. So, truly pathetic. You’d ran away like some brat having a tantrum. Whatever, it’s not like anyone would notice. Nobody ever noticed, that was how life was, how it’d always be. You were destined to be sidelined forever, and you’d finally grown fine with that. So why? 

Your ass was muddy, you were wet, cold, sad – this scenario felt oddly reminiscent, reminiscent of a time before all the neglect, before loneliness was your only companion.

“Your name is [Name]?” A deep voice asked, his tone kind, patient as he looked at you.

Rain stuck to your small form as you looked up at him, your supposed father. The man you’d seen on TV everyday, he was looking at you – his eyes full of kindness that felt unfamiliar. But–

“Where is my mom?” Your voice was hoarse, quiet – afraid. The blooming pain in your head seemed to dull under the rain’s touch, blood seeping down your forehead, dripping down your nose – mingling with the heavy precipitation. The lights from the blaring sirens were shadowed by the man before you, the man who was looking down at you with something akin to pity. 

The teddy bear in your hands was unsalvageable. Between the missing eye, limbs, and now the rain that had drenched it. It was a hard thrust away from falling apart, but it rested in your palms nonetheless. Your fingers curling into the flat, synthetic fur as though it were your only tether to reality.

He slowly kneeled down before you, reaching eye-to-eye before extending his hand. “My name is Bruce, I’ll take care of you and your mother, I promise.” He smiled, he looked so much more human now, he was no longer an untouchable figure, no longer would you have to touch the warm screen of your TV, quietly pleading for him to save you. He was looking at you now, and he’d never look away.

You took his hand.

“Fuck this.” You huff, standing up with way too much effort, your joints still aching because of your little escapade. You weren’t going to sit around and wait for him to hold your hand again, you weren’t going to have him sign anything or give you anything – why should you rely on him? He’s given you nothing. You owe him nothing.

Your wet hand instinctively goes to your pocket, taking out the card with the address. The heavy downpour immediately enveloped the laminated card. Your throat felt heavy immediately as you reread the words on it, soaking in each letter. Swallowing back your nausea, you begin running again – this time, with a purpose.

It was rare for Bruce to lose his composure, but as he stared into your empty room – he felt his control fraying. 

“You’re sure they’re not hiding somewhere else?” He managed to keep his voice calm, despite the pounding of his heart. His eyes scanned your room. So small, he really needs to upgrade it.

“No, Master Bruce, they.. can’t be found anywhere else.” Alfred said, his expression uncharacteristically tense as he stared at the black curls at the back of Bruce’s head. 

Bruce was beginning to feel a sense of dread come upon him.

When Damian came into his study, looking strangely panicked – that was strike one, the moment your name left the young boy’s mouth, Bruce was up and practically sprinting to your room. Strike two.

And strike three was the lack of you in your space. The lack of you in the Manor. He had everyone look around, check every nook and cranny, but you were nowhere to be found. He had told you not to go out without telling him. 

But it’s fine, he is the world’s greatest detective. No need to panic.

Taking a tentative step forward, Bruce took a moment to absorb your space, your personality. The posters on the walls, the trinkets littering your shelves, the small imperfections that discerned you.

And then his eyes fell upon it, your teddy bear. “I thought they threw this out.” Bruce mumbled, his eyes flashing to that rainy day when he had met your cold eyes, eyes too haunted to belong to a child. How could he let that child leave when he had promised to take care of you? You and your mother.

Alarm bells rang in his mind, distantly, he could hear Tim and Cass theorise your where-a-bouts. But–

“Alfred, do you remember where we sent her?” Bruce asked slowly, picking up the teddy bear gently – taking in the ruined toy, a testament to the child you were. To the child you are, his thumb running over the messy stitch marks, no doubt done by you. You had the money of Bruce Wayne at your disposal yet you insisted on keeping this trash? The reminder of your impoverished days? He couldn’t understand it, but then again, he’d never be able to understand you.

Not unless he had an actual conversation, as father and child.

“..Yes, I shall send you the details.” Alfred asked after a pause, his eyes strangely distant as he looked at the window, at the rain droplets racing down. “Please, Master Bruce, be swift.”

sorry for neglecting yall i was tryna make the book immersive ;3

dookie chapter because i am simultaniously studying for my health and social exam

tags; (asked to be added thru dms)

@estreiiuh @beyondblissxoxo @jjsmeowthie @vanessa-boo @delias-stuff @d3nnji @wizzerreblogs @lilyalone @strawbrysapphic @regulus-things @iimichie @meepmoopbadabeepboop @buckturd @eloriis @xoxossam @verypersonaldazzel @froggy-voidd @shycreatorreview @wassupbroski55555 @eyeless-kun @anakilusmos @devotedlyshamelessdetective @peehall @bigeyedbaby @chaeugwi

@estreiiuh @beyondblissxoxo @jjsmeowthie @vanessa-boo @delias-stuff @d3nnji @wizzerreblogs @lilyalone @strawbrysapphic @regulus-things @iimichie @buckturd @eloriis @wassupbroski55555 @eyeless-kun @anakilusmos @peehall @bigeyedbaby @chaeugwi

ill get around to adding everyone to the taglist .

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (8)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 9.6k

Warnings: mentions of death, betrayal, fire, knives, dead parents; farewell; feels; tension

Author’s Note: This is not the end, no worries. Wouldn’t leave you guys hanging like that. Hope you enjoy! ���

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

It stands tall in the distance.

Rising above the emerald treetops, like a melancholic monarch draped in shadows and light.

The grey stone battlements jut against the hazy sky. Turrets - clearly emboldened by the hues of the background - spiral toward the horizon, austere and elegant, crowned by banners that flutter limpidly in the distance.

The very stones seem steeped in centuries of command, and each mark of weather bears testimony of its history and storms - the memories of which, it seems, they still hold with great dignity.

The castle seems at peace, standing upon its cliff, hanging suspended from the rocky outcrop, as though it grew from the very rock, planted there, eternal. A sentinel of this kingdom. The kingdom that belonged to your father.

Craggy towers break the swell of pallid sky, their dark slate roofs glimmering under the wan light filtering through clouds.

The sight of this castle holds a strange pull on your senses - a magnetic foreboding that you can’t seem to shake.

It looms powerful but sinister, an observer too heavy with secrets for history to bear. Around it, trees keep dancing in and out of shifting hues of green and gold, branches stirring to a wind barely in existence, each gust swaying leaves like a restless audience to your arrival.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. There is more here than just the daunting architecture pressing on your psyche. Something personal smolders in the shadow of that place.

You try to put your finger on it but only grasp fleeting impressions - the way your father spoke in clipped tones about duty and appearances, the pack of expectations, the noose he metaphorically kept around your neck.

Beside you, Bucky’s presence shifts. He seems to slip into a hesitating step. The muscles of his shoulders tense against the still slightly stained fabric of his armor.

He does not take his eyes off the castle. The blue steel of his gaze sharpens. You can feel the tension emanating from him, a tangible energy that snakes through the air between you. There is a hostility in the way he looks at that castle. A hardness that knots his jaw. A tautness that frames his mouth.

Somehow he wears apprehension with discomfort.

And it shakes your heart with an inexplicable dread.

He always moves like a man accustomed to balancing control with instinct. But his breathing pattern changes slightly. You ignore the fact that you know his normal breathing pattern in the first place. But there really is a slight strain in his breath.

Your gaze snaps back to the castle, peering through the branches framing its silhouette. Even from this distance, you can feel something lingering around the fortress - energies unvoiced, but undeniably ancient, as if the very stones remember.

A strange chill skitters down your spine. But you can’t really say why. The path underneath your boots is softened with fallen leaves, giving off a musty, earthy scent. You want to hang onto the smell, with its cool air gliding across your skin and the tranquil solitude of the forest. But your gaze keeps wandering back to the castle looming still so far off. It is magnetic. Impossible to ignore.

A realization comes with a blow to your heart.

This might be your destination.

Perhaps this castle is where he's meant to bring you.

A bittersweet and aching pang lodges beneath your ribs. You can’t imagine the journey that has momentarily intertwined your paths is perhaps going to be coming to a close.

You steal a glance at Bucky’s profile. If this is where he is meant to take you, then why does he seem so tense at finally getting here?

Trying to interpret the small frown tugging at his lips, the rigid line in his jaw, you let your eyes sweep. There is a weight of something hanging from his brows, drawing them down.

The wind around you changes direction, ruffling branches and making leaves hop around as if to note the abrupt transition occasioned by you.

The entire atmosphere between Bucky and you seems to stiffen.

The twitch of his fingers at his sides almost betray a gesture of need - to make a fist. He controls his breathing too deliberately for your taste.

Your gaze drags back to the castle ahead. To Bucky. To the castle. And back to Bucky. And back to the castle.

Here stands the proud fortress, untouched by the ravages of time, like one who has never been forced to bow before the wickedness of mankind. Never had to bend to the world’s cruelty. But perhaps, this too, is an illusion. Perhaps it became something wicked, something cruel itself.

The thought strikes you, brief and sharp.

Clouds sweep across the sun and the light dims. Shadows weave itself through the forest. You take in the now cooling air.

No words pass between Bucky and you, but with every step, the mounting tension between you both gets stronger.

It feels flimsy, like glass waiting to shatter.

You want to ask him. Want to ask if this castle is where you are going to part ways as soon as you reach it. It will take some time still. Maybe a day. Maybe less. Maybe more.

But it feels so dwindling and you can’t grasp the time you want to keep.

The sight of the castle only clutches your heart with hands showing not an ounce of mercy, squeezing your breath thin and shallow.

You always knew this journey would come to an end. Even had hoped so for some time. Had complained about relieving yourself in the woods like an animal, sleeping on the hard ground of the forest, not being able to bathe in the warmest water. You have complained about practically everything in this godforsaken forest. But you don’t want this journey to end so soon. Maybe because it’s not the forest at all you want to keep yourself surrounded with.

It’s Bucky.

And admitting that to yourself only tells you that your fear is rising. That this travel with him might really be over soon.

Some part of you grew accustomed to naively believing the road would go on forever. With firelight embers in the dark after making camp for the day. Quiet conversations held in the dark. The endearing way his lips would twitch when he tries to suppress his amusement with you. The way he keeps you afloat even when your world is crumbling into itself. Giggling at his gruffness when he doesn’t like the small ration of food you eat just so he can have some more - him calling you stubborn despite the fact that he mostly won the argument in the end. Walking beside him in the forest and listening to both of your crunching footsteps on the ground. Lying awake at night and listening to his breaths. Exchanging fleeting glances, that linger longer than they should.

You try and swallow the prickling pain at the back of your mouth, but it remains raw and bubbling.

You’re not even thinking about what might await you at the castle. The only thing you can’t get out of your mind is the realization that Bucky will leave you here, will vanish back into the woods, and whatever shadows formed him before both your paths crossed.

And for some reason, just the idea of his absence is a wound that would bleed more than anything your father’s kingdom could ever conjure.

You want to rip through the wall built between the two of you since the castle came into view - but words are pulled between hesitation and instinct. You almost feel lost in whether that silence needs filling or should just remain untouched.

And yet, there is something that settles the attraction to walk beside him. An anchor, if you will, though the world feels like it could collapse at any second due to the weirdness surrounding him.

You cast him another furtive glance, feeling suddenly breathless at the faint tinge of something slashing in his gaze.

He must have felt your eyes on him because he moves his head slightly, the hardness of his expression mellowing just a fraction as he glances down at you.

And for that small moment, you feel light again.

The path turns deeper into the woods, trees obscuring the vision of the castle again.

And once more, you keep walking.

The sun is barely setting when you settle down for the night, cloaked in the golden haze of a waning afternoon.

Shadows grow long and thin across the forest floor, folding themselves beneath the reach of the branches above.

Bucky moves with specifically calculated slowness, like he’s trying to keep control of something.

He collects a small amount of dry wood and then kneels beside the fire, striking flint against steel with sharp and quick movements. You always liked watching him do it. But now it hurts.

A spark breaks, catching on brittle wood and setting it alight.

Instead of observing Bucky, you keep your eyes on the meager lights ascending, tiny glints that illuminate the sky momentarily before they are absorbed into the gathering darkness. Just about like this fleeting moment, which you already feel slip away.

Bucky didn’t give you any reasons as to why you stopped to rest earlier than usual. But you know. The heaviness in his gait, the reluctance in his silence, the way he can’t meet your eyes for longer than a few seconds. It’s clear enough.

This is your final night with him.

The thought penetrates you profoundly, like a punch to your already bruised ribs.

You have expected it since seeing the castle rise among the trees, but it only gets more real the more time passes. It’s a present hollowness in your chest and all you can focus on is the fire crackling angrily, filling the empty space of your chest with everything but the things you want.

Slumping down in front of the fire, you tuck your legs beneath you and let the heat slightly brush against your face.

There is still a chill nipping at your back, but it’s not what makes you shiver.

Wordlessly, Bucky lowers himself onto a fallen log near the fire, letting out a sigh as he drags a hand across his face. He looks tired. Not just physically that is, but in a way that suggests of something deeper.

He stares into the fire, eyes distant, the flames reflected in his eyes like fragments of something burning far deeper than the wood.

The tension is continuously buzzing between you, caressing your skin in a manner that suggests it doesn’t even know how to handle itself.

It’s in the way he doesn’t quite look at you, though you can feel his gaze every time you aren’t the one watching. It feels somewhere between heat and static. You wonder what he is thinking, but are too scared to ask.

Instead, you engage yourself in preparing a simple meal for Bucky and you, hands moving almost mechanically through the familiar motions. The aroma of dried herbs and roasted meat mixes with the smoke from the fire, but the food tastes like ash in your mouth when you finally take a bite.

The silence weighs down, carrying words neither of you knows how to say.

A distant call of a night bird is the only thing talking.

Every now and then, your eyes stray to him - just brief stolen glances exchanged across the flames. His gazes ignite a spark on your skin. He sits with his elbows braced on his knees, shadows throwing across his face, making the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones even more defined and painfully enticing.

His lips are pressed into a thin, unreadable, line and you wonder if he is fighting to find the right words to break the silence as well.

Your heart aches to think that this will, in all likelihood, be the last night spent together, surrounded by nothing but trees and stars and the comforting crackle of the warm fire. Whatever flimsy bond you’ve built with Bucky will be severed by duty and distance.

When your eyes go back to their favorite sight, you find Bucky already watching you. His gaze holds yours for a moment and even the fire seems to have stopped burning for a second. Leaving Bucky and you alone in this situation.

There is something sore in his eyes. Something he couldn’t have prepared for or you would not be able to spot it that easily. It staggers your breath.

Then, he breaks your gaze and only leans further toward the ground.

The silence is getting stern. Unsparing. It enclaves you.

The sputtering fire only gets louder, and something tells you that whatever slips away into the curling smoke fading into the night, it will be something you can never hold onto again.

You shift slightly, adjusting your body on the rough texture of the wood you’re sitting on.

Bucky’s gaze flickers towards you again. Brief but piercing enough. It lingers just a second longer before he looks back at the fire. Shadows play with the lines of his features.

Leaves brush against each other in whispery sounds above you. The wilderness seems reluctant to let go of daylight, its golden glow retreating with a hushed farewell, until only a few pale shades of the dusk remain.

The light of the fire causes shifting patterns to sweep over the forest floor. The night feels delicate, almost. And you can’t shake the sense that this is your last evening spent like this, the very last tranquility you will have with the tamed nature and the stars just starting to blink awake overhead. And of course, Bucky sitting just a few feet away, so close that you could touch, but also so far that loneliness can’t be avoided today.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, the noise deepening into a long, low sound and it makes your chest hurt at the same time.

The silence holds until it can no longer.

It breaks with a clear of his throat. The sound is low and rough, scraping against the quiet.

It makes your head snap up. You blink at him.

“There’s an outer gate,” he starts, working the words out slowly, hoarse, as if he is dragging them from some reluctant place inside him.

His gaze remains fixed on the fire as soon as he’s confident you are listening to him. The orange brightness flickers in the pale blue depths of his eyes.

“That’s where I'm s’pposed to take you.”

You don’t need him to explain to you what place he’s talking about. He knows you know. The castle looms as graphically as it has the first time you saw it between the trees. A place carved from stones and shadows. Of course, that’s what he’s talking about. But hearing it from him - hearing it made real - cracks something open inside you.

“You will probably be expected by now,” he continues, the notes softening in his voice as though the words hold an unfathomable weight. “Can’t take you through the front gates. Don’t wanna attract too much attention.” He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, the muscles in his forearm taut. A vein stands out. “Guess only the important people’ll know 'bout your arrival.”

Important people. The words land sharp between your ribs. Reminding you of where you come from and where he does not belong - or maybe does but refuses to.

You swallow thickly and taste the bitterness of knowing that your father and his web of control likely extends even here, even after his death.

Bucky still does not voice that he means that castle. But he doesn’t have to. There is an implicit understanding in the way his voice falters, in the way he watches the fire like it holds answers neither of you are ready to hear. He seems to have drawn the conclusion that you know your destination is near.

But truly knowing for real only hardens the pang that tears through your chest. It’s a violent and splintering thing, as if something solid inside you is crumbling, breaking down into fine, snaggy crumbs that settle into the hollow spaces in your chest. They make a sound with every inhalation, scraping against your insides and stabbing at the tender places that have already endured enough.

You look down at your hands, curled loosely in your lap, fingers trembling slightly despite your effort to still them.

The thought of this being the end - of stepping through that gate alone, of watching Bucky turn and disappear into the forest without you - makes your breath hitch painfully in your throat.

You’ve known this was coming from the beginning. You hoped this was coming at the beginning. You’ve known it since the moment you agreed to leave behind everything you knew and put your fate in the hands of a man who wanted nothing to do with you. It hardly helps to think about it.

The fire isn’t the only heat between you. Something else is crackling there. In the air. But you can’t tell what exactly.

Bucky’s jaw is clenched tightly as he stares at the ground. There is something edgy about the way he sits, as if he might be somewhere between wishful thinking and physical presence.

And maybe that’s what makes this all the more unbearable - the fact that he doesn’t seem unaffected by this either. The slumping of his shoulders, the hesitation in his words that speak to something more than mere obligation.

Still, he doesn’t really look at you. And maybe that’s for the best. Because you’re not sure you could hold his gaze without breaking entirely.

And the world just keeps turning, ignorant of the slow destruction lying half-lit between you and Bucky.

Everything feels tremendous. Monumental. Every breath, every sigh, every thought you nearly speak out loud, every glance that never quite meets its mark.

And when it sinks in how very heavily all of that rests in the pit of your stomach, you wonder how you’re supposed to survive stepping through that gate alone.

“What do you know about this place?” you ask hesitantly, voice small.

Bucky’s gaze lifts briefly to meet your own. His forearms rest on his thighs, fingers flexing. He exhales through his nose, a faint shake of his head following. “Not much.” His voice is low and tinged with weariness. “Just that it’s where I’m s’pposed to take you.”

Supposed to. Like some invisible hand has mapped out your fates long before you ever had a say in them.

Something cold and gnarling twists in your chest. His answer tells you nothing - no assurances, no comfort.

It’s unsettlingly simple.

You stare into the fire, its embers glowing brighter as your thoughts turn darker. That castle you know is not too far away anymore. The one who stood so proudly at the edge of the cliffs - beautiful, imposing, and so wholly foreign - takes a larger shape in your mind.

Your heart grows heavy with apprehension. What might await you there? Your mother, even in death, has always held a protective influence over your fate. The instructions for your journey to this castle may have been hers. After all, that’s why Bucky is here. Because he promised your mother.

But maybe this destination does not come from your mother at all. Sure, Bucky and this journey is her doing but maybe not where you end up going to. Maybe she didn’t have a say in it. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she had something else in mind for you as a final safeguard in case everything crumbles.

You can’t know. You also can’t know if she perhaps was the first to die. And that last order for you to be sent away did not come from her at all.

A chill of fear blooms at the base of your spine, unfurling upward in wavy patterns.

Maybe this is your father’s doing.

He was not the man who made decisions for your happiness or peace of mind. His schemes were calculated, self-serving, often cruel beneath their polished veneer. You can’t shake the unabating thought that this place might have been his command, not your mother’s - a contingency for his ambitions even beyond the grave.

Maybe they even both ordered for you to be sent here. Just out of different intentions.

Your fear is awfully gripping. And you won’t know whose will is being carried out until you step through those gates.

Your muscles twitch as an unbidden tremor rattles through you.

“Do you believe it might have been my father who ordered it?” you ask Bucky with a slightly shaking voice. Heavy with doubt.

Bucky has been watching you dealing with your inner struggles. His eyes are deep pools of alertness. They search you. His voice is even. Slow. “Could be.” There is a reluctant pause, tension rolling through his shoulders. “Banner told me to take you there. It’s where you’ll have to go he said. Never talked to your mother or father ‘bout this. Only ever through Banner. And he didn’t give me much. He said your mother would want you protected, but I’ve got no clue if that’s what she meant.” He lowers his head for a moment, a little guilty. “Never bothered to ask.”

You don’t blame him.

Though it doesn’t make this easier.

Sir Banner has always been a kind man, one of the few in your father's court who treated you with genuine warmth. You remember his thoughtful smile, the way he spoke to you as though your opinions matter even when the rest of the court dismissed you.

But even Sir Banner - loyal and true - has ultimately served your father first and foremost.

Has he known? Has he seen your father’s real face?

A swift and aching slash tears through your chest.

Maybe Sir Banner has genuinely believed he was acting on orders meant to protect you. Or maybe he just hasn’t known the full extent of your father’s motives. The thought makes your throat prick and tingle. The man you held dearly in your heart might have been complicit, unwitting or not.

It doesn’t matter that your parents are gone. Their commands will still echo through the kingdom, shaping the path you are walking on even now. Your father’s words carry the weight of stone. And even from beyond the grave, it could crush you.

Bucky’s jaw has tensed immensely. His eyes find you and stay. You might believe he is thinking the same thing. Cool air brushes against your back, igniting a shiver that lingers.

If it was your father’s order then the motives could be far more insidious than you dared to imagine - isolation, subjugation, control, banishment, your own lonely prison.

“Do you believe Sir Banner knew everything my father did?”

You just can’t seem to stop asking for his input.

Bucky’s mouth is a flat line. He swallows and grimaces lightly as if the words taste bitter on his tongue. “Don’t know,” he admits, voice sounding throaty. His body shifts before answering. But he looks at you. Keeping his eyes on you in a way that has you feeling he tries to make this easier for you. “But he seemed sure this is the right place for you.”

You take in a deep and wavering breath and nod at him slightly. Thanking him for his honesty without being able to get the words out. Your fingers fidget in your lap and you look down at them for a while.

You want to trust that whatever awaits you in that castle is a place of safety, not another, even worse gilded cage built from your father’s manipulation.

But you will be walking into the unknown. You might as well be blindfolded. And the man sitting across from you, who has fought and bled for truths buried by men like your father seems just as wary.

Being out in the woods and always in the presence of Bucky has become a strange kind of sanctuary - a place where you learned to breathe freely and hope again despite the dangers lurking in the shadows. But it’s coming to an end. And it feels so abrupt. So frightening.

Your fingers clench around the fabric of your cloak and you fight to steady your breathing.

You glance at Bucky again. His profile glows starkly against the fire, his silhouette strong against the dark woods and you feel your gaze soften at the way his own does. Not enough to give everything away but enough to offer something without words. Reassurance. A promise.

It makes your breath hitch.

The air seems to take on a softer quality itself. Hushed by things never spoken of, he holds something precious in his eyes.

But there is also a sudden sadness glinting within those blue babies. Something you’re not sure isn’t reflected in your own eyes. It seems to be such a rare thing for him.

His presence is a gift.

You’re aware of that now. Though it might be too late.

He became your only tether in a world that has violently spiraled off its axis.

He moves protectively without being overbearing. He never crowded you but always seemed within reach.

It’s the tiny gestures - a glance to check your footing on bumpy ground, a steadying hand when you stumbled, him shifting so he would block you from the cold wind, the way he always ensures you have the warmer side of the fire without ever making a fuss of it, the way he made sure you weren’t going to sleep hungry.

And it’s not just about keeping you alive.

Bucky has done far more than fulfill some vague promise of protection.

He has been tasked with keeping you alive but he has done so much more than that.

He kept you sane when everything around you came crashing down. He became the grounding force you never got your whole life.

When sleep eluded you at night, haunted by shadows of loss, it was the sound of his breathing mere feet away that lulled you into rest.

He became the reminder that no matter the odds, you have him just right there.

He warmed you in every way that fire and shelter could never. Comforted you without needing to say a word.

And what makes it all the more profound is that he didn’t have to. This journey, this promise - none of it required him to care beyond the basics of survival. Yet he did. He does. Bucky cared about more than keeping you physically safe, he cared about you.

He didn’t have to watch out for you in those small, thoughtful ways. He went beyond duty, quietly and without fanfare.

Bucky Barnes is good.

And not just competent or capable, but good in a way that runs deep.

You blink back the stinging in your eyes as if to ward off that very realization. Even despite the burdens and the scars and the doubts he carries, he is a good man. He might not necessarily believe it himself - you heard it in his voice and saw it in his eyes - but you do.

You saw it firsthand, felt it in the moments he stood between you and the chaos of the world, protecting you from the ruins.

But what makes your heart bleed red crimson is the fact that you don’t have the time to make him believe.

Because this journey is ending the very next day.

Your heart feels like it’s being pulled in two different directions - toward the promised safety that lay ahead unknown and the comfort of what you have unexpectedly found.

And after this, what will happen?

Once the castle is in clear sight and his task is completed, what then?

Will he leave just like that, fading back into the forest this time without you?

Will you be left with the ache of his absence, suffering in the understanding that you’ve known something so rare and special, only to lose it?

You don’t know.

He was meant to take you somewhere safe and see you through to the other side. And you are nearly there.

What comes after is up to you.

You’re not even sure what you want - what you could even ask for - but the idea of stepping into that castle alone, without him at your side, fills you with trepidation.

Your heart stutters, unsure whether to face forward or shrink back. A needling chill spreads beneath your skin, making it itchy.

Your body seems to brace itself against the time ahead but there is no way to wrestle it into place.

The fire pops, showering sparks into the night.

Bucky moves a fraction, adjusting himself on the log, gaze pinned to the flames again. His broad shoulders are bowed slightly forward, his head tilted lightly. The grim set of his mouth is shadowed as the orange light is rather flashing on the stubble along his jaw.

You are drawn by him, by something beyond logic or necessity.

It almost even feels unnecessary to acknowledge that the weeks spent together have forged a little something between you two.

And though this travel is coming to its end, the hope remains within you, that perhaps it does not also have to be the end of whatever it is.

“Princess.”

Your head snaps up at the husky sound of his voice. He tries for a smile. It looks sad.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

No. Not without you.

Maybe in another life, you’d be able to say that out loud.

****

You basically spent the night searing him to your memories.

Not even the creaking branches or the swaying leaves were able to catch your attention anymore. Only him.

You committed everything you found out about him to memory.

He didn’t seem to sleep all that much as well so you couldn’t exactly stare at him too long. But you worked with what you already picked up, tracing his features in your mind.

That would be the endearing spray of freckles along the side of his face, scattered like stars in a constellation. It’s an unforgettable map etched into his skin.

The strong and proud slope of his nose, that sometimes moves with his mouth when he speaks.

You followed it down to the fullness of his lips, plump in a way that almost makes them look gentle despite the hard set they often carry.

Then there is his smile. So mesmerizing. It starts with a tug at the corners of his lips like it is something he doesn’t want to show but can’t quite suppress. And when it breaks free, it’s devastatingly beautiful.

And his eyebrows, able to relax when he sleeps or even when a fleeting peace washes over him that oftentimes has something to do with a glance your way.

His voice is clear in your mind, gruff but low and warm when he speaks those little nicknames. He no longer laces them with mockery and hearing them always makes a light rise in your chest that heats your skin.

And his eyes. God, those eyes. You tried to name their exact shade of blue, scouring your memory for the right hue. Could it be the light blue of forget-me-nots, those little blooms always so delicate in your hand when you went to seek them out at the palace gardens? Or maybe a more cornflower deep blue, looking so alive between other shades. No, probably more a nice soft, thick, tranquil velvety blue of hydrangeas, looking royal but still so brittle. Or freesia, with their delightfully tender beauty.

None seem quite right. Yet you search anyway. Desperate to pin down something so elusive.

And the way those blue eyes would search your own. Like he is always trying to figure you out, always trying to look deeper than you are sometimes comfortable with.

Your fingers flex slightly at the memory of his touch. The rough callouses and textures of his palm were stark against your soft skin, but his touch has always been gentle. The way he would hold your cheeks, sweep his thumbs over your skin, and tend to your wound, as if you are somehow a precious thing he wants to handle with care. A choice made rather than an obligation fulfilled.

And his hair - chestnut brown, but catching glimmers of gold in the firelight. You liked to watch those wild tendrils whip around his face in the wind. You remember how it looked when dampened by sweat, still unruly, sticking to the sides of his face.

His stubble - the rugged frame along his jawline that heightens his intensity. The one he would scratch at, or run his hand along once in a while. Especially in moments of thought.

You want to remember all of it.

Getting it all in memory locked away inside your mind to access whenever you need him.

Every laugh, every glance, the smallest change in his expression.

The night tried to propel you into the inevitable future, but you put up a fight as best as you could. You lingered, documenting every detail of him, making a mental capture of his perfection. Because he’d be gone.

So you took the time of the last night with him to memorize him, wishing the memory would be forever bright behind your eyelids. Never to fade. Never to leave you alone. That somehow against the odds, he would be there with you long after this journey reaches its conclusion. If not in flesh, then in your heart forever.

But for all the silent preparations you made under the shroud of the night - fixing Bucky Barnes into the tender folds of your memory, knowing you would have to let him slip away into the corners of a life without you - nothing could have braced you for the reality of the gate that enters your vision in the distance.

It stands looming and gnarly, iron bars reaching for the sky like the black ribs of some primeval creature intent on eating you alive. It’s menacing and grating in all its ridges. Almost like Bucky himself.

The path narrows as you tread forward. And with every step, your feet grow more heavy. The earth beneath your boots will be the last reminder of this journey you are so reluctant to leave behind.

The wilderness - the forest - has become such a peculiar place of comfort, full of campfire smoke, marked with whispers, and Bucky’s omnipresence - the stable wall just half a pace in front of you right now.

He scans the terrain, letting his eyes sweep across the landscape in his animalistic way. He surveys every tree, every shadow, looking for anything threat-like that might lurk here in the bushes around you.

There is no part of him that looks unsure. But you know better now. You’ve learned to read the subtle language of his body - his silence, his pauses, the set of his jaw when he’s holding back more than he is willing to share.

Wind brushes around the silence between you.

His earlier instructions echo in your head, just before you took off again this morning. His tone was clear and clipped and detached in a way. So practical. Too practical. You’ll approach the gate together to a certain point. Guards will be waiting on the other side. They will know who you are. They will take you in.

And you will go alone.

You remember his jaw clenching, teeth-gritting with each distinct word as though it caused him actual physical pain to say it, to try and shape this farewell into something more tolerable.

But the gate is in your sight already, far off, and nothing feels tolerable about that. It feels cold even from a distance.

Your breath hitches at the hope your body is already beginning to abandon.

You will have to walk the rest of the way alone. One breath of air in, and one breath of air out for every step. A deep gulf opens within you as the grim truth of that tries to settle. Bucky will stop walking any second and watch you take your first steps through those iron bars, leaving you to the kingdom waiting beyond.

Guards will be placed there. Waiting.

For the princess.

You have to remind yourself that that’s you.

The title no longer fits, awkwardly belonging to the body that has outgrown it much like a gown delicately torn at the seams.

The girl who once danced in marble halls bedecked in jewels that sparkled like shards of stars no longer exists anymore. What is left is the stark truth of exposure - physically and mentally - and survival driven by fear and fire through and with the unforeseen solace of companionship. Perhaps even friendship if you might.

And yet, here they are, waiting for a princess.

They're prepared to welcome back their princess like you’re something valuable to be retrieved. But god, you don’t feel like it.

You feel fractured, worn down by grief and guilt and the truths you’ve come to uncover along the way. The title is a relic from your old life that people now expect you to slip into again. Like a pair of shoes. As if it would be that easy.

You briefly look over at the back of Bucky’s built, broad frame, gripped with tension. His discipline surrounds him, the protective air he wears like his brown armor. But there is something more uneasy in the way his shoulders move.

You don’t know what might await you. What fate that castle will write for you. Bucky doesn’t either. And he almost seems to hate that fact considering the way he keeps his eyes on the gate ahead.

It isn’t just a passage. It’s a threshold. Crossing it will sever something irrevocable. Leave behind everything you’ve come to rely on, everything that’s kept you steady through the burn of your ruins.

Bucky.

You don’t know how to do this without him.

Your steps falter, but Bucky’s don’t.

He presses forward almost fiercely, determined. But still so stiff. You wonder if it is easier for him this way - to keep moving, to treat this as another mission, another battle won.

But he’s no soldier anymore and this is not a mission.

He is simply a man who keeps his promises.

And it hurts.

It hurts so much.

Each step brings you nearer to the end of something special, something you haven’t even fully understood before it began to elude you.

And then Bucky stops.

Your heart might as well have stopped along with him.

He turns his gaze toward you, indecisively, slowly, as if he is unsure whether he wants you to see what waits in his eyes.

But you do see. Oh, you see. And it hits you with a force that tears the breath from your lungs.

There is a rawness there, sharp like frost - something jumbled and aching underneath all that grit and stoicism he acknowledges as a part of himself.

You thought you knew those many different shades of Bucky Barnes by now. The gruff protector, the silent watcher, the man who said more with a tilt of his head or a blink of his eyes than with words.

But this is new.

This stripped-down, unguarded version of him - brimming with something that makes your heart stutter. The pattern it's been following for weeks not making sense anymore.

Your breath stumbles in your throat, rough and halting, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. Chilled fingers clench uselessly at your sides, wanting to clutch something, wanting an anchor.

There is no relief. Only him. And that is worse, since even he feels far away now, like a shoreline that seems to slip ever so farther from your reach.

Even Bucky’s stance is off. Unfamiliar. He’s always stood like bracing for a blow, feet planted firm and shoulders squared in resolution to receive whatever blow came his way. Now he stands as though bracing for something else entirely - something no less brutal, something no less punishing.

Something like heartbreak. Or at least something dangerously close to it.

The tension between you is electric with a tingling spiral that tightens with every breath neither of you seems to take.

Words hang unspoken. They force themselves against the back of your throat, refusing to be formed into that simple goodbye you both know is coming.

You drop your gaze, unable to withstand those searching eyes any longer. They fall back to the road leading through the woods into what has become a strange sort of home for you.

The trees loom big and indifferent, the breeze swishing their leaves and whooshing against your cloak.

“I have to thank you.” A shaky breath leaves you, an attempt to steady the tremor in your chest. You try to look at him. “For everything you did for me.” It comes out weak but sincere, each word trembles in its truth.

True. How heart-wrenchingly true. He has done so much more than he was ever bound to. He kept you safe. He kept you whole. And there aren’t enough words in the world to say what that means to you.

You hear the sharp intake of his breath. His head shakes. Almost quick. Almost desperate. As though trying to wave your words away before they take root.

One hand scrubs across his troubled face, ruffling his hair more aggressively than probably intended. The brown strands fall haphazardly back against his temples. Wild and beautiful.

“You don’t gotta thank me,” he rasps out finally, his voice thick.

Of course, he would think that. After all, he merely kept a promise, hadn’t he? Delivered you to safety and nothing more, like some grim knight. That’s how he would see it.

But it’s not how you see it.

“I do,” you insist, voice slightly steadier now though your heart is anything but. “In earnest. I mean it.”

You are drowning in your appreciation for this man.

You do not want him walking away from here thinking he was just a means to your own survival, that this was nothing more than duty completed.

He has been more. So much more. And he deserves to know that.

The tendons in Bucky’s neck strain as his jaw stiffens further. Muscles in his face jump.

But he doesn’t look away. His blue eyes - blue like forget-me-nots and cornflowers and every flower you’ve ever tried to compare them to - flit between yours, looking for cracks, for lies. But there are none.

Silence crashes back in again. And something appears to be shifting in it. It’s not goodbye yet, not quite - but it’s close. So close you can feel it brushing against your skin so frigidly final.

You wonder if he feels it too.

Remembering, you shrug off the dark cloak around your shoulders. He bought it for you at that market so long ago - or perhaps not so long. Time has become rather vague on this journey, but that day stands crystalline in your memory. The warmth of his unexpected gesture. The protection it symbolized. The way he did it without a blink.

But you can’t keep it. It’s no longer yours. And he can use it far better if he continues on his journey to wherever it will take him next.

But before the fabric can fully slip off your shoulders, Bucky’s hands tighten it back around. Making sure it sits properly. His hands linger on your shoulders.

“No,” he says firmly, gritting his teeth slightly. He shakes his head once.

“You should take it back.”

“No,” he repeats, still sternly but quieter. “It’s yours.”

You snap your mouth back shut at the insistent way he stares at you. Letting your hands drop from the fabric, Bucky adjusts it another time before slowly moving his arms back to his side.

His eyes sweep over you. Meticulous. Unhurried. It makes your heart stutter painfully.

He seems to be doing what you have been trying to do - committing you to memory. Tracing every line of your face, every shot of emotion that passes through your eyes, and tucking it away where it will be safe.

The moment feels suspended. Infinite. But fond.

This was never meant to last.

But it hurts like hell that it’s ending.

And so you linger. Just a second longer, you tell yourself. Unsure how to step away from the place you’ve both come to, where the boundary between protector and protected has long since blurred into something softer, more human.

You’ve tried to brace yourself for this moment in a hundred quiet ways - attaching him to a place in your mind, memorizing the cadence of his breaths and the rough edges of his voice - none of it has prepared you for how impossible it feels now that it’s there.

You don’t want to say goodbye. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You can’t let this moment pass by without trying to hold onto it for just a little longer. Even if it doesn’t make the ache go away.

“What will you do now?” Your voice is bordering on tipping over but you try to keep it even enough. “Where will you go?”

You do want to know. Even if curiosity isn’t the whole of it. Maybe knowing will help make sense of losing him. Maybe if you can picture him somewhere - walking new roads, finding new places - you won’t have to carry your carved-out heart around all the time.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks past you, his face fixed somewhere in the distance. There is a crease in his brow. His fingers flex absently like he is working something through. For a moment, it seems he won’t answer at all.

“I’ve got a place to go, darlin',” he utters finally, the term slipping out as naturally as breath. “Don’t you worry about me.”

But there is something strange about the way he says it. Something weighted. An odd note in his voice that catches on the corners of your heart and refuses to let go. His voice is too quiet, the syllables too thick with meaning he doesn’t name. There is an implacable sadness around the words. So much thought. Something mournful lingers there, as if he might be grieving something. A thought he never dared to say out loud. A question he never dared to ask. And now never will.

It makes the ache in your chest fester and rip at the same time, urging you forward even though you don’t know where this conversation will lead. “You could stay here,” you offer. “Maybe for a while.”

You approached the suggestion timidly, like a leaf teetering on falling. You’ve made it sound careful, hesitant, afraid of disturbing whatever delicacy remains between you.

Bucky stands frozen. Head slightly bowed. His breath catches, a sound that is more of a sharp exhale than a laugh. Breathless, lacking any real mirth. Disbelieving. His head tilts lower toward the ground, perhaps searching for something there, something grounding. His shoulders shake subtly, as if he needs a second to pull himself back together.

When he lifts his head again, there is a tightness in his throat you can see in the effort it takes him to swallow.

“You know that won’t be possible, your Highness.”

Well, that hurt.

There’s a punch to your gut. There’s a stab to your heart. There’s a blow to your head.

All at the same time.

It leaves you bleeding so deeply, you don’t know how you’re still standing.

It leaves you gaping. With your heart in your hands. With your blood dripping to the dirty and leaves-covered floor.

His words don’t slice you open because they are mocking. God, that would be easier to dismiss.

No. His words pain you because there is no mockery at all.

None of his usual teasing lilt. No wry amusement or humor curling around his voice.

It’s gone. Everything stripped away until nothing is left but the sincere intent. He didn’t even call you princess. He called you what he was expected to call you. And he meant it.

He addressed you as a princess. As the most important person to your father's kingdom now that the king and queen are dead.

The persona you have distanced yourself from.

The persona you’ll have to step back into.

You’re so hurt you can’t breathe.

Because in that one utterance, he’s already bid you goodbye. Made it real in a way that spins you around, gutted and rootless.

In your ears, your heart beats to the thunder of a title that expects too much of you. It drums against your skin, as if in revulsion to your existence or perhaps the existence you are expected to have now.

And just like that, the freedom you hoped to have found in this forest - the warmth of the fire, the shared moments, passing glances - cracks apart and slips further from reach.

You want to protest, to tell him titles shouldn’t matter, not after everything you’ve experienced together. But his voice has been so pained.

And that’s the most heartbreaking part of it all. Because you know Bucky Barnes is a man who will carry this goodbye quietly, tucked deep into the hollow places of himself where no one will ever see it.

And you’re afraid that’s exactly what you’ll have to do too.

Because he is not meant to walk that path with you.

You try to hide and swallow the sting his words have caused.

But the pain that crossed your features has already been detected by Bucky.

And before you can step back, he leans toward you, closing the small space.

His hands lift without hesitation, large palms brushing against your skin as he cups your face between them. The hard lines of his fingers are familiar. So is the tenderness in which he holds you. He smells of pine and ash and Bucky. He is so close. Almost pressed up against you.

And your breath catches at the warmth seeping from him, at the fierce storm in his eyes. Remorse and sorrow bleed into the blue, shimmering with a kind of sympathy that nearly makes your knees buckle.

You can’t look away. He won’t let you.

And god, you wish he would, because this moment is everything and nothing you were ready for.

“You listen to me, darlin',” Bucky rumbles out, voice low and rough, with a gentleness that has you floating around his orbit. There is determination in his gaze. Not for himself, but for you. “You’re not your father. You’re not even like your mother. And that’s good. That’s good, because you’re better. Better than all the fools that’ll try to tell you otherwise.”

Your breath shudders against your lips. He leans in even further. Forget-me-nots actually do capture his eye color pretty well. You will have to find those flowers in your new gardens.

“You show 'em that,” he urges, though he still takes his time with telling you. Making his conviction come across. His thumbs brush ever so lightly against your cheekbones. “Make 'em believe it. I know you will.”

His belief wraps around your shattering heart, holding it together even as cracks threaten to tear open.

“You’re gonna be okay.” There was a slight waver in his voice but he caught it. “You are what these people need. Keep that in mind, yeah?”

His words are so achingly earnest. They have you teetering on the verge of tears.

“Yes,” you breathe out, giving him a nod. Just in case that whisper did not even reach him.

You feel something bloom inside you. Wildflowers perhaps, the color of all those you have spotted throughout your travel with this man. They push through cracks in stone and fill some of those spaces you had thought were left to be hollow forever.

The muscles in your jaw are trembling. They want to spill out a sob or a laugh or something else. But you hold firm.

Still, your breaths are released in shivers.

He believes you to be strong. He believes you to be your own powerful person without being shadowed by the ghosts of your parents.

And yet, there is something you spot in his eyes that you don’t want to see there. It’s a flicker of doubt. A tiny glimmer of self-deprecation that tells you he is convinced he is not part of that strength. And that he will never be.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to reach for him, but you don’t dare move.

His eyes are still rooting you to the spot.

His breaths are mingling with yours.

The unrelenting blue of his eyes is so intently drawn to your own gaze.

There is nothing but him.

His touch sets every nerve in your body ablaze, buzzing with a tension so fierce it’s impossible to overcome.

You feel it thrumming between you. A crackling pull.

His eyes flicker down to your lips. And before you know it, your own eyes betray you as well. You trace his plump red mouth. Like poppy flowers. You would have to find those too.

He feels closer. The space between your faces is shrinking. So tentatively.

Your heart races wildly and you feel the rise and fall of his chest against your own.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly against your skin, seemingly torn between letting go and pulling you closer.

You want to close the distance.

You want him to close the distance.

A wave of sensation sweeps through your spine, leaving your skin tingling.

It would be so easy. Just lean up a tiny bit and press yourself against his lips. You already seem to be standing on your tippy toes anyway.

You could let this moment become something even more tangible and real, something you could carry with you in the spaces of your heart reserved just for him.

His lips hover just a breath away from yours, and you can feel the warmth of him. Everywhere. You feel him everywhere. His breath fans over your face so sweetly.

You both know where this is leading.

And unfortunately, you both know why this can’t happen.

Before your lips get the chance to fully touch, he pulls back. Slowly at first. Only an inch, studying your reaction, flipping his eyes between yours so rapidly you can’t keep up.

But then, reluctantly, he lets you go and takes a step back. His hands fall to his sides as if he has no idea what to do with them.

This is the end of the road.

If you fall into his arms now, it will only make the parting more difficult.

But it’s still not even nearly easy.

With a shuddering breath, you straighten your spine and pull the cloak tighter around yourself. Just so you have something to do.

A gust of chilly wind hits you and you miss his touch in an instant. You feel removed. Cold.

You’ll carry this hurt, just as you will carry him. Just not behind the same door.

The space between you seems haunted now.

Like something has been stolen from the both of you.

You feel like you’re about to be pressed into the earth.

You know this is the part where you have to go. Where fate and duty carve their lines through your shared path, splitting it in two directions. He takes one half of your heart along with him.

Bucky’s eyes remain steadfast on you. Shadows are turning in and out of his gaze. He watches everything - the wind pulling at your cloak, the slight tremble of your lips, the desperate defiance in your gaze as though willing this not to be the last time.

Breath quivering, you force yourself to stand taller, chin lifted, although you don’t feel like it.

You don’t want to walk away. You don’t want this to end. But it has to. It always had to.

Your voice is thin and brittle like the last leave holding onto a winter branch. “Goodbye, Bucky,” you breathe.

And it still tastes inadequate on your tongue. It doesn’t hold even a fraction of what you truly feel, of what he’s come to mean to you.

Bucky’s movement is a slow gesture of a nod, almost seeming to store this moment away in a secure place deep within him. “Goodbye, darlin'.”

You take a step back, each inch widening a chasm between you. The pain is an entity that breathes inside your chest. Your legs are stiff, the earth not wanting to let you leave itself.

When you are about to turn, your throat clogs and his voice catches you in your tracks.

“Do me one favor, will you?”

You pivot cautiously, meeting his gaze. “Anything.”Fracture lines your voice. But you make it sound resolute. You’ll hold whatever he gives you tightly in your heart where it will live forever.

The corners of his mouth lift into a ghost of a smile. It’s feeble and laden with sorrow. It holds his final goodbye. The sight takes the wind right out of you.

“Don’t forget about me, yeah?”

You won’t.

How could you ever forget about Bucky Barnes.

“I’ll spend a lifetime remembering you.”

- Astrid Suu

Part nine

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld @mrsnikstan @melsunshine @hawkinsavclub1983 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @vvs-dlxodyd

[dearstvckyx]

sometimes home is a person team - bob reynolds x witch!reader

ᯓ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 bob reynolds x witch!reader / thunderbolts x witch!reader / protective!john walker x witch!reader

ᯓ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 On a mission gone wrong, the reader shows just how powerful — and dangerous — her blue magic can be. But when a flicker of the Void triggers a traumatic memory, everything spirals. Bob tries to protect her, but she pulls away, hurt and overwhelmed. As the team searches the tower, it’s John who finds her — quiet, shaken, and hiding in his room. He says nothing, just sits with her as she finally rests. But the distance between her and Bob is growing… and the Void is no longer just in her head.

ᯓ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 Action · Angst · Found Family · Supernatural · Hurt/Comfort

ᯓ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 PTSD flashbacks, implied past abuse and assault (non-graphic), dissociation, panic attack, violence, emotional trauma, memory manipulation, and brief depictions of death/injury during combat.

♪ “ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ, ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ꜱᴄᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ” — ʜᴀʟꜱᴇʏ “ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ”

✦•················•✦•················•✦•················•✦•················•✦

The facility was rotting at the seams, half-sunk into the wet dirt of a forest that hadn’t seen daylight in days. The concrete walls were cracked and moss-eaten, but the energy thrumming beneath the surface wasn’t dead. It was waiting.

The team moved in a loose wedge formation through the first chamber, boots crunching over old debris. Bob stayed near her side, silent, his gold-and-blue Sentry suit humming faintly under the weight of his calm restraint. He hadn’t activated yet, but the way his jaw was locked — he was ready.

She felt the hum first — in her stomach, in her ribs, under her skin.

The hallway ahead flickered with movement.

Ava called out, “Movement left!”

And it was like a wire snapped.

Doors burst open, and figures poured out — modified, armored, not fully human. The air shimmered around them like heat waves, and in that moment, she stopped thinking and acted.

Her hands rose and in an instant, her power bloomed — soft and cold, a luminous blue that lit the entire corridor. It wasn’t unstable like before. Not wild. It moved with her.

One gesture and the air crackled. A surge of power launched forward, threads of glowing magic lashing through the enemy front like silk knives. They staggered, lifted from the ground, tossed back like leaves in a storm.

A hand reached for Yelena — she flicked her fingers and blue magic coiled around the attacker’s wrist, snapping it backward. Another figure tried to vanish into a shadow-step — she closed her fist and froze him mid-phase, then shattered him into ash with a sweep of her arm.

Walker stood frozen for a second as one of the supersoldiers sprinted toward him — and before he could even block, her glowing tether wrapped around the target’s neck and yanked them into a wall so hard the concrete cracked.

“Jesus,” he muttered, staring at her. “You’re terrifying.”

She said nothing. Just floated forward, blue light curling behind her like smoke.

In seconds, it was over.

The hallway was a ruin of sparks and groans. The team regrouped quickly. Ava gave her a quiet nod. Yelena touched her shoulder, light and brief. She didn’t flinch.

Bob watched her for a long second, something unreadable in his expression.

She looked away.

⸻

The deeper they moved, the colder it got.

Her magic buzzed faintly in her palms, like it was warning her. Tasting the air. Her boots scuffed against the concrete as she trailed behind Bob, every nerve wired, her eyes scanning the shadows.

When they split up again, she and Bob took the north corridor. His presence was a calm anchor beside her, the edge of his golden cape brushing her arm as they turned a corner.

That’s when she heard the first whisper.

Not a voice — more like a vibration.

The air changed.

She raised her hand slowly, and Bob paused, instantly catching the shift in her energy. Her palm lit with blue light, soft and haunting, casting both their faces in ghostly color. He nodded once — go ahead.

The ambush hit like thunder.

Dozens of armed figures erupted from false walls and dropped from above, perfectly coordinated. Bob shoved in front of her, light starting to crackle off his suit. But before he could do anything — she stepped past him.

And unleashed it.

A cyclone of blue erupted from her outstretched arms — magic that sang, that screamed, that bent the air. She lifted her arms and the power obeyed, ribbons wrapping around enemies mid-sprint and smashing them into opposite walls with bone-snapping force.

Someone drew a blade — she pointed and the weapon dissolved. Another one lunged, and she twisted her wrist — their body froze midair, contorted painfully, and she dropped them like a puppet with cut strings.

Someone grabbed Bob’s cape. She turned her palm outward, a pulse snapped through the hallway, and the attacker simply ceased. Gone.

Bob turned his head, watching her with a kind of awe — not fear, not worry — just quiet reverence.

When the bodies fell silent and the blue light died down, her chest heaved, sweat shining at her temple. She didn’t look at him.

She looked past him.

At the smoke.

It crept along the floor like rot — unnatural, oily, slow. She stared as it began to coil upward into something tall. Something shaped like a man. Blacker than shadow. Empty eyes opened.

She blinked.

And the hallway was gone.

⸻

It was the cold that hit her first.

Then the sting in her wrists, the weight at her ankles, the sound of machines humming overhead. The table was real. The straps were back. The room was white — too white — and voices droned behind the glass.

“She’s plateauing. Hit her harder.”

“Pain responses are inconsistent. Try breaking her rhythm.”

Gloved hands. Force. Pressure.

A face she couldn’t see. A name they stripped from her.

“Stop—!” she tried to scream, but nothing came out.

They were everywhere. Inside her head. Inside her body.

Her blue magic sparked — flickering, confused — but she couldn’t grab it.

The panic rose so fast it drowned her.

Then hands touched her — warm, firm, steady.

A voice: “Hey. I’ve got you. You’re not there.”

She choked in air and opened her eyes — her face was pressed to Bob’s chest, his arms around her, shielding her with everything he had. She trembled in his grip, breath catching.

Behind him, in the memory, the Void watched.

Bob turned his head and glared at it.

Gold light erupted from behind him, burning into the scene like a new sun, and everything shattered. The sentry protecting the girl.

⸻

They landed back in the real hallway.

Smoke curled from the floor. Bob’s cape was still around her shoulders. She was shaking, wide-eyed, heart racing.

He held her carefully.

“You said it wouldn’t reach me,” she whispered.

“It didn’t. It was a memory—”

“But it saw me.”

Bob’s face crumbled. “I didn’t know—”

“You should have.” Her voice cracked. “You should’ve protected me from that.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it.

She stepped out of his arms.

The others had arrived. Their faces twisted in worry, but she didn’t want to be touched. Didn’t want to hear anyone.

She walked past them, past Bob, straight to the jet.

⸻

She didn’t speak once on the flight.

Bob sat across from her, staring but silent. His hands were in his lap, still dusted in ash. She curled into herself like the blue glow might never come back.

He wanted to cross the cabin. But she looked like she’d vanish if he tried.

When the jet landed, she was gone before the door finished lowering.

He followed her, jogging down the corridor. “Please—just tell me what you need. Please.”

She turned the corner and didn’t look back.

⸻

He searched for an hour.

His Their room first . The rooftop. The balcony near the archives. The lower gym, the kitchens, the lab storage where she once curled up on a crate when overwhelmed. He checked the garden Yelena kept alive, even though she didn’t go there much anymore.

Nothing.

His voice cracked when he told the others: “She’s not anywhere.”

Yelena’s face turned pale. Ava nodded once and darted off. Alexei muttered something about the vents and disappeared.

Bob just… stood.

Then his phone buzzed.

John: Found her. She’s safe. Let her be for now.

⸻

John sat quietly in the corner of his room.

She was on the floor, his oldest hoodie wrapped around her, sleeves pulled over her fists. One of his medals — scratched, chipped — was in her hands, like it was keeping her tethered to this moment.

He didn’t ask how she got there.

Didn’t speak.

He just sat. Back to the wall. Quiet.

Five minutes passed.

Ten.

Then — without looking — she shifted sideways, leaned into his shoulder, and rested her head there. Her body was still tense, but her breathing eased.

John didn’t move.

She fell asleep.

And he stayed like that. Not as a soldier. Not as a teammate.

Just as someone who understood what it meant to sit with the weight of too much pain.

[brucewaynehater101]

WAIT. Reverse Robin AU, but let's fuck everything up.

Damian is the oldest. He was conceived during Bruce's training arc. Talia found out she was pregnant and ghosted the hell out of Bruce near the start of the arc. Thus, Bruce was dealing with his bad breakup for eight or so years, comes home, takes a year to become Batman, and then a ten year old kid shows up on his doorstep a year later. A highly trained child that has some whacky notions about training/combat that also knows how to escape :) So, yeah. Kid becomes a little vigilante. He has some super friends but isn't really on a team (Jon, Colin, Flatline, Maps, etc). Through Bruce's dedicated reparenting, he grows up to want to be a vet instead.

Duke still met Bruce during Year Zero at the age of six. When Damian is seventeen, Duke's parents go missing (fuck the Joker, let's blame any other rogue for this). There's civil disorder as well, partly caused by Damian quitting and Bruce being sad about it (which good for Damian. Go chase your dreams). Bruce stumbles upon 13 year old Duke, realizes the kid is kind of an orphan who also has meta powers that he won't stop using to be a dangerously untrained vigilante, and thus yanks him into fostering. When he's 15, his mom is found, saved, and healed enough for Duke to move back in with her. Duke eventually moves to the day shift when he's 16.

Steph gets recruited by Duke! She's still Spoiler and even forms the first teen superhero group (with Anita, Cissie, Cassie, Greta, and Kon). She lives with her mom and is the one to encourage Bruce to make connections to other heroes. She's civilian friends with Tim. At age sixteen, she "dies." It's a fake death, but nobody else knows this except Tim. This causes massive ripples in the superhero community, Gotham, and the Bats.

Tim... Doesn't actually join the batfam at first :D There's no flying grayson, but he did figure out their identities. He thinks they're cool, but not to the hero level worship of canon. He knows Steph is Spoiler. His parents still die and whatnot, but Tim pulls an Uncle Eddie. He used his rich boy money to train a bit, even ran into Lady Shiva when he was abroad trying to save his parents, but he isn't a practicing vigilante (and thus currently not physically great). Instead, he uses his computer skills to subtly aid Steph/the Bats. Bart ends up seeking him out (future knowledge), so they start working together as a team (with Bart in-field but not in Gotham). When he's 17, Steph dies/goes missing. Thus, Bart and Tim end up on a StephQuest (because nobody believes stranger!Tim who has no actual proof) [which ends up training Tim to be a great vigilante].

Jason gets yoinked from the streets post-Steph's "death" at 13. Bruce is feeling massive guilty/depressed that one of his charges/unofficial children died. Jason, who found a really neat home with a library and also has experience with struggling parents, unfortunately helps coax Bruce out of his spiral while also signing himself up for becoming a vigilante. Jason has his own team of superheros and stuff. Steph comes back about a year into his vigilantism (so when he's fourteen or so).

Cass shows up in Gotham after Steph gets back. She gets adopted and becomes/starts Batgirl.

Dick's parents die when he's nine, thus when Jason is fifteen.

[satorushousewife]

souls of the forest

or

dragon!satosugu x healer!reader - part 1.

warnings: blood, depiction of wounds, use of magic

you exclaim, “damn it!”

at the moment, you were brewing a new potion. just as you were about to finish it, you realized you’d run out of dandelion leaves. for most potions, this wouldn’t be an issue, but this one required constant stirring and focused intention throughout the entire process.

you sigh, glancing at the clock on the wall. stopping your stirring, you place your hands on your hips, calculating. it would take eight minutes to reach the dandelions and eight to return, plus five minutes to gather the leaves. twenty-one minutes until you could resume stirring. maybe if you hurried...

grabbing your gardening bag—filled with pruning shears, gloves, a small spade, a hatchet, and several pots (some filled with herbs, others empty for collecting)—you step briskly out of your cabin. to save time, you prepare to cast a small spell to clear your path and guide you to the exact spot. but the moment you step beyond the protective boundary of your cabin, something feels deeply wrong.

the forest’s magic is off.

all places have their unique magical essence, shaped by the lives and creatures within them. this forest, usually teeming with calm, vibrant energy, now feels heavy with death. but it isn’t the natural death that feeds the cycle of life—this is something darker, filled with pain and sorrow.

wasting no more time, you pick up a leaf from the ground and conjure a small flame to burn it. as the leaf ignites, you murmur, “nozle-ne we ke tyoi” (show me what hurts), and blow on it. the ashes float upward, spiraling before drifting into the forest, leaving a faintly glowing trail in the air.

gripping your bag tightly, you follow the trail. inside, you have enough supplies to treat severe injuries—assuming the creature is still alive.

the closer you get, the heavier the magic becomes, almost suffocating. whatever lies ahead, it’s not just a disturbance; it’s a convergence of two powerful presences. the magic here is so dense it’s almost tangible.

you slow your steps as low growls and whimpers reach your ears—sounds of frustration and pain. the noises suggest a large creature. the burning leaf halts above a bush further ahead. cautiously, you peer from behind a massive tree trunk, and what you see shocks you.

two dragons. both drenched in blood.

the first, a black dragon with scales that shimmer purple under the light, is nursing a mangled front leg. its violet eyes gleam with desperation as it nudges a limp white dragon. the white one, slender and elongated, bears a deep gash across its abdomen, blood pooling beneath it. the black dragon’s whimpers sound like a lament.

even in their current state, they are unmistakably dragons, though they’ve shrunk into their smaller, draconic forms—a sign of severe injury or depleted magic. dragons, the most powerful and pure magical beings, should have been able to heal themselves. whatever caused this must have been catastrophic.

swallowing hard, you step closer, clutching your bag. focused on the dragons, you accidentally step on a twig, the sharp crack echoing in the tense silence. the black dragon stumbles back, then plants itself protectively in front of the white one, letting out a feral growl. its message is clear: one more step, and it will tear you apart.

instinctively, you raise your hands and crouch slightly, trying to appear smaller. “i won’t hurt you!” you blurt out. the dragon’s stance doesn’t waver. “is he alive? if you let me, i might be able to save him!” you say, taking a cautious step forward. it growls louder.

“you can feel it, can’t you?” you plead. “my magic is part of this forest. i’m the healer of the village.” reaching into your bag, you ignore the warning snarls and pull out jars of herbs, holding them up. “see? these can stop the bleeding. let me help, please.”

the dragon hesitates, its eyes flicking between you and its companion. its growls quiet slightly, and it seems to weigh the risk.

“you can sense my magic,” you continue, your voice steady but urgent. “it’s not strong—just enough for healing and protection. he’s dying. please, let me help him.”

finally, the black dragon glances at the white one, worry shining in its violet eyes. after a moment, it huffs and steps back, though its gaze remains wary.

wasting no time, you kneel by the white dragon and begin pulling out everything you might need. the wound is still bleeding heavily. you’ll need the most potent potion you can manage with what you have.

you declare your intention aloud as you crush herbs in a wooden bowl, chanting, “bese arre asce, eprusce e tus. bese arre gmus, eprusce u renjselandu. bese arre seox, eprusce u lehvuvetu” (for this herb, absorb the pain. for this herb, absorb the bleeding. for this root, absorb the wound)

you repeat the chant over and over, imbuing the mixture with your magic. after two minutes of stirring, you pour the glowing liquid onto the white dragon’s wound, continuing to chant. the dragon twitches and lets out a low whine of pain, causing the black dragon to growl and step closer. but as the bleeding slows and the white dragon’s breathing steadies, the black dragon relaxes slightly.

the wound still looks severe, but at least it’s no longer worsening. when the potion runs out, you hover your hand over the injury, channeling a bit of your energy into the dragon to stabilize it further.

“this will stop the bleeding and ease the pain for now,” you explain. “to fully heal him, i need to bring him back to my cabin.” you look at the black dragon, noting its bulk compared to the white one. “i can stabilize your wound too,” you offer, “but i’ll need your help to carry him. alone, it’ll take too long.”

its violet eyes narrow, but after a tense moment, it nods. you smile faintly, hoping to convey reassurance, and quickly prepare another potion. the black dragon growls softly as the liquid touches its injured leg, but soon its posture relaxes as the pain subsides.

once finished, you tear a strip from your pants, layering it with healing herbs before wrapping it around the white dragon’s torso. fortunately, the white dragon’s slender frame makes it easier to secure the bandage.

“how will you carry him?” you ask, glancing at the black dragon. “he won’t feel pain for now, and neither will you.”

without hesitation, the black dragon maneuvers beneath the white one, lifting it effortlessly onto its back. even in its weakened state, its strength is awe-inspiring.

the black dragon looks at you expectantly. gathering your supplies, you lead the way back to your cabin, the glowing path from your earlier spell guiding you through the darkened forest.

you just hope you could help him, that your magic was enough for healing a powerful dragon. you hope he would survive. part 2

end notes: you ask i shall deliver 🫡 also the language used for spells is some sort of stone language... idk i used an online translator mwehehe

taglist: @moncher-ire , @jinjen , @frozenmallows , @shuzoku , @aqua5ky

♡⃕ xoxo mikki

[rosenclaws]

obsessed with your ex || Worst!Logan Howlett smut

summary: In his world you were his wife and he loved you and then you died. In this world you're his girlfriend and he loves you. At least you think he does. Still you can't help the voice in the back of your head telling you that you're nothing but a sad replacement.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DNI!! 18+ ONLY. insecure + jealous!reader, a very very toxic mindset, the reader's mind is very mean to her, reader is a mutant that can make objects disappear, angst, happy ending, rough sex, riding, french kissing, oral (f!receiving), a slight breakdown, soft sex, missionary, Logan is kinda a softie, cockwarming, fingering.

wc: 2.5k

a/n: Okay so it's here!! I need to make this clear that the readers mindset is NOT healthy and that relationships need good communication. That being said here's my fic idea that I've been thinking about for a bit. I love Olivia Rodrigo sm (I even saw her in concert!!) and this song was just begging to be written into a fic. Anyways I really hope you like it and that it's not too insane lmao. Also i made the graphic but i kinda hate it but i dont wanna change it so here we are I know it's ugly but its FINE

How long have you been here? Staring. Observing every little thing about you. Your nose, your eyes, your lips, your hair, your chin. The way your arms fall by your sides. Every. Little. Detail.

Did she have the same colored eyes? Did she talk like you? Was she smart? Was she powerful? Did he look at her the same way? Did he fuck her like he fucks you?

You clench your fists as you stare angrily at the mirror. He loves you. He says he loves you and yet it feels like you can never compare to her. She was the love of his life. She was an X-Men. She died. She was you. You're his dead fucking wife in his universe while you were nothing to the Logan in this one. 

He looked at you like a kicked puppy that first day you met. A lost little pet that had been searching for its owner. Dragged through hell and back just to get to you. It was easy to fall for him. Handsome, a little rough around the edges. You hadn’t even been dating for that long but it didn’t matter right? He worshiped you. He loved you. He promised he loved you.

But sometimes in the back of your head you wonder if when he's kissing you, does he imagine her? Does he close his eyes while he's pounding into you and imagine it's her? How could you ever compete? She was perfect, she was kind, she was everything to him. Spiraling deeper and deeper into a whirlpool of doubt and envy. There's a heavy pounding on the door but you choose to ignore it. Too wrapped up in your twisted mind to care. 

"Sweetheart, let me in." Logan's gruff voice was slightly muffled by the door. 

You clench your jaw as you finally tear your eyes away from the mirror. You slam open the door taking Logan by surprise. His eyes scan yours for injury, a worried look in his face as he steps into the bathroom. 

"I got worried, you were in here a long time." His arms wrap around your waist. 

He's looking at you with pity. At least that's what your brain tells you. Was he worried that you were hurt because he loves you or because he was thinking of her death again? You know he still dreams of her. He can hide it when he's awake but the nightmares don't lie. It hurts so bad. Love me. Love me. You're jealous you know. She's dead, she's gone. So why can't he love you. You push him off and storm out the bathroom. Nothing makes sense anymore in your head. 

"What the fuck?" Logan follows you and you feel yourself tensing up. 

It's a miracle your powers haven't started to go haywire yet. So many different emotions swirl around in your head until it mixes together to form one single feeling.

Need.

You grab Logan's shirt and pull him into you. Smashing your lips onto his with a hunger that you've never felt before. Logan hisses as you bite his bottom lip harshly but you don't give him time to say anything as you slip your tongue into his mouth. He groans as he starts to take some control back. Hands slipping up your shirt and ripping to shreds with ease.

You pull back from his lips, chest heaving for air as you paw at his shirt. Silently demanding he take it off which he happily does. Your lips are back onto his in an instant. He slowly walks you back until you fall onto the bed. You fall onto the bed and lick your lips. The bugle in his pants is evident as you flick your hand and the belt disappears. 

"I liked that belt." You pay no mind to his comment as you unbutton his jeans and pull them down, leaving him in his boxers. 

"Easy there sweetheart," Logan pushes you back gently and crawls on top of you. Logan kisses down your chest, teasing each nipple with his tongue. 

"Let me take my time." He purrs.

His hands touch and squeeze your breasts roughly making you whine. You watch his arms move, god he's so hot. He's close to making you forget. He kisses down, down, all the way down. He sneaks out the tip of his claws to pop open the button of your pants and he yanks them down until they're all the way off.

"There she is, my perfect girl." His girl. That's right your his girl. No one else's.

Logan pulls your panties to the side as he situates himself between your legs. He stuffs his face without shame, licking hungrily and practically moaning at the taste. You arch your back as Logan devours you. Watching his back muscles move are mesmerizing. He's yours. He loves you. He promises he does.

You can't stop the thoughts that begin to invade you. Overwhelmed by pleasure from Logan and pain from the horrible ideas that pop into your head. Did he do this with her too? Did he worship her? Do you taste like her? Is that why he can't get enough? 

"Fuck!" You hiss as you sit up and tell Logan to stop. He does immediately, wondering what the hell is going on. 

"Can't fucking wait." You scratch down his chest with your nails. He groans and tries to crawl on top of you but you shake your head. 

"I'm going to ride you until you can't come anymore." You growl.

You bite his shoulder harshly making him hiss. It heals right up much to your dismay. How badly you wish you could mark him. You make his boxers disappear but before he can make a smart comment you sink down on him all the way. You whimper as you start to bounce on his cock. Loving how much he fills you.

You need to be fucked stupid. You're desperate for Logan to fuck every bad thought out of your head. To promise that he loves you so that you can believe him. You want to believe him. Please, you have to believe him. 

"Sweetheart." Logan's breath is labored as you relentlessly fuck yourself on his cock. You feel so damn good but fuck he can tell something is on your mind. 

"What do you need, let me help you." He sits up on his hands, placing one on your back as he tries to get you to slow down. His words make you want to scream. What do you need? You look at him and the only thing your rotten brain can tell you is that he is thinking of her. 

"I need you to fucking love me!" You yell.

The dam of built up feelings breaks down as tears pour out of your eyes. Ugly, horrible sobs that make your body shake. Logan watches with horror in his eyes as he stills your hips, using his strength to lift you off of him as you continue to cry. 

"I do love you." He says softly but you shake your head. 

"No!" You shout. You pound your fist against Logan's chest over and over again but he barely moves. 

"You love her! I know you do." Logan's heart breaks at the sound of your sobs. 

"I'm not your dead fucking wife Logan!" You should regret the words coming out of your mouth but you can't stop them. 

"You look at me and you see her. Like I'm just some fucking placeholder!" You let out an anguished scream as Logan captures your wrists in his hands. You know the stories. She was a hero, she was perfect in every single way. 

"How can I compete with, with her?" You say completely defeated.

Your head falls against his chest. There's a sense of relief that washes over you. Thoughts that have plagued you for months are finally out in the open. Yet the fear of what comes next overtakes any other feeling.

"Look at me." Logan tilts your head up but you push his hand away. 

"Sweetheart." He sighs and lets go of your face.

Logan's never been good at this. Talking. Being vulnerable. Then he lost everything and he hardened even more and he just. This was a new chance at life and even though it's hard he can't lose it all again. 

"I know you're not her. Of course I do." Logan presses his forehead against yours, trying to get you to look at him. 

"You loved her..." You croak out. 

"I did love her. She was my wife. But I love you too. In a different way." He's a different man. Having gone through tremendous loss. It shaped him into who he is now. 

"You're different people. Your powers act differently, you talk differently, you feel different. You are not a replacement." He says firmly. 

When you finally look at him he feels this horrible pit in his stomach. He wipes away your tears but doesn't make any other move. It's not the right time.

"Would you have even given me a second thought? If I didn't look like her?" You ask, that question has haunted you for a while now but you never asked, too afraid of the answer. Logan is silent, unsure of how to answer. 

"When I first saw you it was like a punch in the face." He starts. "For a moment I was 20 years in the past. Then I snapped out of it. You look like her, yes but you’re not her.” He gently traces a small scar on your jaw that you got when you were a child. 

“I’m not the same as your Logan right? He was a leader, a hero and I was an angry drunk murderer.” 

“I’m not gonna start listing all your fucking differences sweetheart, but I swear on my life that I love you for you.” He pulls you into a tight hug as you start to cry again. You cling onto him as tight as you can. The bad thoughts don’t just stop, even if you want them to but Logans whispering sweet words in your ear. Pushing out every bad thought for now.

“Logan,” You take a deep breath, letting Logan invade all your senses. Tobacco and whiskey. 

“I need you.” He’s hesitant, not sure if it’s the right time.

“Please, I just need you.”

“Okay sweetheart, you have me.” He slowly rolls you over and lays you on your back.

He captures your lips into a kiss. His hips rolling slowly making you moan softly. His lips drift from your lips to the corner of your mouth to your cheek, trailing down. Each one so gentle, so full of love.

“You have this spot, righttt here.” Logan nibbles on your neck and you gasp when bites right at this spot that drives you wild. You melt into the mattress as he kisses over it.

“Always makes you relax.” He crawls lower, kissing down your body. He sits up on his knees and grabs a pillow to place under your back.

“I know you like to be slightly elevated because it means I can go just a little deeper.” He purrs as he takes his cock in his hands and gently rubs the tip of it along your folds. He slides two fingers into your cunt slowly.

“Know that my fingers drive you absolutely wild, that you need me to go slow to start.” You nod absentmindedly.

You never realized he picked up on all these things. His fingers start to slide in smoother, your cunt getting wetter for him. He leans down and takes a deep breath, groaning at the scent. He slips them out and licks them clean.

“Relax sweetheart,” He spreads your thighs and slips in all the way. Going slow but unrelenting, stretching you just how you like.

“So impatient, you never let me take it easy on you right? Just wanna be full all the time.” He leans down on his elbows as he rolls his hips nice and slow.

There will be no rough sex this time, this is about love. To show you that he truly does love you for you.

“Look at me,” He tilts your head so that your eyes meet. He smiles at the desperate look on your face.

“You can pretend it makes you all embarrassed, but I know you like eye contact.” He hums as he angles his hips so that he hits that perfect spot.

You jolt as pleasure rocks through your whole body but he keeps you under him. He’s slowly and methodically tearing you apart. Every touch, every word out of his mouth just makes it better. He knows. Of course he does.

“I love you Logan.” Your hands cup his face as you stare into his hazel eyes.

This time not filled with lust, but with a true deep love. He looks at you like you’re everything.

“I love you too.” He kisses you as he starts to pick up the pace of his thrusts. He smirks as he feels you start to squirm under him. You could never help it when you were close.

“Come on sweetheart, just let go.” He whispers in your ear.

His deep voice paired with the unrelenting feeling of his cock is all it takes. He holds you in his firm arms as a warm and wonderful tingling sensation runs through your whole body. A blissful smile on your face as you tilt your head back.

You feel your whole body relax as your mind calms. Logan tries to hide his growls as he fucks into you a little faster, until he’s coming hard and deep inside of you. He sighs in contentment as he stays inside of you. He taps your cheek lightly and you look up at him.

“I love you. No one else. Just you.” He moves to pull out but you whine. You need to be close to him right now. He chuckles as he slowly moves to your side. Spooning you tightly with his cock still deep inside of you.

“Can we talk?” You ask shyly.

“About what?” Logan grunts as he pulls you as close as he can get you.

“Anything?” He’s not much of a talker so he asks the questions instead.

How did you discover your powers? How did you meet wade? Just anything and everything and you tell him.

You talk for who knows how long. Staying wrapped in each other's arms. It helps, it really does. Logan listens, he really does listen. He wants to get to know you. He loves you. You rest your head on his chest, tracing shapes into his palm as you talk.

For the first time in a while your mind seems to settle. Ignoring any thought that may try and ruin your mood. It’s just you and him right now. There’s no looming figure of your alternate selves, not anymore.

Just you and Logan. Forever.

[peonysgreenhouse]

-`♡´- return.

summary: the obey me datables & luke react to mc coming back to life!

tags: obey me datables (simeon, solomon, diavolo, barbatos) x gn!reader, luke & gn!reader, hurt/comfort, implied character death, mentions of violence in solomon's parts, solomon goes a little crazy teehee

i. simeon

he sees you there, in the celestial realm. he had known your soul was pure from the very beginning, but seeing you among the angels was like a knife to his gut, a reminder of his failures to protect you. 

you weren’t supposed to be here, not now, at least. it was far too early for you to die. simeon can’t help but feel bitterness well up within him as you turn from michael to look for someone in the crowd (he knew it was him. he hoped it was him).

your features light up – simeon feels his heart skip a beat. even now you were just as he last remembered you, he had always taken the time to visit you in the devildom, even after his internship was over. you more beautiful than any angel he had ever seen. 

you embrace him tight, and the tighter you squeeze the more he feels like he can’t breathe, the combating feelings waging a war in his mind. he should’ve been watching over you; what kind of guardian angel was he to let his human die like this?

“i’m sorry,” he doesn’t know why his voice cracks when he says it. simeon? losing his composure? he had garnered many millennia of years of experience working to keep it up. “i’m sorry i didn’t protect you.”

“it’s okay simeon,” he feels your hands squeeze the back of his cloak. a wicked thought crosses his mind; maybe if you dug your nails in harder he would have some penance for his failures. if you cut through the bone and marrow and reached his heart then maybe his father would forgive him – maybe you would forgive him for his short-comings. “i’m here now.”

“right,” he breathes you in as if to convince himself. simeon feels the strength of his bond with you overwhelm him, he can feel how much you care for him and he feels his chest fill with warmth, chasing away his guilt, if for the moment. “you’re here forever. with me. nothing can hurt you here, i promise.”

ii. luke

luke had always told you to be mindful of demons, that they were evil creatures who would take any opportunity to kill you. it had seemed that his warning had proved true in the worst way. if only he hadn’t been a cherub; if uriel had promoted him to be your guardian angel like he had asked, maybe this could’ve been avoided.

but he was overwhelmed with how happy he was at the fact that you would be spending time with him forever in the celestial realm. he had wanted nothing more ever since you had become friends in the devildom. you were the one light for him in the exchange program.

“you’re here!” luke chirps, sprinting down the golden bricks of the road to the archangels’ house. “you’re really–!” you’re suddenly enveloped in a hug as luke wraps himself around your waist. 

“hello luke!” you smile from ear to ear, ruffling up his neat hair. usually, he’d make a comment about you not treating him like a child, but for now it seems he’s too busy nuzzling into you. “it’s good to see you again.”

“yes! i’m happy to see you,” he pulls away, cheeks visibly flushed. “i’m sorry that i wasn’t there to protect you from those mean old demons but… everything will be fine now that you’re here!”

“would you like to give them a tour of the celestial realm?” michael chimes in with a smile, the younger angel’s eyes lighting up like a christmas tree.

luke nods excitedly, taking your hand in his, already tugging you out of the estate: “we have so much to do! we can’t waste any time!”

iii. solomon

solomon spirals hard.

there was a reason solomon pushed everyone away, why most people in his life were kept an arms length apart. he got too attached to things; to power, to magic, to anything that gave him that needed adrenaline rush… why would you be any different? you, the only person he has ever loved had been snatched out of his hands.

and worst of all, he had been powerless to save you. 

all the magic and demon pacts and connections in the world couldn’t stop you from bleeding out in his arms. humans like you were much too fragile for his liking; he had worked tirelessly his whole life to be anything but.

if he couldn’t get what he wanted from the damned, he would have to turn his eyes to the celestial realm. if he had to tear down the heavens and bring you crashing back down to earth, he’s sure he would. 

making bonds with angels was much more difficult than that of demons, but he found after nights of endless research that plucking a few of their feathers would get them to sing. 

he’s covered in golden ichor when he manages to bring you back – a life for a life. he finally was able to do it, not only to bring a human back to life, but to bring you back. solomon rises, shakily, as you feel your body materialize out of the magic sigil etched into the floor. he smiles gently, looking at you as if you were the only thing that mattered.

so why do you look back at him with such horror?

iv. diavolo

he had bargained with the archangels before, but never for a life.

in all accounts, a human choosing to leave the celestial realm and go to the devildom was unheard of. being cast out of heaven was notoriously the worst punishment anyone could receive.

but you do, you would always choose him over all the luxuries and beauty of the heavens every single time. it was true that love made people do stupid things.

michael sends you back to the devildom months after diavolo’s terms were set, a gift with the price of owing the ruler of the celestial realm a favor. michael was known for his kindness, but diavolo knew that there was more to him than that. he was smart enough to know that michael would never jeopardize the devildom, but angels never forgot debts owed. it was a risk, but one diavolo had no choice but to take. 

above all the benevolence and good-will he draped himself in, at his core, he was a selfish demon; perhaps moreso than anyone else in the devildom. 

he holds you against his chest the whole night. in the morning, he’d have duties and meetings to go to. but for now, you were his. 

“little one,” he mumbles into your hair, hands tight around your waist, “make a pact with me. that you may be at my side forevermore.”

v. barbatos

in so many other timelines he sees you, shining, alive. he starts to resent the other versions of himself for being happy with you (or even worse, happy with any of the others). barbatos could pull you out as easily as he could breathe; he had a mastery over his powers that other lower demons could only imagine. 

but it wouldn’t be the same, he reminds himself, it wouldn’t be his version of you. 

he knew the way to get you back, it’d be to break his own rule: do not interact with the past. diavolo had given him permission to bring you back, it would be a stain on the exchange student program if one of the humans came back dead after the second semester. but he wasn’t so sure, what if the you he brought back wasn’t the you he remembered? 

barbatos does it anyways, knowing he can’t refuse an order from his lord. the you in the celestial realm will be erased from existence replaced with the you of the past, the one who doesn’t know what it’s like to die. the two can only hope it doesn’t cause drama in the celestial realm.

“barbatos?” you question as you walk in the gardens with him, completely oblivious to it all. if he hadn’t been so happy that you had returned, he would feel guilty for not telling you of your death. sometimes, ignorance was bliss. “are you okay? you seem more quiet than usual.”

“do i?” he muses, forcing a soft smile for you. “i’m afraid i’m simply just a bit tired. sleep evaded me last night.” the last part wasn’t a lie.

“sorry to hear that,” you pout, “if you want to go nap, you should!

“do you not wish to spend time with me?”

“it’s not that…” you kick at the ground, arms crossed behind your back. “it’s just we have all the time in the world though, right? i want you to be rested when we’re together.”

he feels as if you’ve struck him with an arrow to his chest. barbatos sees your lifeless body in his mind, did you know and were trying to taunt him? or were you simply just this sweet?

“i suppose you’re right.” he nods his head, “but you’re coming with me.”

[loredrinker]

Felassan's Role in Psychological Warfare

Some time ago, I wrote about Elgar’nan’s terrifying display of power - the act of erasing emotion from existence, burning it from the minds of every living being, and letting its spirits die out completely. 

This is the scale of the enemy Solas and Felassan were up against. When your enemy can unmake feeling, extinguish spiritual presence, and reshape the metaphysical architecture of your people, what choices remain? What kind of war do you wage against opponents like these? 

What Elgar’nan did was spiritual genocide - brute force on every level. From the war on the Titans, to the destruction of spirit communities, to the devastation he continues to unleash in Veilguard, Elgar’nan has ruled through annihilation. (I feel real sympathy for Mythal trying to placate this being.) And what’s more terrifying: he’s only one of the Evanuris.

This reframes Solas’s rebellion. It wasn’t just a fight against political oppression - it was a fight to also preserve the emotional and spiritual reality of the world. 

In that context, it’s no surprise the rebellion turned to psychological warfare. And this is where Felassan emerges not merely as a soldier or lieutenant, but as an architect - just as good at it as Solas. 

The Dread Wolf: A Weapon, Not a Hero 

The Felassan codices confirm their psychological campaign was deliberate and coordinated. The Dread Wolf myth was used as a weapon to frighten the Evanuris, inspire hope, and manipulate belief.

“Yes, we have to keep playing up the Dread Wolf. The people need someone they believe is strong enough to protect them… Don’t worry. I promise to mock you viciously if you ever start believing those stories yourself.”  - Felassan

This wasn’t about heroism - it was about mass mobilization under existential threat. These codices suggest Felassan played a far more integral and strategic role in the rebellion than often acknowledged. He wasn’t just Solas’ lieutenant; he was a partner in both ideology and execution. 

This was myth as infrastructure. Felassan understood that when your enemies are divine, survival requires more than tactics. You need narrative power - a symbol strong enough to counter fear. The Dread Wolf, once hurled at Solas with contempt, became that symbol. And Felassan and Solas wielded it with precision. 

It’s easy to see Felassan as a wry commentator or moral counterweight to Solas, espeically when taken in hindsight of his death. And yes, Felassan is those things - but the codices reveal he's just as much the strategist as Solas, someone who helped forge the emotional weaponry of the rebellion. He didn’t just believe in the cause - he helped shape how it would be remembered. 

This is especially clear in two parts of that codex: 

“Yes, we have to keep playing up the Dread Wolf.”  “Don’t worry…” 

It reads like a continuation of an ongoing conversation. The “Yes” implies Solas has raised a concern - maybe about the direction of the symbol, perhaps discomfort with what it’s making him become - who knows, but we have missed out on some initial conversation here because Felassan’s response is affirmation and reassurance. Yes, we have to do this Solas, it’s necessary for the rebellion. But don’t worry, I’ll pull you back if it starts to consume you. That casual “Don’t worry” does heavy emotional lifting. It acknowledges the toll already settling on Solas, and Felassan, aware of it, offers the only balm he can: I won't let it consume you. 

In this way, the codex isn’t just a strategic log - it’s a record of emotional triage. As the war escalates, the emotional and ethical toll begins to shift. Felassan becomes not just a planner but a witness to a conflict spiraling beyond anyone’s control. 

“The bad news is that Andruil and Ghilan’nain made a big show of putting down a protest… Andruil left a crater where the town stood, and Ghilan’nain is using the people taken prisoner as fodder for her experiments.” 

What follows next in that codex is the line that piqued my curiosity: 

“This isn’t your fault, but still, this is exactly what I was worried about.” 

That line marks a quiet, painful evolution in Felassan’s thinking. The emotional core is regret. 

He isn’t blaming Solas - he’s acknowledging that the symbol they created is now drawing divine wrath. Each act of rebellion is met with devastation so complete, even victory feels like loss. Yet “this isn’t your fault” stands out. He knows Solas is carrying the rebellion’s cost - perhaps already retreating inward, calcifying under the burden of the costs of war. 

But “this is exactly what I was worried about,” when read alongside the other codices, suggests something deeper: guilt. Felassan sees Solas changing. The man he once teased to not take the myth too seriously is now becoming it. The line between mask and self is blurring. And Felassan, who once promised to pull him back, may no longer be able to. Part of that guilt, perhaps, comes from the knowledge that he encouraged it - that he helped craft the myth, pushed Solas to wear it, and now must watch as it consumes his friend. 

In a war like this, no one remains untouched. The Evanuris long ago abandoned morality - experimenting on the living, erasing emotions, killing without hesitation. But the rebels, too, are marked by compromise: truths sacrificed, lies forged for survival. Felassan isn’t innocent. Neither is Solas. 

Felassan helped build the myth. Solas bore it. Now, both are shaped by it in turn. 

The tragedy is that when you wield psychological warfare, there's always the risk that the story you create to move others will begin to reshape you. That’s what Felassan feared. That’s what began to happen.

And when Mythal is murdered - well, we know what happens from there.

This is part of a larger series. The first being Solas and Psychological Warfare.

[euphoricfilter]

only you

Pairing: Demon King! Sukuna x Demon! F. Reader

Genre: historical au || romance || fluff || smut (eventual) || demon au || angst || yandere-ish au

Word count: 3.1k

Tags: talks of death, mentions of assault, blood, buff yummy sukuna, nothing too crazy for the first part.. :D

author’s notes 📝: i’m backkkkkkkkkk yippeeeee. i felt like there wasn’t enough longer fics where sukuna is like a devoted obsessed slightly yandere lover… like they always make him mean and angsty… i need him to just like devote his life to someone and it be all fluffy and lovely… so here it is… my rendition of yandere lover sukuna

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

ONE: WHERE IT BEGAN

You’d always loved the idea that humans were delicately crafted, stardust woven into the human body, soul sent to live a measly life on earth. You think part of that love stemmed from jealousy, that such spineless beings were made from the delicate beauties of the universe, such ungrateful, spiteful, deceiving, living beings entwined from the heavens.

Because you were made from the rot that grew beneath humans. Rot that festered from dead bodies, and hatred. The prickly kind of hate and bad the world and universe had to offer.

And maybe that’s why you and Sukuna were destined. Why fate had decided that the two of you were meant to be, souls festering like an onslaught of vines as they intertwine.

You can feel the pull of his power from the bottom of the mountain, can feel as it spills through hordes of trees, so thick you can almost taste it in the air, can almost see it spiralling, wispy waves of dusty black power permeating the air.

It briefly crosses your mind, how naïve the humans trekking before you must be. If they had any clue as to what they were travelling towards. Though you suppose their untimely death would benefit you either way, Sukuna could try but unfortunately you had yet to find a successful way to rid this cruel world of your existence.

The rattle of the chains around your ankles grate at your ears with each heavy footstep. Each of the men before you have horses, letting you trail behind them, arms and legs bound. None of them wanted to let you ride on a horse with them, the fear that harboured in their heart towards you, enough for them to accept a slower trip if it meant you kept to yourself, slowly trekking behind them as they chatted and laughed upon their mares.

You cast your eyes to the sky, cold bitter air nipping at the bare skin the cheap fabric covering your body can’t cover.

“Keep up” the man in charge of your chains calls over his shoulder, devilish smile pulling at his thin lips before he tugs on your restraints. You stumble forward, barely catching yourself, a wave of annoyance rippling through your body as you look up at him through your lashes.

You hear snickers from the group, straightening your back you keep a neutral face. The moment short as their smiles fall.

The grass around your feet starts to wilt, crawling closer and closer to the greasy bastard directly in front of you, the sickly roll of death scuttles tickling the feet of the horses. Sensing the impending stench of their demise, the horses whinnied, hopping up on to their back legs to avoid the rotting earth beneath them.

The man holding your chains, yanks on them, seething as he curses at you through gritted teeth.

“Fucking bitch”

You ignore him, rather directing your attention up to the temple above you as the group of men try to ease their horses enough to try get them back into a gentle trot again.

“Don’t ignore me!” he continues to seethe.

You breathe out an exasperated sigh, bored of the humans’ trivial means of entertainment in inconveniencing you.

You assume the group of men had learnt their lesson, silence taking over them as you continue the trek up the mountain. A small ginger cat catches your attention, delicate pink nose peeking out from some of the brush. It’s curious eyes meeting yours as it wanders onto the makeshift path up to the temple.

You enjoy its silent company, how it’s soft fur brushes against your ankle, skirt sightly too short for you. It chirps, high pitched meow calling up at you, and you assume it must be telling you a story. You wonder what it’s trying to say, perhaps a tale of its life in the forest, or maybe a warning of the demon you were soon to meet. Black mist permeating the air thicker and thicker as you trudge closer to the top of the mountain.

With the cat’s company the rest of the journey up the mountain goes by faster than you had expected, large wooden gates stood before you. The group of men tug you to the front of the group, a failsafe, that if the king of curses were in a bad mood then you would likely be the first to go; giving them enough time to leg it if needs be.

One of the tugs at the thick rope beneath the large brass bell, indicating to the residence of the temple they had guests.

You can hear the men squabbling behind you, trying to bribe one another as to who would be the one to speak for the group. You think it’s a shame the chief of the village hadn’t been the one to escort you here, you despised the man, and watching him writhe in pain before a demon, begging for a slither of mercy would have put a skip in your step. A true shame when you think about it, his life spared for another year putting a bitter taste in your mouth.

The clack of wooden sandals against stone catches your attention, doors of the large wooden gate creaking open.

You lock eyes with a white-haired monk. Their short white hair reminding you of the first snow, and you wonder how soon that will be. The weather had finally turned, autumn creeping in with every passing day.

The monk’s eyes flicker away from your own, down to your bound hands and ankles, then to the group of four men stood behind you, their backs straightening at their heavy stare. They say nothing, thick sweat starting to form on the foreheads as the men stand there, nudging one another to speak up. It’s pitiful, you think, how such crass men, so full of themselves have amounted to a pile of nothing but silence in the face of another.

 The man you had a special hatred for, tightens his grip on the chains, mouth opening he wets his lips.

“We have a gift for, Ryom—I mean, Lord Sukuna” he stumbles over his words.

The monk travels their eyes back to you, “It isn’t the time of year for gifts” they hum.

The men look between one another.

“We know” one blurts, “however, we have a request for the lord…”

“A request…?”

The men all nod in unison.

The monk takes a step back, opening the wooden gates further, silent invitation for the group of you to enter the temple.

You glance to the side, eyes meeting the ginger cat’s one last time before you’re stepping through the threshold of the temple gates. The same feeling of raw death and rot clings on to the walls of the temple, you feel it tingle in your fingers.

The gates to the temple slam shut with a loud, echoing thud. The group of men flinch, and you wonder if this is where they realise the naivety of their plan… You can smell the fear radiating off of them, hairs on the back of your neck standing on end, delicious taste of terror prickling your tastebuds.

“I’m Uraume, I never asked your name”

Your eyes flicker from taking in the structure of the temple, trailing over the white haired monk.

“Uraume…” you muse, “how pretty”

You watch a gentle hue of pink dust their cheeks, slither of a smile twitching at the corner of their lips.

“I’m Y/N” you muse.

“Pretty” they murmur.

You come to an abrupt stop in from of a set of double doors, fingers fiddling with the cloth of your skirt. Anticipation eats away at you, to finally see the man whose power radiates miles away.

“Please wait out here, I will inform Sukuna you are here” Uraume gives you a gentle bow.

Your foot taps against the floor, eyes barely catching a glimpse of the room beyond the thick oak doors.

A sickening laugh rattles behind you, “How does it feel knowing you’re going to die, right here, right now” one of the men lean forward, warm breath tickling the shell of your ear. Too close for comfort you take a small step forward.

You peek over your shoulder, “it seems you’re unaware of the situation you’ve walked into” you muse.

The man bares his teeth at you, scoff tumbling off his tongue.

He goes to open his mouth, cut off by the large set of doors being pulled open.

Your eyes stay fixated ahead, head bowing slightly in thanks to the two maids that had pulled the door open.

You take a step forward, feet padding softly against the hardwood floors of the throne room. You swallow, eyes locking with Sukuna’s. The group of men trail behind you, rattle of the chains echoing off the walls.

He sits with his legs spread on the extravagant throne, bottom pair of arms lazily crossed over his stomach, top arms draped over the arms of the throne. Truly a spectacle of a being, power dripping off him in thick waves.

Sukuna’s eyes don’t leave your body, eyes that of a predator as you take your time walking towards him. He’d wondered what being had so much power, he could feel you even as you started the trek from the bottom of the mountain. And he can only wonder what sort of stupid human being would tie up such a powerful demon like you. He knows his power is potent, that even those without cursed abilities can feel him before they see he’s there, though he supposes your energy must be more mellow, a gentle caress in the wind that death reincarnated has arrived on their doorstep.

You come to a stop before him, shoulders squared, no fear in your eyes, only curiosity swims within your eyes. The men behind you on the other hand quiver, pressure of Sukuna’s presence finally weighing down on their shoulders, cocky smiles and weak jabs melting into a pile of mush as they try to craft a sentence.

“How brave, having your heads held so high” Sukuna tuts, watching as the mens’ eyes all widen, quick to get down on their knees. Their foreheads touch the floor, sweat dripping from their brows.

A wicked smile pulls across his face, eyes trailing back to where you stand, “and you..?”

You give him a slight bow of your head.

He hums.

“You may rise” he gestures to the men with a flick of one of his top arms.

The men move to stand, click of Sukuna’s tongue making them pause half way.

“Did I say you could stand…?”

The men swallow, lowering back down onto their knees, necks craned to look at the king of curses sat on the higher platform.

“What have you decided to waste my time with this time” he utters, all four eyes falling back on to you.

Each of the men look at one another, a silent game of who is the one to talk.

One of Sukuna’s thick fingers taps against the wooden arm of the throne impatiently, clearly displeased that he had been summoned to entertain and feeble group of humans who had no backbone when it actually came time for them to act.

One of the men lets out a yelp, precise, clean cut slicing across his cheek, ever so close to his eye.

“This girl” he blurts, “we have a request”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, eyes raking over the four men.

“And what about her?” he muses.

“We want you to kill her”

You look over at Uraume, stood beside their master, then back over to Sukuna.

He hums, “And what do I get, killing this thing for you..?”

The men swallow, “A meal” one of them chirps.

“A meal? What a waste of time” Sukuna tuts.

“Sir” one of the pipes up, “We heard demons taste delicious”

“Then why haven’t you eaten her yourself”

“We can’t you see…”

Another one of the men nod, “You see… we’ve had issues trying to kill her… hence why we beg you to get rid of her”

“Then beg” Sukuna’s chin tilts up, mirth swimming in his eyes as he looks past you at the men. “You have requested an audience with me, demanding I kill this girl, then beg. Tell me how much you want her dead”

You don’t need to turn around to see the terror that must paint the faces of these men. The same men who claim to control the village below this mountain. The same men who find it funny assaulting the women of the town, coercing then into bed with them, deflowering them only to throw them away, shunned by the townspeople and forced into the life of prostitutes, now undesirable for any other man to touch. Whores of the town. The same men who like to demand and take and never give back to the people who feed them, the people they steal from for a laugh. The same men that have sent jabs at you for the long months they’ve kept you captive in that god forsaken cold prison cell. The same men who have spent weeks on end trying to kill you, wanting to sell your body to the rich in the capital, the body of a demon sure to get them a pretty penny.

They each press their heads against the floor once more, the chains that were once in a tight hold are now released as the men clasp their hands together, pleas tumbling off their tongues in quick succession.

They beg. They truly beg, a giggle bubbling up your throat at their pitiful cries for help. You glance over your shoulder at them, smile tugging at your cheeks as you laugh at them.

Sukuna spreads his legs a little wider, slouching a little more into his chair as he watches the feeble humans beg.

“Louder I can’t hear you” he calls out. And they do, their begs getting louder and louder, hands clammy and bodies trembling, knowing one wrong move would result in their death and not yours.

Your laugh dies down, chest rising and falling in quick succession as you try and catch your breath.

Sukuna raises a hand, “enough!” he chirps, “you chitter like annoying insects”

The room goes silent, the eyes of the men peeking up at Sukuna through their lashes.

He raises his top right arm, two finger pointing directly at your forehead.

“She dies” he utters.

Their eyes widen as your head snaps back, Sukuna’s attack quicker than they were even able to comprehend. Blood splatters over their faces, bodies raising to move out your way, expectant that you’d fall between them.

They gasp, eyes pushing out of their sockets as you stand back to full height, head snapping back upwards. Blood drips between your eyes, trickling down the bridge of your nose, thick as it falls onto the wooden floor. Your tongue flicks out to wipe the blood from your lips.

The men scramble, murmurs of disbelief that you had even survived a hit to the brain.

“No, no, no” one of them utters.

“A shame, she didn’t die” Sukuna murmurs, four eyes flickering across your bloodied face, “should we try again?” he asks.

The men dare not open their mouths, disapproving click of his tongue Sukuna’s eyes trail back to you.

“If it provides you with ample entertainment, then yes” you tell him.

He raises his arm again, same two fingers pointing at you, a little lower this time, between your eyes.

The men flinch at the sickening crunch of something colliding with your skull. More blood splattering over them. Your head falls back slightly less this time, new trickle of blood painting your face. It drips onto the clothes you’re wearing, staining them in a dark hue of red, and Sukuna thinks it suits you. Such a pretty red for such a pretty little thing.

He leans back in his throne, eyes pulling away from the image that is you covered in your own blood, the prettiest little flower he’s ever seen.

“Shame. She won’t die” he muses, watching the distraught faces of the men so eager for your demise, “Though she is a gift for me… no?” he raises an eyebrow.

The men don’t hesitate to nod, words jumbled as they urge him to take you.

“Please” they beg, pitiful covered in your blood, weak little things. Though the present they have for him may be his favourite yet.

“Leave” he utters, “before I change my mind and kill all of you”

The men scramble to their feet, without a second thought they stumble towards the door.

“And tell your village chief there’s no need to provide me with a gift when the new year comes. Nothing he offers will ever amount to this precious little thing you’ve dropped off today.” Sukuna hums, “And if he dares show his face to me again, just know that wretched little village of yours will be erased”

The men nod, scrambling to the door. The maids open them quickly to aid the men in their hasty escape.

The doors creak shut.

You turn back around, eyes finding Sukuna is already looking at you.

“Come here” he motions you over with two fingers, tongue peeking out to wet his lips.

You take a step forward, climbing up the small set of stairs to where Sukuna is sat on his throne. You stop just shy of between his legs.

You raise your hands to your chest, the metals slowly starting to crumble from your body, leaving nothing more than a pile of dust by your feet. You flex your fingers, eyes returning back to Sukuna.

“You could have been freed this whole time, yet you let those filthy beings keep you captive, why” he muses. He reaches a hand forward, taking one of your own into his. He tugs you forward, bringing you between his legs.

Soft lips press against your wrist where the constraints had once been, warm breath tickling your skin.

“They fed me three meals a day, and the window to the room they kept me in let me watch the sun set” you tell him truthfully.

“And is that all it takes to please you?” he asks, lips pulling away from your skin.

“I suppose” you shrug.

“Nothing more?”

You tilt your head a little in thought, “I liked the ginger cat outside the temple”

A wide smile tugs at the corners of Sukuna’s lips, “Uraume find the cat, while I show this little dove around my palace”

Uraume opens their mouth, ready to suggest one of the servants do that job, but Sukuna raises a hand, silencing them before the words can even form on their tongue. He stands, towering over you, hand still holding on to yours, a second one comes to smudge the blood on your face.

“Welcome home, little dove”

[pedgito]

𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 | Joel Miller x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | A poor damsel in distress, saved by the most unlikely of man.

author's note | this was written for @studioghibelli's beautiful fic challenge. i've never written anything this close to a royal-ish type era, if you could even call it that. but this is just a slight dip into that realm and it was super fun! thank you for hosting this, bell! idk if any of this is accurate i'm just vibing dsjhk

content warning | 18+ smut, princess!reader, mentioned to have hair long enough to be tied back, regency au, age gap, wealth/power dynamic, mentions of past marriage/death, BREEDING KINK, talks of marriage and pregnancy, secret relationship, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v

word count —1.8k

“If he catches us, we’ll both be dead.”

It was a constant mantra Joel spoke to you, even as he unfastened your corset and slipped under the thick fabric of your dress, disappearing as he fit his face between your thighs.

It started out of innocence—a strange man with growing, constant visits to your manor at the edge of town. At first it was only on official business, a supplier of goods to your father. Joel was a jack of all trades: armor, leatherwork, anything you could think of, he’d mastered it. It was just another method of proof on how good he was with his hands.

“You need not worry,” You breath, pressed against the wall of his cobblestone home, often sneaking out in the middle of night with the possible threat of capture prevalent in your mind.

The estate had always been heavily guarded, but living there your entire life had made it easier to learn patterns, behaviors, and sneaking out to see him over time had become effortless. It had been months by now—and even as his friendship with your father grew, there were no signs, not an ounce of suspicion of what he blossomed between you both.

“He offered me a job,” Joel speaks lowly, muffled under the fabric of your dress as your leg hooks over his shoulder, fingers wrapped around the top of your bodice as you squeeze, feeling your breath catch in your throat as he licks through the center of your cunt, “well paying, convenient enough.”

You gasp softly, lifting at your skirt to get your hands on him, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling, earning a soft grunt as he peeks up at you, pulling away for a brief moment.

“What was it?”

“Royal guard—and no princess, not for him.”

“As if I don’t already have enough men guarding me,” You sigh, pushing him away and adjusting your dress—he looks slightly dejected, but stands and fixes your dress, caressing your cheek with his hand, “you cannot say yes, Joel. If you are near—”

“I know,” He murmurs, there’s a shift in his dialect that is so distinctly different from your own—years of being taught to speak up, out, to project with your voice and always act as if you were speaking to the masses, thoughtful contrition to a group much lower than yourself, “bein’ around you that often, don’t know how I could keep my hands off of you.”

If your father knew about this—you and him, a man nearly the age of your own father. He’d be ordered to death and you, while the fate may be different, wouldn’t be left with much freedom either. You were long of age, but bound to your duties as a princess and fearful of the man your father would eventually decide to marry you off to. Joel had saved you, distracted you from all of it. It would be impossible to live without him now.

“I sound ungrateful,” You grumble, looking down and grasping his other hand with yours, intertwining your fingers and bringing it to your chest but not before you press a gentle kiss against the back of his palm, “for what I have—but if I lose you…”

That place was a prison and you knew it. He knew it.

“A golden cage is still a cage,” Joel reminds you, “—that place, your father—”

You already knew—your father was slowly spiraling out of control, the rule of his country slipping from his grasp and he was scrambling and you knew he wouldn’t go down without a fight. But, you were tired. So tired. With the absence of your mother, your other siblings, you felt trapped.

“Take me away,” You beg, eyes watering as the words slipped from your lips, “we can disappear—I do not need this wealth or title, any of it. Only you.”

“He won’t stop,” Joel tells you honestly, “we would always be running.”

You pull your hand free of his grasp and curve them around his face, cradling the softness of his jaw, the scratch of his facial hair under your fingertips and he licks at his bottom lip, a tell-tale sign of the burgeoning lust. He needed you.

“Is that really what you want?”

He means it—it was a tone you’ve never heard before.

And something tells you he’s been feeling the same way for a while.

“Yes,” You answer quickly, nodding jerkily as you pull him close and Joel has to physically restrain himself from taking you there, licking his lips once more as they hover near your own, “please, Joel.”

“Let’s have this night,” Joel tells you softly, “and we can figure everything out come morning.”

—

It was peaceful here, a small cottage out in the middle of nowhere—if you wanted to stay here you could, but you knew that would be the first place your father would look outside of town.

Joel, his confidante, his most trusted man who was now under you, fingers digging into your thigh as you took his cock inside of you, his hand guiding at the base as he breathed out into the quiet room, the low crackle of the fire at his bedside.

“If you could see yourself,” Joel says absently, watching as you pull the tightly woven ribbon from your hair, breasts stretching up with the movement until it fell from its intricately laced cage, bouncing lightly with your playful movement, a smile peeking from your lips, “such a vision, princess.”

“I am no princess,” You argue gently, palms pressing into his chest as you lift your hips, leisurely and slow, enjoying the tight pull of his brow every time your ass meets his hips, “I was not made for that life, Joel.”

“Made for me,” He assures, his warm tone spreading throughout your core and pulling you in, the hands place on your thighs moving up your hips, squeezing into the flesh of your waist as his mouth drops open, silently urging you to change your pace, “perfectly crafted, all I’ve ever needed.”

You snort softly at his words—he was always a poet, whether stumbling through his words or bringing you to your knees with a compliment that would be on your mind for days, echoing in your head as you dipped your fingers inside of you on the days you went without him.

“Would you marry me?” You ask suddenly, though you feel the answer before he says it.

“Without hesitation,” He responds, “I can propose—right now, if you want.”

“Such a romantic,” You chide, the words falling on a gasp as he flips you both suddenly, shoving you into the old mattress as the bed creaks with the weight and intensity of his thrusts, the rest of your words caught in your throat as he pulls your legs up and over his back, hands resting firmly beside your head, a true vision himself.

“If it would make you happy, I would,” He admits, “all I care about is having you, being with you—titles, all of that, it doesn’t mean much to me but if that is something that would make you happy—”

“What do—” Joel switches his position suddenly, an arm tucking under your leg as he pulls it over his shoulder and leans up to meet your cunt with his thrust, watching his cock as you swallowed him up, his hand falling over the base of your pelvis and pressing down, feeding into the pressure of his cock and the all-consuming feeling of him, “christ—what is it—that you want?”

“You,” He answers immediately, “and…”

He pauses, thinking carefully on his words.

You know little of his past other than his wife and daughter who had fallen ill, losing them when he had been away on business, unbeknownst and coming home to the sight of it. He was a broken, brittle man and you were the only thing holding him together.

“I would give you a son,” You tell him, “a daughter—as many kids as you wished, Joel. Is that what you want?”

“A family,” He smiles fondly, “with you?”

“I fear you would—oh—never escape me then,” You joke playfully, eyes squeezing shut as he snaps forward roughly, his thumb dragging over your clit fleetingly as your hands dig and twist in the bedsheets, “what a handful I would have with a small version of you.”

He chuckles softly, snaking his hand under your waist and pulling at your arm until you get the idea to wrap them around his neck, adjusting you up and into his lap, carefully examining his face under the soft glow of the fire, his lip quivering as you drag your thumb over his mouth.

“I want it,” You plead, “don’t—don’t pull away.”

“You’ve given me so much,” He mumbles into your cheek as you pull him closer, hugging him to your chest as he wraps himself around you, grunting as he reached closer and closer to his own end, “and you've been trapped your entire life, I don’t want you to feel that way with me.”

“And I would give you so much more,” You breath into his mouth, “picture it—barefoot, pregnant with your child in a home far away from here, our new life—”

“Baby,” He begs, his fingertips squeezing roughly into your flesh and you gasp, your cunt pulsing around him with the roughness of his movements, pussy throbbing at his fervent intensity at your words, “I love you.”

You nod, tucking his face into your neck as he hands slips between your bodies, dragging over your clit without you needing to ask, knowing he was just that in tune with your bodily cues, the hitch in your voice as you echo the words back to him.

“Come inside of me,” It wasn’t an order, more of a plea, but you mean it, “I want to be yours.”

Forever, you think. But, the words are cut off by a sharp, jerky snap of Joel’s hips as he comes inside of you, his teeth dragging over your shoulder as he groans into your skin, simultaneously working his thumb over your sensitive clit, feeling your clench and spasms around him as you come with a soft sigh, fingers twisting into his hair and your body curling around him like a python, squeezing him so tight it knocks the air out of him.

“Do you have everything you need?” Joel asks after a few minutes, gentle touches over your skin, pulling his face back to look at you. “Before we leave at sunrise?”

“I have you,” You assure him, “that is all I need.”

[54625]

I miss kelp cocaine

I miss everyone congregating at Phil and Missa's, I miss Roier's over exaggerated moan every time he and Cellbit kissed, I miss everyone throwing their balaclavas on and going "passa tudo...", Tubbo's constant grilling of Fit and Pac (especially Fit), Mike's hairdressing, everyone singing the Pac e Mike wow wow song, Gegg, the admins striking people with lightning perfectly on cue, the Foolish cheating allegations, Slime and Mariana traumatising their viewers, Dorime playing randomly, people turning eachother rainbow coloured with the rainbow jelly, Dapper randomly pulling out all kinds of crazy creatures from his backpack, the extremely overwhelming pre-event meet ups, Las Casualonas, the casualonas dance, Sunny's materialism, Etoiles telling everyone how and why their armour and weapons aren't actually optimised, Phil breaking the fourth wall, Baghera and her fish joke, Rubius abusing his creative power, Foolish ruining the tension during serious moments, Cellbit obsessing over every lore lead or clue, Roier and his hilarious PNG builds, Felps "finally being added to the server", Fit always looking after Mariana's builds in his absence, everyone playing hide and seek, Cucurucho spying on and jumpscaring everyone, Quackity constantly being made fun of for his dead kid, Phil and Fit's aggressive "friendly" flirting, Cellbit talking over Richas' shoulder while he's painting, Leonarda's spoiledness, Ramón's obsession with the citric acid cycle, Slime's ability to show up for an event out of nowhere and just completely derail everything, new players always freaking out about Fit's voice, Quackity desperately trying to find a match since day 1 and always failing, Maximus' talk show, people teleporting in and out at just the right second, Jaiden's love for Hatsune Miku infecting the server, Bad and Foolish's encounters, Ramón threatening to blow himself up or digging himself into the ground when he doesn't get his way, Tallulah drowning herself when she doesn't get her way, the hilarious mistranslations, the wonderful screenshots, Vegetta's mines, Jaiden's expanding list of nationalities, Antoine being an enigma, the in-game karaoke place, Bobby starting fights, Juanaflippa dying over and over, Empanada trauma dumping about her first death to Bagi, Cellbit's vivo turbo ad, Bad yelling "language!", Pol and Foolish and Mouse not being able to stop laughing around each other, Pierre and Max's damn furry club, "no mames!", Spreen leaving for cigarettes, Bad stealing furniture, Missa being incomprehensibly cringefail (I will never forget that "bucket clutch"), Felps' hole, Tubbo's bigger hole, Mike going crazy that one time, Chayanne whipping out his cooking utensils, "Fofoca!", Pomme being the French Sniper, Pepito being homeless for a sec? Richarlyson's many personalities and characters, Tilin being "la tres leches", Trump even being called Trump to begin with, Cucuruchito flirting with everyone, dozens of plots to break into various federation buildings, hundreds of rule breaks, DanTDM being theorised to be Bagi's missing brother, Etoiles' love-hate relationship with the codes, Kameto going out for milk, Tina's heavily one sided rivalry with Fit, everyone changing their skins for events and some people being so extra with it, things falling into chaos every time an event needed them to travel a long distance together, the messy group photos, Charlie's grief spirals, people meeting up at Spreen's bar way back when, everyone making an effort to speak languages they don't speak, the sharing of international memes, the teaching of swear words, the joy that was born from the interconnectivity.

Just all of the things, dumb, hilarious, or adorable. The moments, bits and little jokes that made the QSMP so engaging, fun and entertaining to watch. That made you feel like you were participating in one massive celebration. I miss it.

[nataliaphantomhivesblog]

Season 5 of Black Butler has been out for a bit now, so what better time to gush about one of my favorite parallels from the Green Witch arc?

Sullivan and o!Ciel's emotional journeys run parallel in a way that deepens the arc.

1. The shared burden of survivor’s guilt over the deaths they caused.

When o!Ciel is trapped in his own mind, we get to see the inmense amount of guilt he holds due to the sacrifices he has made in order to stand where he is.

Beyond the visual depiction of the ghosts of his pasts taunting him while he's caged, I think the narritive itself textually provides us with enough evidence to understand the burden he carries.

o!Ciel is fully aware that the contract he made with Sebastian set off the chain of events that led to many of the deaths he now feels responsible for, and when he was emotionally scarred by the mustard gas, the feeling of remorse intensified tenfold.

As for Sullivan, she indirectly caused the deaths of many through actions she believed were magical. Manipulated by her mother into thinking she was a true witch, she was unknowingly creating weapons of war under the illusion of wonder and power.

And she is clearly distraught when she finds out, feeling incerdibly betrayed and guilty about what she's done.

Anyways, both o!Ciel and Sullivan, for different reasons, carry incredible survivals guilt but both were shaped by manipulation and the haunting weight of lives lost because of their actions.

2. Both characters deal with suicidal ideation due to said survivals guilt.

o!Ciel's suicidal thoughts tend to manifest in a more metaphorical way. The twin brother in our earl's head keeps implying to "stay here forever", which basically translates to, "why don't you just give up? nothing will hurt you if you die."

o!Ciel is wrestling with this decision deep inside his mental palace, while r!Ciel softly coaxing him to consider the offer of death.

r!Ciel keeps pushing o!Ciel to “stay here forever” and give up on revenge, revealing just how drained our Earl is from bearing that heavy burden.

But asking him to give up revenge, the very thing he lives for—speaks volumes about the depth of his despair, and the dark implications it has, closely tied to thoughts of suicide.

And we know these suicidal thoughts tie from o!Ciel’s raw pain and regret tied to the “proof of sin” (Sebastian ) who is the driving force behind so many lives being lost.

Sullivan’s wish for death parallels o!Ciel’s survivor’s guilt, but unlike o!Ciel’s more metaphorical struggle, she expresses it openly and verbally, giving us clear, direct textual evidence of the pain she carries.

She wants to die because of the heavy responsibility she bears for creating those deadly, war-inflicted gases.

3. Both of them get a wake up call and inspiration to keep living.

Here is when things get intresting *rubs hands together like a sly little fly*

Sebastian is the one who pulls o!Ciel out of this fragile, guilt-ridden mindset by reminding him of the true nature of their contract: revenge, the very reason our Earl keeps going.

The demon "wakes him up" aggresievly by taunting him and almost killing him by eating his soul as a result, forcing o!Ciel to confront the harsh reality of his situation and cling to the one thing that gives him purpose.

Sebastian’s tactic essentially jolts o!Ciel awake by numbing his emotional turmoil—he pushes him to dismiss his pain and focus instead on the fact that this revenge is for “his own sake,” not anyone else’s.

In doing so, Sebastian helps o!Ciel dissociate from his survivor’s guilt and bury that crushing weight deep down.

while Sebastian’s approach is effective at snapping o!Ciel out of his spiral, it’s not exactly healthy for his emotional growth.

It basically encourages him to shut down and bury his feelings instead of truly processing and healing from them, but for a demon who thrives on a deeply scarred and traumatized soul, it’s the perfect mentality: keeping o!Ciel trapped and dependent.

And while our Earl runs to Sebastian, passing by the deaths he feels guilty for, the visuals show those memories fading away like petals, highlighting how he’s trying to leave those emotions and his past behind.

This coping mechanism holds up for a while, as we can see in o!Ciel’s cold and standoffish attitude at the start of the Blue Cult arc. (before Agni's death and r!Ciel's reveal)

Anyhow, the key point is that Sebastian forced o!Ciel into a life-or-death situation, putting him in a position where he had to reclaim his purpose to live again.

How does this tie to Sullivan? Well...

Interestingly enough, in this moment, o!Ciel steps into Sebastian’s shoes, pushing Sieglinde Sullivan into a life-or-death situation to force her to rediscover her own purpose for living.

But instead of threatening to consume her soul like Sebastian would, o!Ciel points a gun at her.

Something I love because it really highlights how Sebastian has shaped him. After all, this demon has been raising the kid for about three years, so it makes perfect sense.

To quote Yana really quickly: "Sebastian, a demon by nature, and Ciel, who has a twisted personality due to said demon’s education."

Anyway, o!Ciel’s use of Sebastian’s demonic tactic gradually works on Sullivan, as he slyly suggests that if she keeps living, she can atone for those deaths by creating the ultimate medicines to save lives.

I love how o!Ciel gives Sieglinde a purpose—harsh as his method may be, and even if it mirrors that of a demon. What sets it apart is that, unlike his own revenge-fueled path, he urges her to find a reason to live that isn’t rooted in getting back at those who used or hurt her.

Instead, he pushes her to recognize the power she holds to save others.

While Sebastian urged o!Ciel to shut off sentimentality completely in order to move forward, our earl pushed Sullivan into a path filled with hope.

You can see it clearly in the way Yana draws her, her eyes wide and bright, sparkles surrounding her.

She’s found something o!Ciel hasn’t: genuine hope, and a reason to live that isn’t rooted in pain.

And that is what sets Sebastian and o!Ciel apart, because at the end of it all, our earl is still human. He may use ruthless tactics and mirror a demon’s cold logic, but deep down, he still understands the fragile need for purpose beyond revenge.

Both of them were able to snap out of their suicidal state, but while o!Ciel's purpose is emotionally numbing and dark, Sullivan's is filled with light and hope.

4. o!Ciel and Sullivans respective guardians and how they fuel their reason of living.

I don’t think I need to go too deep into how Sebastian drives o!Ciel down the dark path of revenge; after all, that’s the entire foundation of their contract and the core of the story.

What’s important to note is how clearly the Green Witch Arc highlights this dynamic, especially in the moment where it’s Sebastian who has to remind our Earl of his motivation for revenge.

Sebastian doesn't nurture healing or growth; he sharpens o!Ciel into a weapon, one forged in pain and aimed at retribution.

Sullivan’s guardian, on the other hand, Wolfram, though initially distant and harsh, offers her genuine care and loyalty. He doesn't see her as a means to and end, or a weapon of war, he sees her as an ordinary girl.

While o!Ciel’s guardian deepens his wounds, Sullivan’s helps her begin to heal.

Sullivan's newfound purpose is to save lives, and the very first life she saves is, fittingly, Wolfram himself.

And while it’s o!Ciel who urges her to take that step and save him with her own hands, it’s Wolfram, the one constant in her life, whom she feels the grand need to save.

Which beautifully closes the loop: the man who once protected her becomes the first person she protects, solidifying her shift from a weapon of destruction to a healer with purpose.

So while Sebastian is a taunting, ever-present reminder of o!Ciel’s darkness and the path he’s bound to, Wolfram stands as a constant reminder of the light Sullivan carries within her.

And what’s especially powerful is that this mindset, the belief that she could use her gifts to save rather than destroy, was first planted by o!Ciel.

It was his words that nudged her toward the idea of redemption, and it was Wolfram who later nurtured and strengthened that belief.

And I think that says a lot about our Earl: despite being trapped in a cycle of revenge, grief, and manipulation, there's still a part of him capable of inspiring hope in others, even if he can’t quite give that same grace to himself.

To close all of this off...

Both of these characters parallel each other in their emotional journeys, but while one walks the path of self-destruction, the other chooses the path of healing.

o!Ciel, burdened by guilt and driven by vengeance, continues to suppress his pain and descend deeper into a life defined by trauma and control.

In contrast, Sullivan, though similarly scarred, begins to embrace hope and transformation, choosing to turn her regret into a force for good.

all in all, I love my cute little children !!! <3

thx for reading hehe

[makingqueerhistory]

Spooky Queer Books

Since spooky season is starting, I thought I would share a list of my favourite queer books that are great for this time of year.

Some of these links are affiliate links.

It Came from the Closet: Queer Reflections on Horror

Joe Vallese

Horror movies hold a complicated space in the hearts of the queer community: historically misogynist, and often homo- and transphobic, the genre has also been inadvertently feminist and open to subversive readings. Common tropes--such as the circumspect and resilient "final girl," body possession, costumed villains, secret identities, and things that lurk in the closet--spark moments of eerie familiarity and affective connection. Still, viewers often remain tasked with reading themselves into beloved films, seeking out characters and set pieces that speak to, mirror, and parallel the unique ways queerness encounters the world.It Came from the Closet features twenty-five essays by writers speaking to this relationship, through connections both empowering and oppressive. From Carmen Maria Machado on Jennifer's Body, Jude Ellison S. Doyle on In My Skin, Addie Tsai on Dead Ringers, and many more, these conversations convey the rich reciprocity between queerness and horror.

Into the Drowning Deep

Mira Grant

The ocean is home to many myths, But some are deadly... Seven years ago the Atargatis set off on a voyage to the Mariana Trench to film a mockumentary bringing to life ancient sea creatures of legend. It was lost at sea with all hands. Some have called it a hoax; others have called it a tragedy. Now a new crew has been assembled. But this time they're not out to entertain. Some seek to validate their life's work. Some seek the greatest hunt of all. Some seek the truth. But for the ambitious young scientist Victoria Stewart this is a voyage to uncover the fate of the sister she lost. Whatever the truth may be, it will only be found below the waves. But the secrets of the deep come with a price.

The Devouring Gray

C. L. Herman

After her sister's death, seventeen-year-old Violet Saunders finds herself dragged to Four Paths, New York. Violet may be a newcomer, but she soon learns her mother isn't: They belong to one of the revered founding families of the town, where stone bells hang above every doorway and danger lurks in the depths of the woods. Justin Hawthorne's bloodline has protected Four Paths for generations from the Gray--a lifeless dimension that imprisons a brutal monster. After Justin fails to inherit his family's powers, his mother is determined to keep this humiliation a secret. But Justin can't let go of the future he was promised and the town he swore to protect. Ever since Harper Carlisle lost her hand to an accident that left her stranded in the Gray for days, she has vowed revenge on the person who abandoned her: Justin Hawthorne. There are ripples of dissent in Four Paths, and Harper seizes an opportunity to take down the Hawthornes and change her destiny--to what extent, even she doesn't yet know. The Gray is growing stronger every day, and its victims are piling up. When Violet accidentally unleashes the monster, all three must band together with the other Founders to unearth the dark truths behind their families' abilities...before the Gray devours them all.

Tell Me I'm Worthless

Alison Rumfitt

Three years ago, Alice spent one night in an abandoned house with her friends, Ila and Hannah. Since then, Alice's life has spiraled. She lives a haunted existence, selling videos of herself for money, going to parties she hates, drinking herself to sleep. Memories of that night torment Alice, but when Ila asks her to return to the House, to go past the KEEP OUT sign and over the sick earth where teenagers dare each other to venture, Alice knows she must go. Together, Alice and Ila must face the horrors that happened there, must pull themselves apart from the inside out, put their differences aside, and try to rescue Hannah, whom the House has chosen to make its own. Cutting, disruptive, and darkly funny, Tell Me I'm Worthless is a vital work of trans fiction that examines the devastating effects of trauma and how fascism makes us destroy ourselves and each other.

[eternallyordinary]

“He Belongs to You” - Part 28

⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡

series masterlist<3

Summary: Homelander loves you like a storm—violent, unrelenting, and impossible to escape.

Warnings: SMUT, violence, death, kidnapping, power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, emotional tension, stalking, implied violence, murder planning, toxic relationship dynamics, yandere

⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡

The Next Morning

Homelander watches you sleep peacefully in his bed. Your breath rising in soft, steady waves, curled beneath the sheets like something delicate. Something untouchable. A quiet, undeniable proof that you’re here. That you’re alive.

He watches you like a man starved.

He’s worried you’ll disappear if he even blinks too long.

He traces a fading bruise on your shoulder, then another along your ribs—soft touches, barely there. Almost gone. Most of them, at least.

The Compound V worked fast. He gave you an injection the second he got you home. You’re already a supe, sure. But you were in pain. And that was enough.

He eyes a thin scar just beneath your collarbone, one he missed the night before.

Something twists in his chest.

How could he let this happen?

He presses a kiss to the edge of one—light, apologetic.

He pauses.

Wait.

What’s happening?

He used to hate this part.

The quiet. The vulnerability of it all.

The closeness.

He was never built for it. Never wired to want anything more than conquest.

Domination. Approval wrapped in obedience.

Women were always about control. Power. Getting off, cleaning up, and moving on.

But this—you—has made him soft in ways he doesn’t understand.

He says things like “baby”.

Jesus Christ.

He holds you like a goddamn porcelain doll.

And when you push him away, the pain is unbearable. An overwhelming feeling as if someone ripped out his spine, leaving him hollow.

Fuck.

Fuck.

What the fuck is happening?

His thoughts leave him momentarily as he brushes a strand of hair from your cheek.

Skin so warm it hurts to touch.

It’s like you were made to ruin him.

Like God—or Vought, or fate, or whatever cruel force is left in this world—crafted you to be the one thing he can’t rip apart. Can’t force. Can’t own.

He’s not used to earning anything.

He doesn’t do patience. Doesn’t do softness.

He doesn’t love.

He doesn’t need.

And yet here he is—afraid to move too fast, in case you disappear. And somewhere in his chest—somewhere deep and ugly and fragile—he thinks:

She’s going to destroy me.

He stares at your sleeping face a moment longer, then something in him buckles.

It’s too much.

Too quiet.

Too close.

Too real.

He shifts suddenly, sitting up straighter in bed, pulling his arm out from beneath you with a sharpness that jolts you slightly in your sleep. You stir, blinking up at him, still groggy.

“Homelander?” your voice is raspy. Confused. Fragile.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters, half to himself, as he rises to his feet. “Fuck. I can’t do this.”

You sit up slowly, pain still lingering in your body. The sheet falls to your waist. “What are you talking about?”

He paces now, hands running through his hair, his face twisting into something bitter.

“This isn’t me,” he spits. “Saying shit like baby and I love you and—what the fuck is wrong with me?!”

His voice is full of venom, making you flinch instinctively. But you know this isn’t really about you.

This is about him.

“You’re spiraling,” you say quietly.

“Don’t patronize me,” he snaps, eyes flashing. “You think you know me now? You think you’ve got me figured out?”

He takes a step closer. You remain still.

“Is that what I am to you?” he snarls. “A project? You thought if you let me fuck you enough times, I’d turn into your sweet little boy scout? I’d fall for you?”

He laughs—sharp, poisonous, cruel.

“I don’t do redemption. I don’t want to be good. You think you make me better?” he says, quieter now. Darker. “No, sweetheart. You make me weak. And that’s a fucking problem.”

He stalks closer.

“I used to be untouchable. Unshakable. And now I lie awake at night thinking about you. Not able to breathe without you. Fuck, I nearly burned down the world just to find you.”

His voice drops.

“I hate you for making me feel.”

You swallow hard, forcing the tears to stay inside the surface. You can’t give him the satisfaction of breaking you.

But he’s not done.

“You’ve poisoned me. You’ve taken everything I am and twisted it around your finger. You’ve made me soft, needy, fucking desperate—”

He stops. Breathing hard.

Your heart drops, a reaction to his stillness. You swear the whole city can hear it pound deep in your chest. Something in the air shifts—sharp, electric, dark. Seconds later, his hand snaps up to your jaw—firm, shaking, but not enough to hurt.

Just enough to hold you still. To get your attention.

And you hate to admit he has it, undivided.

His eyes lock onto yours, feral and glassy. Not from lust. From fear. You know him well enough to see it.

“You looked at me like I was disgusting,” he growls, breath hot against your face. “Like I was no better than the men who hurt you. And now you’re in my bed. Wearing my clothes. You didn’t leave. You stayed. And I don’t know what the fuck that means. What any of this means.”

He leans in—forehead almost pressed to yours.

“Are you still afraid of me?” he whispers. “Tell me. Right now.”

You blink up at him again, the words stuck in the back of your throat. Your silence is answer enough.

He kisses you anyway.

His mouth crashing into yours like he wants to erase your past, like he wants to crawl inside your body and rewrite its history.

His hand slides around your waist possessively. Full of rage he doesn’t know where to put. He grinds against you and you gasp—your body betraying you in ways he’s always counted on.

“You want to feel it,” he breathes. “The part of me that terrifies you. The part you hate. That’s the one you dream about when you think I’m not looking.”

He yanks your shirt over your head.

“You’re mine. Even if you’re scared of me. Even if you should be.”

And when he takes you, it’s with a desperation that feels like a prayer—like if he touches you hard enough, if he kisses you deep enough, you’ll stop seeing the man who broke someone else.

The man who broke many. And yet, you can’t seem to leave his reach.

You know you never will.

He kisses you like it’s punishment. But not punishment for you. Punishment for him. Punishment for loving you this much.

You moan into his mouth, but it comes out broken—like a sob that forgot what it was supposed to be. His hand is around your throat before you even realize it, not squeezing, just holding—possessive, shaking.

“I scare you,” he says against your skin. “Don’t I?.”

You nod.

“And you’re still letting me touch you?”

You decide to reply with action instead of words. You grab onto his hand, placing it right on your center. Guiding his hand, helping him peel your panties to the side. A plethora of feelings—arousal, ecstasy. Sore bones and tender skin, reminders of the weeks you endured with Bellamy. But his touch heals you, a high you’ve never felt until now.

“I knew you missed me.”

His fingers sink inside you, your hips grinding against the pressure.

“You don’t get to leave me,” he mutters against your chest. “You don’t get to run. Ever. I won’t let you.”

“I won’t” you whisper info your a breathless moan. “I’m here.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m—here—“

“Say who you belong to.”

He stops pleasuring you—eyes dark, waiting for you to give in.

“…You,” you breathe. “I belong to you.”

He groans like the words physically do something to him. He starts to finger you again, his pace slowing just slightly—enough to feel every inch of your pussy, reveling in every gasp that slips from your mouth.

“I love you,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, voice shaking. “Even if it fucking kills me. I love you. I do.”

You tilt your chin up, breath hitching.

“Show me how much,” you whisper—then you run your tongue across his bottom lip, slow and deliberate. He grabs onto your legs, spreading them wider, wiping his wet fingers on the inside of your thighs.

“Fuckkkkk. You want proof?” he rasps against your lips. “You want to know how much I love you baby?”

His hand grabs onto your hair—tilting your head just enough to make your breath stutter.

“I love you so much—so much that I’m going to ruin you,” he growls.

He kneels down, placing his head in between your legs. His tongue slides along the hinge between your hip and thigh. He reaches your clit, forcing you to suck in a breath.

You’re not as relaxed as you want to be—still trying to wrap your head around this.

Around him.

Still fighting the devil and angel who sit on your shoulders.

And surprise—you decide to give the devil the reins, letting yourself sink fully into the mattress. Lifting your hands to pull at your hair.

“You love this, don’t you?” he whispers as he eases his fingers in and out. He presses them up toward your belly, sending heat waves through you.

Your breath catches and you nod, “Yeah, it’s good—”

He looks up at you with that twisted smile. “Just… good?”

His tongue presses against your clit. He licks you slowly, mesmerized by the chaotic beauty unfolding in front of him.

His fingers curl deeper inside you, making you gasp, making you ache, and making you hate how much you still love him.

Fuck.

Soon, he discovers the exact combination that has you trembling, breathless—your moans giving way to confessions you can’t hold back.

He listens like a zealot at the altar, wide-eyed and still, drinking in every sound you make—and he doesn’t change a goddamn thing.

Your moans tumble out, uncontrollable—and each one draws the same from him, like your pleasure is wired to his, even without a single touch.

“You hear that?” he whispers, breath catching, eyes crawling over your face like you’ve got the cure to the sickness in his soul. “Every sound you make—fuck—it’s mine. It’s always been mine.”

You try to bite it back, try to hold on to the fury, the fear, the part of you that still hates what he did. But it’s useless. The moans fall from your lips like confessions, and every time they do, he shudders—like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

Your breath stutters, the words clawing their way up before you can stop them. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

His grin twitches—sharp, unhinged. “You love me. Even if you hate me right now. You’ll forgive me.”

And you want to scream, want to deny it—but you know he’s right.

Before the thought even settles, his mouth is on you again. His lips close over your clit and he sucks, spiking your pleasure even higher until you’re forced to slap a hand over your mouth to muffle your moans.

You melt with a blissed-out whimper, lungs heaving, pulse thrumming wild beneath your skin.

“Homelander!” you choke out, ecstasy slamming through your system like a surge, lighting up every nerve ending.

After a moment, he presses a warm, wet kiss to your navel—then another over your ribs, your sternum, right above the frantic pounding of your heart.

You wrap your legs around his waist as he cups your breasts, peppering them with kisses.

He slides up further, until you can feel the hard, bare length of his cock poke against you—the slick head slippery against your clit.

His mouth covers you as his tongue glides against your own, tasting yourself on his lips.

Your gaze drops to his erection as his fingers wrap the thick length. He strokes his cock as he looks you over appreciatively. He sighs softly—the version of him you ache for rising to the surface. “You’re perfect.”

And when he says it like that, when he looks at you like that—it’s easy to believe.

You reach for him, hand curling behind his neck as you pull him down, using the grip to lift yourself just enough to meet him halfway—another searing kiss, pain flaring in your wrists where the chain left its mark, but you’d fight through worse for this.

He sits back, hands tracing slowly up your thighs. “Do you want this?” he asks—and there’s something raw in his voice, something real. He means it.

You look up at him with a smile—soft, fragile, and full of surrender. The kind that says you’re letting him back in. “I do,” you whisper.

He grabs a pillow from the head of the bed, then taps your hip—gentle, coaxing—asking you to lift up for him. He wedges the pillow beneath you, dragging his cock from your clit to your entrance. He watches the motion, letting out a shaky, aroused breath.

You take a moment to admire him—the sharp cut of muscle along his hips, the absurd curve of his ass, the way his back flexes and shifts with every movement.

You’d spent weeks thinking you’d never see him again. That he was gone. That this—being close enough to look, to feel—was lost forever. And even if you haven’t forgiven him, even if you’re still bleeding inside—your heart is finally piecing itself back together.

Your eyes prickle. You blink hard to clear the tears before they fall.

You inhale deeply through your nose—his cologne, your sweat—and exhale through parted lips, slow and shaky.

The head of his cock presses and sinks inside. You gasp as he fills you slowly, inch by inch. He draws out slightly when he’s about halfway in, then presses forward again until you’ve taken all of him.

Homelander squeezes his eyes shut, a quiet, reverent, “Fuck,” dropping from his lips.

You’re reaching for him—or maybe he’s reaching for you—you can’t tell. But when you meet, it’s like magnets snapping together, poles aligning, the universe tilting into place as tongues touch and fingers entwine.

“Baby,” he breathes into your mouth, and you moan, nod, spreading your thighs even wider so he somehow sinks deeper.

His brow presses into yours as he murmurs, “I’m about to—“

Please,” you whisper, because you need it, too—need him to move, to prove something. That you’re still in sync, still connected in the way that once felt unshakable. That he’s still in there somewhere, beneath the lies, beneath what he did to Becca. Beneath the way he hurt you, before even knowing you exist.

No masks. No walls. Just the raw, terrible truth of what you still are to each other.

His breath catches—sharp, broken. Like your words tore through him in a way nothing else could. His hand tightens at your hip, his body finally giving in.

You meet him with equal desperation, hips rising to meet his, fingers digging into his back like you’re afraid he’ll vanish again. You both move like it’s the only way to speak the things you can’t say out loud.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp, and he doesn’t—won’t.

Your breath catches, his name leaving your mouth like a broken vow.

And then it hits—together. Like a fuse catching fire at both ends.

You cry out, body arching into his as he lets out a strangled groan, burying his face in your neck. You cling to each other as it crashes over you, raw and electric, the lines between your bodies disappearing.

Just you.

Just him.

Just this.

And for one suspended moment, it feels like maybe that’s enough.

The room falls into stillness, thick with heat and the echo of your shared breath. His weight is draped over you, grounding but not crushing, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

Neither of you speak.

The silence isn’t awkward—it’s necessary. A fragile kind of peace that exists only in this sliver of time, after the storm and before the consequences. His skin is damp against yours, your wrists still ache, and yet… you don’t move.

He doesn’t either.

You feel the flutter of his lashes against your shoulder, the soft exhale against your collarbone. One of his hands finds yours beneath the sheets, fingers threading between your own like it’s instinct.

For a moment, it’s like nothing ever shattered. No Becca. No chains. No cruelty.

Your eyes slip shut, not because you’re tired—but because you’re afraid if you look at him too long, you’ll see everything you’re trying to forget.

He shifts slightly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

You don’t respond. But you don’t let go, either.

And in the silence, that says enough.

⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡

tag list: @harlowedoktravelsthemultiverse @helreyy @naty-1001 @slytherinroyalty16 @raginginkedslut @emily048 @lilyalone

[leejenowrld]

back to you — ten (one)

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 93k words… (split into two posts) 40k in this post, 53k in the next post. goes without saying don’t read the next post until you finish this. 

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — after taeyong’s death, jeno and those closest to him are each haunted by memories and ghosts, real and imagined, that refuse to let them move on. grief shadows every moment, but when an unexpected night brings everyone all together, the lines between past and present blur, and everything changes in ways no one could have foreseen. in the midst of it, you and jeno find yourselves pulled back into each other’s orbit, unable to escape the unfinished story between you.

chapter warnings — post college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, this chapter contains scenes of emotional abuse, bullying, and targeted harassment that may be distressing to some readers. this chapter is the largest yet, it’s incredibly heavy and loaded, take your time, i’ve uploaded it into two seperate posts, think of it a special two part(er), read the next part here, i can’t add much here as everything in this chapter will be unexpected and a spoiler, but you’ll see the new york gang having slay moments, you’ll meet baby haeun, many jeno and nahyun moments, you’ll see familiar places :), i wanna preface by saying i haven’t proofread anything and there’s a high likelihood that there’s some small mistakes (i hope not a lot), if it’s something where i’ve accidentally copied and pasted the same section twice then tell me, if it’s correcting anything or being annoying then don’t tell me. the pacing may feel unsteady at times, characters may seem unlike themselves, i tried my best with this chapter lol. 

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐓𝐖𝐎 | 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 | 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 | 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 | 𝐒𝐈𝐗 | 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 | 𝐓𝐄𝐍 | 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊. 𝟒𝟎.𝟕𝟏𝟒𝟓° 𝐍, 𝟕𝟒.𝟎𝟎𝟔𝟎° 𝐖

The city exhales like it’s tired of lying. Steam rises from beneath the pavement in slow spirals, curling around the ankles of people who don’t look up anymore. Taxis idle along the curb like yellowed teeth in a mouth too bruised to bite, windows fogged from the inside, engines humming with all the things their passengers won’t say out loud. Somewhere blocks away, a siren wails half-hearted through traffic like it’s lost its urgency, like even emergencies are running late now. Above it all, scaffolding clings to buildings like regret—thin metal bones holding up glass spines that were never supposed to bend this far. The whole skyline looks like it’s bracing for something it already missed.

Outside the window, everything rushes forward—horns, heels, rain-soaked cardboard curling at the edges—but the apartment traps its own time. The air moves wrong in here, too thick in the lungs, too still around the wrists. The windowpane’s sweat-blurred, muting the outlines of towers that used to promise arrival. You can’t see the Chrysler spire anymore, just a smudge of silver where glory used to sit. The radiator hisses like it’s biting back a warning. The faucet drips unevenly, tapping out a rhythm like a code you’ve forgotten how to break. And across the street, someone shouts in a language that once belonged to you, the vowels clashing against fire escapes like a memory trying to climb back in. This city was supposed to mean progress, reinvention and survival. It was supposed to swallow everything you were and spit back someone cleaner, smarter, better but all it’s doing now is mirroring you at your most undone, cracking in the places you pretend no one will see, reflecting a face shaped by choices you didn’t make fast enough. The city hasn’t moved on. It’s just mastered the art of pretending broken things are still beautiful if you light them from the right angle.

The ice roller drags slowly beneath your cheekbone, clinking against the edge of your jaw as condensation pools in the curve of your wrist, your body still heavy with heat that sleep didn’t wash off and the kind of restless stillness that sticks when the sky turns too pale to ignore. You’re standing barefoot in the kitchen where nothing breathes properly—air too dry, the windows fogged just enough to blur the skyline into a dull smudge of gold and static. The sun slants through the blinds like punishment, slicing across the metal sink, brushing the handle of the mug Donghyuck used three days ago and never rinsed, casting long thin shadows across the envelope on the counter marked ‘APEX Global.’ You already know what it says. Six months, rotation, international leadership placement. The version of you from three years ago would’ve screamed, the version of you from six months ago would’ve cried. The version standing here now just watches a drop of water roll from the roller’s edge down the side of your wrist and fall, silent, into the hem of your sleeve.

Yangyang’s hoodie is soft, too warm at the neck, heavy around the shoulders like it’s trying to pin you to this moment, like maybe if you stand still enough time will crawl backwards instead of on. The apartment is quiet but the quiet has weight to it, not peace but pressure, not calm but that strange echoing stillness that creeps in after a party ends and nobody’s swept up the glitter. Tote bags are slumped beside the kitchen stool with zippers half-open like mouths caught mid-sigh, a crushed granola bar wrapper peeking out beneath Karina’s travel charger, Donghyuck’s slides tucked just far enough under the couch to suggest he kicked them off while falling asleep instead of taking them off like someone who meant to stay. Her overnight bag is still lying by the bar, unzipped, one strap twisted like it’s been dropped in the middle of something and left bleeding out across the hardwood, mascara rolling under the chair leg beside a sweater you don’t remember her packing, and all of it is wrong in a way you don’t have the energy to correct.

The only thing making noise is the fridge, humming low and inconsistent like even it’s debating whether to keep going, the oat milk on the top shelf probably spoiled, the open cap beside the half-eaten strawberries daring you to pretend it matters. You roll the ice up across your temple and back again, the cold catching at your hairline, and you let your eyes flick toward the envelope once more before looking away. You’d known it was coming. The promotion. The rotation. The invitation. All those things people dream about when they imagine themselves far away from where they started, all those words they say when they try to make ambition sound like grace—opportunity, mobility, voice—but none of them feel like they belong in your mouth right now, not when the floor is still sticky from last night’s wine spill and your throat tastes like regret instead of coffee.

Karina shifts on the couch, her breath catching in that way it does when she’s trying not to cry in her sleep again. The throw blanket slips further down her legs and she doesn’t move to pull it up, and for a second you think about walking over and fixing it but your legs don’t move, your feet won’t leave the tile. Somewhere down the hall, Donghyuck mumbles something you don’t catch, followed by the whine of the tap, the clink of a toothbrush against ceramic. The apartment is full but it feels like a ruin. Everything built too fast, stretched too thin, held together by group chats, leftovers and shared Spotify accounts, none of it permanent, all of it waiting to be cleared away like stage lighting after a dress rehearsal. This was never supposed to last. None of it was but that doesn’t make the stillness any less suffocating.

You turn the faucet on just to hear something change. The water hits the basin sharp and fast and cold. You stare into the stream like it might give you an answer, like if you wait long enough someone will walk in and say it—say he’s fine, say they found him, say it was all a misunderstanding, that Jaemin never meant to vanish, that people don’t just slip through the cracks when they’re that close to you, that you didn’t miss a sign that should’ve screamed. But no one says anything. Karina shifts again. The water keeps running. The envelope doesn’t move.

The roller slips from your fingers and lands in the sink with a dull, hollow clack, the sound too small for how loud everything feels in your chest. Your hand stays suspended in the air for a second too long before you lower it, palm pressing flat to the marble like you’re trying to listen for something underneath—like if you lean in close enough, the counter might confess what the rest of the room won’t. The stone is cold, indifferent, the way most truths are when they finally settle. Water beads against your wrist, trails down the lifeline of your palm, and your breath stutters but doesn’t come. You don’t blink. You don’t shift. You just hold yourself there, steady in a way that feels more like bracing than balance, heartbeat caught between seconds that won’t pass. The sun hasn’t cleared the buildings yet, the apartment’s still thick with last night’s air, and somehow the day already feels like it outran you hours ago.

You towel off with slow, autopilot movements, the steam from the shower still clinging to your skin like something unfinished, something not fully washed away. Your hair’s damp against your collarbone, water pooling at the hollow of your throat, and the hallway feels colder than it should as you move barefoot toward the living room. Karina’s curled into the couch, blanket up to her chin, the TV flickering low with some runway replay she’s not really watching. You don’t say anything at first—you just sit down beside her, shoulder to shoulder, the air between you warmer than either of you feels. Your hand finds hers without thinking, a small squeeze, just enough to say I’m here, even if he’s not. “I’m sure he’s fine,” you say quietly, like if you say it low enough the truth won’t snap in half. “I’m sure—”

She doesn’t even look at you. Just snorts, sharp and sudden, eyes glued to the screen as her hand jerks out from under yours like she’s swatting a fly. “Save it,” she says flatly, voice like chipped glass, “I don’t give a fuck about the man who pulled a full Houdini and vanished for nine months like he’s journaling in the Himalayas and finding his third eye under a waterfall.” Her blanket rustles as she shifts, arms crossed now, remote clenched in her fist like it’s the only thing tethering her to Earth. “He can stay wherever the hell he is and reach enlightenment without dragging me into it. I'm busy doing breathing exercises so I don’t punch a Dior intern in the throat.”

You blink. She finally turns her head, blanket still wrapped around her ears like a burrito of bitterness, only her face visible and fully fed up. “Busy being emotionally terrorised by a designer who thinks ‘accessible fashion’ means making a five-foot-eleven model wear socks as a top and calling it a silhouette study. I’ve been up since six being gaslighted by a man named Bastien who told me zippers are too ‘heteronormative’ and suggested replacing them with magnetic poetry.” She blinks, slow and deadpan, rage simmering just beneath. “He spelled my name with a ‘C’ in the group email. We’ve been working together for two years. I hope his collection catches fire.”

You bite down a laugh and sink further into the couch, her hand still under yours, her voice rising like it’s the only stable thing in the room, sharp with purpose, hilariously righteous. “Jaemin might’ve vanished off the face of the earth but at least he never tried to call muslin an emotional thesis or accuse a zipper of upholding the patriarchy.”

Karina exhales slow through her nose and presses the remote tighter in her hand like she’s resisting the urge to hurl it through something, her voice stays level but you catch the flicker of something behind her eyes when she says, “Please,” she mutters, dead flat, “the only thing Jaemin’s ever designed is his own fucking exit. I hope he’s happy in whatever remote Scandinavian IKEA showroom he’s decided to spiritually rot in. “If he ever shows up again, I’m slapping him with a cease and desist and a list of every yeast infection I’ve named after him in his absence,” then she shifts the blanket like she’s getting comfortable in her own rage, like spite is the only fabric that fits right anymore, her tone doesn’t waver, not once, it’s smooth in that way she saves for publicists and breakups and the second before she falls apart

You don’t answer because you know that voice too well, you know the chill behind it, the way her sentences stretch too far when she’s hiding something that wants out, you recognise the way she doesn’t say his name like it’s a spell she’s pretending she never knew how to cast, her mouth is all defense and her shoulders have been tight for days, the Jaemin-shaped space in her chest not closed off but boarded up, weathered like a house that still breathes through the floorboards, and somewhere beneath her practiced indifference you feel it, that pulse of something waiting, the way a room starts to swell before the wallpaper shifts or the windows breathe in too deep, like she’s not haunted but hosting something she hasn’t let herself name yet. 

After the wedding, something followed Jaemin home, not the kind of thing that slammed doors or flickered lights but something colder, something with patience, something that knew how to wait in the quiet parts of a person until the body forgot it was ever meant to feel full. He didn’t vanish, not all at once, he just slowed—his answers took longer, his eyes stayed still longer, his presence stopped pressing into the room like it used to, and the warmth that once came with him turned clinical, the kind of quiet that fills a waiting room after bad news. His footsteps stopped sounding like they belonged to him and started echoing like something borrowed, as if the floor didn’t recognise him anymore and was learning to flinch beneath his weight.

He became still in a way that didn’t look like rest but like surrender, like whatever grief had been left unspoken had finally laid down roots inside his chest and started blooming upside-down, and he carried it not like a wound but like a replacement, like his pulse had been swapped for something steadier and less human. People said he seemed tired, distracted, overworked, and he nodded at all the right times, smiled when he was supposed to, but his voice lost its gravity, his laugh came too late, and his hands, once so certain, stopped reaching for anyone who said his name like it meant something. He just turned into a version of himself that was unrecognisable — a ghost wearing scrubs, a heartbeat with no map, a name people whispered around instead of toward.

Right after the wedding Jaemin and Karina blew up, iin the way champagne hisses after being left open too long, in the way tension snaps when stretched too thin without anyone realising it’s about to split, and it started with a question, about exclusivity, about whether this was real, she had asked it too clearly and it followed with a silence he let sit for too long, the kind of silence that turns corners sharp and makes the air feel watched, and by the time she’d said ‘you can’t keep giving me half of you and calling it real’ the door was already closing behind her.

The last photo of them together was still warm in the group chat when the quiet started—sharp silences in the middle of shared dinners, late arrivals, early exits, the way Karina would answer his messages like she was filing paperwork and Jaemin would reply hours later with nothing but read receipts. 

Month two dragged its heels, thick with heat and something meaner, and even when the city swelled into summer, the apartment stayed cold in that way heartbreak makes the walls too wide, Karina barely left the living room except to shuffle from charger to charger with her laptop open but untouched, emails rewritten to the point of erasure and playlists playing the same eight songs like she was trying to hypnotise herself into forgetting how often she blinked and realised she hadn’t eaten since yesterday. She stopped going to fittings, started sleeping on the couch, claimed it was better for her back but you’d catch her awake at 4AM watching nothing on mute and fidgeting with the hem of her shirt like the thread might unravel if she pulled hard enough.

Jaemin slipped sideways in a way only the ones paying too much attention noticed, his hours at the hospital stretched long and strange, his name in the group chat trailing further and further up the scroll, and someone whispered they’d seen him leaving a bar downtown with a girl whose coat looked just like Karina’s, same shoes, same swing of the hair, like muscle memory dressed in someone else’s skin. Donghyuck started showing up more often with bags of lukewarm takeout and half-hearted jokes, sat on the arm of the couch pretending to be casual while he checked on how many mugs Karina had abandoned under the table, and even he couldn’t plug the hole Jaemin used to fill just by walking into a room and existing like he belonged there.

One night, Hyuck found Karina in the shower, the water on too hot, her body turned away but her shoulders shaking like she was laughing through glass, and he didn’t say anything, just sat down on the floor outside the door and waited until it stopped. The next morning, Karina burned the toast and didn’t flinch until the smoke alarm shrieked through the ceiling like something dying, and while Donghyuck scrambled for a towel, she stayed perfectly still in front of the stove, eyes glazed, fingers twitching at her side like she’d forgotten how to move, then without a word she crossed the kitchen, uncapped a black marker, and dragged a thick line through one of the dates on the calendar pinned beside the fridge, pressing so hard the ink bled through to the wall behind it, no explanation, no context, just a day she refused to let exist anymore.

By month five, something begins tracing itself into the fabric of your days, a pattern forming where Jaemin’s name used to land, half-typed messages left hanging in text bars, his contact sinking lower in your recents list like a stone dragged by weight, and the air shifts slightly whenever his name almost comes up, conversations twitching sideways, glances exchanged without anchoring, like everyone feels it forming but no one agrees on the shape. His shadow moves in suggestion—an untouched corner at the dinner table, a ringtone that rings once then disappears, a reply box blinking with no answer. You cross paths with his absence in strange places now, in static, in schedule gaps, in the pause before Karina says she hasn’t heard from him in a while.

It starts with Shotaro pacing, phone gripped too tight, saying he’s called three times this week and every time it’s gone straight to voicemail. Karina’s already sitting, arms crossed, eyes hollowed out from nights spent staring at her inbox like it might blink first. You’re on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, phone buzzing in your palm with updates that mean nothing. Donghyuck walks in late, holding a paper bag he forgets to put down. A parcel addressed to Jaemin arrived at the hospital, but the nurse said it came back marked ‘no forwarding address.’ Shotaro tried FaceTiming twice, then once more at three in the morning, stared at the grey screen until the call disappeared like it had never been there at all.

In Seoul, the tension hums through the group like static. Mark’s voice memo sits unopened in the chat—‘you alive, bro?’—timestamped eight days ago. No response. Not even a read. Doyoung mentions offhand at a meeting that Jaemin’s name hasn’t been on the monthly reports. Yangyang says he still owes him dinner and doesn’t follow it with a joke. Irene starts typing in the group chat, stops, starts again—her messages clipped, all full stops, like she’s hacking at the dark with punctuation. Areum scrolls through old photos and mutters that some people just change after breakups, but no one nods, no one agrees. The silence after carries weight, settles sharp behind your ribs, and Shotaro finally says it—‘when’s the last time anyone actually saw him?’ and nobody answers, because somehow, no one knows.

The first real shift comes on the night you’re supposed to meet for dinner, Shotaro booked the table, Donghyuck sent too many reminders, Karina even puts on makeup and then wipes it off before leaving her room, but Jaemin doesn’t show, no call, no excuse, just a chair that stays empty long enough to start feeling like a placeholder for something worse, Hyuck jokes about filing a missing persons report and no one laughs, then Karina’s voice breaks the silence, brittle and stunned, “I haven’t heard from him in a month,” and the words land heavy, like the floorboards underneath all of you have started to shift, like something underneath is preparing to give way

It’s no longer breakup fallout, no longer romantic failure or emotional mess—now it’s something colder, thinner, stretched across too much space, and when Donghyuck calls the hospital and asks for Dr. Na, the receptionist says he quit two weeks ago with no written notice, left his badge at the front desk with a single folded post-it that just said ‘thank you,’ and when Karina visits his apartment the next morning, the blinds are closed, the plants are dead, the bed is stripped, and there’s no sign he ever lived there except for one voicemail on her phone that she plays every night but never lets anyone else hear. You remember the last time you saw him—just a blur of movement in the hospital corridor, fluorescent light flickering overhead, his scrubs creased like he hadn’t gone home in days. He didn’t say anything. Just paused when he passed you, eyes dipping down, not lingering, not obvious, just a glance too slow to mean nothing. His gaze caught at your stomach like a thread snagging on fabric, something registering behind his eyes that never made it to his mouth, and for a second you thought he might speak, might ask, might know, but he only blinked once, like whatever passed through him didn’t have a name yet, just shape, just weight, just a question too fragile to form aloud.

The door clicks open with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times, no knock, no warning, just the softened rhythm of keys turning, muscle memory wrapped in familiarity. Shotaro steps inside already tugging his hoodie over his head, curls damp at the edges, shirt clinging faintly to his back where the sweat hasn’t dried from class, and the faint smell of floor polish and sweetness clings to him, the kind of artificial fruit scent that comes from too many bodies moving through one room, pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath dim lights and loud music. His shoes miss the rack entirely, land sideways against the wall, and he doesn’t bother fixing them.

He’s muttering before he even makes it to the living room, something about a new student who danced like his limbs weren’t on speaking terms, hands doing contemporary while his knees waged war with gravity. There’s a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and a single bubble tea in the other, sweat cooling at his collarbone, and when he sees the three of you spread across the couch and floor, he pauses like he just realised how short the offering falls. Still, he drops the drink on the table like it might multiply under pressure, flops down beside you without a word, part of his thigh knocking against yours, breath still a little uneven from the studio, his presence settling into the room like he’s always belonged to the silence that follows a storm.

He pushes off the couch with a groan, shirt tugged over his head in one rough pull, and your eyes widen before you can hide it—dark marks scattered down his throat and across his chest, a trail of possession that’s unmistakably Ryujin’s handiwork, delicate only in placement. Karina lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Someone’s getting the good kind of cardio.” He rolls his eyes, flipping you all off over his shoulder as he disappears into the shower, towel slung loose around his neck. Fifteen minutes later, he’s back in soft navy pajamas, hair damp, skin pink at the edges, and he sinks down beside you again like the hickies weren’t ever there.

The apartment smells like popcorn and old candle wax, one of those half-burned wicks Karina refuses to throw away sitting crooked on the windowsill, and a movie plays on low—something none of you are really watching, too many sequels deep and too many scenes away from making sense. The only light comes from the screen, flickering blue over Donghyuck’s cheek as he reaches aimlessly for another handful, misses the bowl, and curses under his breath. When Shotaro lifts his bubble tea to take a long, dramatic sip, all three of you turn toward him like vultures. 

“Really?” Karina says, flat. “No one thought to bring extras?” 

Shotaro grins around the straw, shrugs like he’s the villain. “Guess I love myself more.”

But then he laughs, soft and breathy, and ducks into the kitchen without another word, returning a moment later with three drinks balanced in his arms. “Relax,” he says. “I remembered.” He hands Karina her usual—lychee jasmine with aloe and light ice, exactly how she likes it, muttering, “don’t roll your eyes, I even told them no seal sticker so you wouldn’t smudge your nails.” Then he tosses Donghyuck his matcha crème brûlée with extra pearls, the cup practically vibrating with sugar, and finally places yours into your hands like it’s something delicate—taro oat milk, less sweet, no toppings, the way you’ve ordered it since college. 

“This is how I know I’m too loyal,” he sighs, flopping down beside you with a sigh. “You guys don’t deserve me.” 

“Shut up,” Hyuck mutters. “You’re drinking brown sugar like a basic bitch.” Shotaro snorts, kicks him lightly in the shin, and for a few minutes the room is easy, fizzy with sugar and comfort, the kind of soft that feels borrowed.

It’s halfway through the movie when he says it, quiet, casual, voice catching somewhere between the last line of dialogue and the background score. “I think I saw him.” The screen keeps flashing, someone yelling about time travel or betrayal, but your spine goes still against the cushion.

“Saw who?” Karina asks, already frowning. 

Shotaro doesn’t look up. “Jaemin, last night, right outside the studio.” 

You tilt your head, bubble tea half-raised. “Seriously?”

He shrugs once, slow, like the words are still settling on his tongue. “Could’ve been someone else, I guess, but he moved like him,” he says, eyes flicking toward the window even though he’s not really looking. “Same build—kinda bulky now, more muscle than I remember. His hair was different too, different color, longer and messier. I don’t know but it looked like him. It looked like the way he carries himself—like he knew the street but didn’t want the street to know him.” He pauses. “Hood up. Head down. He walked fast but not like he was scared, like he couldn’t afford to be seen.”

Shotaro exhales through his nose, brows pulling together like the memory’s sticking harder now that he’s saying it aloud. “And I noticed something weird,” he adds, voice quieter, like it might break if he says it too fast. “He was carrying this yellow blanket. It wasn’t folded or stuffed into a bag—just draped over his shoulder like it belonged there.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It had little stars on it, I think, faded ones, pale blue. Maybe clouds too? It looked soft, like the kind of thing you’d wrap around a baby after a bath. It just didn’t fit him at all, that’s what caught my eye.” His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Big guy in dark clothes, built like he could throw someone across a room, but carrying that thing like it was made of gold.”

The room stills, like the air itself tightens. Karina lowers her drink without meaning to, eyes pinned on the coffee table, the condensation from her cup leaving a print that spreads slowly into the wood. “That doesn’t sound like something he’d just… pick up,” she says, quiet, almost to herself. “Not unless it meant something.”

Donghyuck shifts where he’s sitting, the playful slouch gone, his fingers tapping absently against his knee. “That’s not even weird anymore,” he mutters. “That’s straight-up eerie. Like, why the fuck would he be carrying around something like that? In the heat? In public?”

You don’t say anything at first, just watch the bubble in your drink rise to the top and burst. The words crawl up your throat too thick. Jaemin with a baby blanket. Jaemin looking bulkier. Jaemin walking like he had somewhere to be that didn’t belong to anyone else. You finally breathe, “You’re sure it was yellow?”

Shotaro nods, slowly, a crease forming between his brows. “Yellow with stars. I know what I saw.” He glances between you all, something unreadable in his face. “I didn’t think it meant anything until now.”

It’s past midnight by the time the movie finishes, screen fading to black while the room stays lit in that ghostly way only credits can manage, white names scrolling endlessly over silence that feels louder now that none of you are talking. Karina’s curled up in one corner of the couch with a throw blanket tucked under her chin, Donghyuck’s flicking at the empty pearl cups like they’ll refill themselves if he stares hard enough, and Shotaro’s legs are stretched out, head tilted back like he’s trying to cool the last of the sweat behind his ears. You’re closest to him, cross-legged with your phone face down beside your knee, your spine starting to ache, your pulse still stuck on that one thing he said hours ago that none of you have touched since—he moved like him.

Shotaro shifts, reaching lazily for his laptop bag and dragging it toward him with his heel. “Hold on,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “There’s something I wanna check.” He props the laptop against his thigh and opens it with a quiet snap, fingers tapping muscle memory into the keyboard, clicks fast and silent like he’s done this a hundred times.

Karina looks over. “You’re working?” she asks, dry, but he just shakes his head. 

“No, just—there was this thing Jaemin and I used to do.” 

Donghyuck snorts. “Romantic.” 

Shotaro kicks him without looking. “Shut up. No. I’m talking about playlists. We used to trade edits back and forth. Lullabies, mostly. He said he liked sounds that made the air feel soft.” You say nothing, but your eyes don’t leave the screen.

He scrolls through folders like he knows exactly where to go, digging four levels deep until he finds one with a name barely readable in lowercase—jae//midnights—and clicks. The interface flickers, revealing a list longer than you expect, a dozen sound files lined in quiet succession, half of them titled only by timestamps that feel like memories. “This one,” he murmurs, hovering over 03:47AM, “was the first thing we ever built together.” His voice softens like the memory still lives inside his mouth. “He recorded the hum from the heater in his room, looping it under a child’s melody in C minor. Said it reminded him of falling asleep on car rides.” The way Shotaro says it makes something in your chest twist. “We never made it public,” he adds, quieter now, thumb brushing the trackpad. “It’s only on this laptop. Nowhere else.” Then he clicks, and the page begins to load.

There’s a user logged in, you all lean in at once, breath caught, eyes locked to the glowing display where there’s an anonymous figure listening. Donghyuck whispers, “what the fuck?”

Karina jerks upright so fast her blanket slips to the floor, muttering “wait, wait—how?” Shotaro’s already clicking through the metadata with his jaw tight and his brows drawn, voice low and focused as he says “the stream is live, someone’s listening to this exact track right now” and when he pulls up the playback map, a single blue location pin flares to life, hovering steady less than a mile from his studio.

“This file was last edited six years ago, no one’s touched it since” and his voice drops, tighter now, “and now someone’s… he’s listening, he has to be.”

You swallow, throat dry, heart thudding uneven against your ribs. “Check the IP,” you say. 

Shotaro’s already there, shaking his head. “Anonymous server, masked and rerouted through something local—there’s no trace, but the ping’s real.” He zooms in until the edges of the map blur. “It’s been playing for seven minutes straight.”

The track loops, slow and eerie, soft hums layered under a child’s voice too pure to be sampled, and faint static pulses underneath like a monitor trying to sync with something—rhythm, breath, maybe grief—and it’s too exact, too shaped, too him to be anyone else, and none of you speak because there’s nothing to say, not yet, just the weight of it pressing into the walls and the silence between your bodies, and in your chest something cold locks into place with a soft internal snap, like recognition arriving before reason.

It’s the next morning when Donghyuck finds the receipt. You’re all moving slowly, the apartment is too quiet for how much caffeine has been passed around, and the air tastes like leftover sesame noodles and unspoken questions. He’s digging through one of Jaemin’s old books—The Lives of Others, spine cracked, corners bent from being read too many times and something flutters out from between the pages, slips down onto the floor like it was waiting. “What the—” he mutters, leaning down, and the moment he picks it up you already know from the shift in his voice. “Guys,” he says, louder now. “This isn’t old. This is last week.” You’re already moving toward him as he holds up the receipt, timestamp clear as day, 9:42PM, St. Aurelian Hospital Café. Karina blinks, brow furrowing. 

Karina tilts her head, brows pinching. “Isn’t that the new private one? The one with the glass atrium and concierge midwives?” 

You take the paper from Donghyuck slowly, fingertips grazing the faint thermal ink, your eyes narrowing as you read. “Yeah,” you murmur, pulse steadying into something cold. “‘APEX’ did some work with them, they’re a new boutique hospital with no public staff page, no published rotations, and a front desk that won’t give you a name unless your surname is on the board of donors.”

He stays hunched over his laptop after that, headphones in but not playing music, screen brightness turned low like he’s trying not to spook the internet into hiding. “Give me a few hours,” he says. “I’m going full dark web mom mode.” And he does—scrolling through anonymous parenting forums, Facebook groups with names like ‘Mommy & Me Upper Manhattan,’ private nannying directories, anything that smells like recent birth and low-profile doctors. You don’t bother interrupting. He’s in the zone, muttering search strings under his breath like prayers—“single dad,” “pediatric rotation,” “yellow blanket,” “newborn father” and by late afternoon he goes completely still, one hand paused above the keyboard, breath held like he’s seen a ghost. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “I found something.” 

You rush over and see it, a thread buried deep in a private parenting group, already marked removed by the admin but it’s still cached on the page: ‘Saw the hot pediatrician again today—scrubs and all, with the softest baby girl and eyes like he hasn’t slept in years.’ He screenshots it instantly. “Post got deleted,” he says. “But it was posted this morning, from a hospital five blocks from the café receipt.” The room goes still again, that same frozen hum of something real settling in.

Karina’s the one who brings it up, calm like it isn’t the most desperate thing any of you have said all day, scrolling her phone without looking up as she says, “New parents shop near home, near the hospital—no one orders everything online,” and she glances over at Shotaro like she’s already made the decision for both of them. They leave just before noon, drizzle dusting across the skyline, street corners washed in silver light as they move from one baby boutique to the next with vague descriptions and clipped smiles, asking cashiers if they’ve seen someone tall, soft-spoken, carrying a pale yellow blanket and maybe a newborn wrapped close to his chest. Most say no or shake their heads before the question even lands, but one woman behind a pale pink counter with a chipped credit card machine pauses, mouth slightly open, and says she thinks someone like that came in last week—she can’t remember his face exactly, only that he paid in cash and held the gift bag like it was the most breakable thing in the world.

You and Donghyuck take the next part, heading downtown toward the address stamped in faded ink on the receipt, the hospital café tucked into the lobby of a brand new private wing where everything smells too clean and the overhead lights feel too bright for the hour. You pick the table in the back corner, close to the elevators but angled just enough to watch the front entrance, and the two of you sit there for almost two hours with one shared croissant and a pair of iced teas growing warm on the table, pretending not to scan every person that walks by while your heart flicks between hope and hollow. Most of the staff look the same, hurried, tired, blank-faced but then someone brushes past in soft blue scrubs with the collar slightly turned, and stitched just above the left shoulder in pale thread are the initials N.J., the stitching small enough that you almost miss it, and your body reacts before your brain catches up. You’re on your feet, Donghyuck half a step behind you as you follow fast toward the elevator bank, but just as you reach the edge, the doors glide shut and he disappears inside without ever turning around.

You’re the first to speak when you all pile back into the apartment, shoes half-kicked into the hallway, bags dropped wherever they fall, the leftover croissant from the café still clutched in Donghyuck’s hand like he forgot to eat it out of spite. “I’m just saying,” you start, flopping down onto the couch with enough drama to rattle the cushions, “I’ve never worked this hard for someone who so clearly doesn’t want to be found. We’re out here doing field research, stakeouts, combing through online breadcrumbs like we’re in Prison Break, and for what?” Karina raises a brow, toeing off her boots. “For the man who ghosted his own life?” You nod, mouth already twisting. “I swear to God, if I got my people at Apex involved, this wouldn’t be a manhunt, it’d be a two-minute LinkedIn scrape and a casual sweep of facial recognition software. He’d be found before the kettle boils.”

Donghyuck groans, face down in the armchair. “You could’ve done that from the beginning, you evil witch.” 

You glare. “Do you want Jaemin dragged out of a paediatric ward in cuffs by Apex interns named Hoshi and Woozi?” 

Shotaro, sprawled on the floor with a protein bar he refuses to open, raises a hand lazily. “I kinda do, just for fun.” 

You exhale hard through your nose, pinching the bridge. “No, but seriously, why didn’t we file a missing persons report? Are we allergic to normal solutions now?” 

Karina lets out a sharp breath, turning toward the window. “I tried,” she says, voice clipped. “Twice, maybe three times.”

“And?” you ask, leaning forward, elbows on knees, voice softer now, though you’re not sure why—something in Karina’s stillness unsettles you, her posture too rigid, like she’s bracing for a wave she’s already drowned in. 

She shrugs, but the movement doesn’t land, barely reaches her shoulders. “Every single time that I’d start filling out the form, opening the missing persons portal my phone would ring. Sometimes it was a call, sometimes a message.” She swallows. “Always the same thing, ‘don’t file anything, he’s safe, leave it, trust me.’” Her voice twists sharp around the last word like it still cuts her. Then she turns her head toward you, slow and deliberate. “Guess who sent those messages.”

Your body reacts before your mind even forms the shape of a thought, before language returns to you, before the room steadies enough to hold what’s just been said. Something clutches in your chest, tight, immovable, like breath trying to claw its way out from beneath concrete, and your limbs go still from the unmistakable sensation of being seen, like someone’s breath is resting against the nape of your neck without sound or warning. Your wrists feel cold first, then your throat, then the space behind your knees, your pulse dropping into the hollows of you like it’s trying to retreat into bone. Your mouth is parted just enough for the air to sit heavy on your tongue but your name—your voice—doesn’t move, just hovers there like a ghost of a question you already know the answer to.

Your spine straightens on instinct, vertebrae aligning with eerie precision, like strings have been pulled from the ceiling and your body obeys without protest, like you’ve become a marionette under someone else’s hand. It’s too quiet. Even the sound of your own breath feels distant, filtered, like it’s passing through cloth. All you can hear is the echo of Karina’s voice folding into that name, the one you’d buried in some distant chamber of thought—Jeno—and it slams through your mind like a door unlatched in a windless room, opening without touch. You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember looking at her. You just know. You knew before she said it. Knew in the way animals know an earthquake is coming, in the way silence sharpens right before something shatters.

“Jeno,” you say.

Karina nods once, almost too slow to track. “Always him. Always calm. Always exactly on time.” She blinks. “Like he was watching my screen. Like he wasn’t guessing—he knew.” The light in the apartment suddenly feels too sharp, too white, like a surgical theatre instead of a home, like something is being exposed and you’re not ready for the incision. You feel it down your spine, an invisible pressure folding over your shoulders like a cold breath. He hadn’t vanished, he’d intervened and somehow, that’s worse because it means he never stopped holding the strings.

Karina leans back into the couch like the tension just caught up with her spine, her voice low and bitten off at the edges as she mutters, “You’d think he’d have better shit to be doing.” Her thumb skims the condensation down her cup, the words coming slower now, one after the other. “Like breaking whatever new scoring milestone the NBA cooks up for him. That three-point shot from half court last week? They aired it on five different sports networks in under an hour. Someone tweeted that it defied physics. Someone else said he’s the first player in franchise history to hit thirty points in twelve consecutive games with a fractured wrist, like flying to meet with whatever hyper-athletic nutrition brand he’s the new face of—signing a deal with a private equity firm that makes more in a quarter than any of us will in a lifetime.” Her eyes flick past the wall, somewhere far off. “Like that rooftop gala he went to last month in Miami with the twenty-foot ice sculpture and three different drone camera crews. Or the off-season Adidas campaign they shot in Tokyo.” She shakes her head once. “I still see his face on a bus ad near my boutique—digital, full wrap, takes up the whole intersection.” Her mouth curves, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “He’s got millions of followers watching his highlights, watching his life, waiting for whatever designer coat he’s told to wear next and he’s out here intercepting missing person reports.” 

She exhales once, sharper now. “And then there’s Nahyun. The fiancée, matching watches. Her face in Vogue Korea before the engagement was even confirmed. She sat courtside last month in archival Mugler like it was a press conference and held his hand with both of hers like she was praying over it.”

She cuts off before the word can land because she sees it—the way your jaw clenches sharp like a trap that’s already snapped shut, the way your fingers shift just slightly against the cushion like you’re holding onto the edge of something that might give. Her face softens instantly, everything dropping, the bravado, the timing, the sharp edge in her voice that never quite meant to slice. “Shit,” she says, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I got carried away.” She leans in without asking, arms slipping around your shoulders like muscle memory, chin tucked lightly against your temple, breath warm at the side of your face. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve to hear that. You’ve already had to carry too much of him.” She presses a quick kiss to your hair, voice catching. “You’re better than him anyway. Prettier. Smarter. You could outrun his entire bloodline in three-inch heels and a hangover.”

You snort, but it doesn’t quite reach your chest, your hands caught mid-air like you’re not sure what to do with them, like affection is something you forgot how to receive properly. “Karina,” you mumble, trying to roll your eyes, but it’s too soft around the edges. “I don’t need the pep talk.” She pulls back just enough to look at you, her brows raised, her mouth curving like she’s about to go full drama. “Okay, cool, so can I go back to slandering your war criminal ex or do you wanna cry and braid each other’s hair?”

You shake your head, but your lips twitch. “You’re the worst.” 

She grins, forehead resting briefly against yours. “Takes one to love one.”

You’re still half-smiling into Karina’s shoulder when a shadow moves past the kitchen counter and Shotaro clears his throat in that very obvious way that means he’s been watching long enough to form an opinion. “Okay,” he says, voice dry as bone, “if you two are about to start scissoring on the couch I’m gonna need you to either pause or pivot because we still have a missing Na Jaemin to locate.” 

Karina groans without looking up, flipping him off lazily with the hand that’s still resting on your arm. “Oh my God, can’t two traumatised women share an intimate moment of solidarity in peace?” 

Shotaro raises both brows and grabs a snack bar from the counter like it’s evidence. “It stopped being solidarity the second she kissed your head like a Regency housewife mourning her forbidden lover.”

You nudge Karina off you gently, trying to compose yourself while still wiping at the corner of your eye, and glance at Shotaro with a crooked smile. “Jesus. Ryujin’s really rubbing off on you, huh?” 

He raises a brow, halfway through chewing the protein bar. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

You gesture at him with both hands. “You’re getting meaner. Like cutthroat mean. That was so mean, Taro.” 

Karina stretches like she’s about to go limp again. “Honestly, I’m proud. He used to cry at butter commercials.”

Shotaro throws the snack wrapper at you and misses. “I did not cry. I teared up respectfully.” He throws another snack wrapper at Karina and it lands. “Now can we circle back to the part where Jaemin might be working a few blocks from here like a ghost doctor and none of you have filed a report?” You glance toward the laptop still glowing on the table, that anonymous playback log paused mid-loop, and the air shifts again—tension curling back in like a tide. The moment softens behind you, but the hunt sharpens ahead.

Later, the apartment is quiet again, not with comfort but with the kind of stillness that feels like it’s listening, like something unsaid is pressing against the walls. No one’s spoken Jaemin’s name in over an hour, but he’s in the room anyway—etched into the glow of the laptop screen, folded into the way Donghyuck keeps refreshing the same tab without reading it, stitched into the silence every time someone almost speaks and doesn’t. No one moves to leave. You’re all still here, caught in the slow gravity of a truth that keeps circling back.

You all knew about the voicemail, knew it had been left the same night Jaemin disappeared, a single minute of sound tucked into the hollow space between his resignation and his silence, a message that had waited untouched at the bottom of Karina’s inbox like a wound left to fester in the dark. No one could understand why she wouldn’t play it—not when you begged her in the thickest parts of night, not when Donghyuck asked with his voice stripped down to threads, not even when Shotaro said nothing at all and just reached for her hand like that might be enough to steady her but Karina only ever shook her head and whispered “I can’t,” like pressing play would be the thing that finally broke her open for good, and maybe it would have been, back then, when everything still hurt too raw to look at straight. But something’s shifted now, something quieter and more urgent, a sense that the gaps between you all have grown too wide to leave untouched any longer, and tonight, long after the playlist’s stopped looping and the candle near the sink has burned itself into a waxed-out crater of cold glass, Karina finally pulls her phone from the depths of her hoodie like it’s a confession she’s been hiding under skin, and the way her hands move—slow, deliberate, trembling just enough to betray her—makes your chest twist without permission.

No one says anything when she plays it—Donghyuck’s still half on the floor, the back of his hand covering his mouth like prayer, Shotaro’s chewing the end of a useless straw he finished over an hour ago, and you’re leaning against the kitchen frame with your arms crossed like a shield across your ribs, watching her thumb hover over the screen like it might detonate if she touches it too hard—and the room is holding its breath around you, every second stretched thin enough to snap, until she finally exhales through her nose and says, “Okay,” her voice low and unraveled and unfamiliar, like it’s been hollowed out from the inside. “I’ll play it but just this once.”

She taps the screen and the sound cuts in raw—no polish, no clean edit, just Jaemin’s voice soft and slightly distorted like it’s trying too hard not to shake, and even though he’s speaking low and slow like calm is something he thinks he can fake, there’s something wrong with the shape of it, something off-kilter and uneven, like his composure is being dragged across gravel just out of frame. “Hey. It’s me,” he says, and then nothing—just air and silence and the echo of a space that isn’t familiar, and when he speaks again it’s like he’s choosing every word as it comes. “I’m fine. I just needed space. Time to figure things out. I didn’t mean to worry you. I just couldn’t explain it yet. I’ll come back when it’s right. I promise.” His voice catches slightly then, just a breath too fast or maybe a tremor too small to name, but it’s there, and after that, something shifts—a movement in the background, fabric maybe, or footsteps, or a body brushing too close to a wall—and then the sound comes, clean and clinical and impossibly loud in the stillness.

Beep.

Then again.

Beep.

You don’t realize you’ve moved until you’re standing straighter, your weight redistributed like your body’s trying to get closer to something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet, and across the room, Karina freezes with her phone still raised like her arm’s forgotten how to move, and Donghyuck’s eyes are wide now, hands dropped to his lap, while Shotaro just stares like the walls might start answering for him.

“Again,” you say, quiet but certain, and though Karina flinches like she doesn’t want to hear it again, she rewinds without argument.

“I’ll come back when it’s right. I promise.”

Beep. Beep.

You exhale through your teeth but it feels like inhaling cold steel, and your voice comes out lower than you expect, flattened by something heavier than fear. “That’s a neonatal vitals monitor,” you murmur, more to the floor than to anyone else, but the words land sharp anyway. “NICU-grade, hospital only. High-frequency, linked to oxygen stats. It’s not some at-home baby tracker.”

Karina opens her mouth but nothing comes out, just a breath that shakes too hard to speak, and beside her, Donghyuck says, “But he’s a doctor. He works in hospitals—”

“Well he sent that months ago and we know he quit his job around that time, we went to the hospital and they told us,” you say, before he can finish, and it’s sharper than it should be.  The timeline presses inward all at once, tight like gravity, and you see it laid out in sequence—the voicemail sent after he quit, after the hospital confirmed his resignation with no forwarding contact, after his apartment was emptied and left blank and meaningless, after his presence was erased from every place he was supposed to belong. This wasn’t left from a shift. This wasn’t a call between rotations. This didn’t come from the life he walked away from—it came from inside the one he shouldn’t have access to anymore.

Karina’s face folds slowly, not all at once but piece by piece, like the understanding is sinking under her skin with teeth, and when she speaks it’s more exhale than sentence. “So he’s not there as a doctor.”

Shotaro sits back like he’s been struck in the stomach, the straw slipping from his fingers. “Then what the fuck is he doing there?” he says, and no one moves.

You’re still staring at the floor, but your voice cuts through it like a wire pulled tight. “He’s not working,” you say. “He’s staying, he’s there as a patient.” 

Karina blinks hard, her throat shifting like she’s swallowing glass, and then she shakes her head—not in protest, not in denial, but in correction, something sharper, more certain, something she’s been holding back because saying it out loud would make it too real to unfeel. “No,” she says, and her voice catches but she doesn’t stop, not this time. “He’s not the patient.” She looks at you then—really looks—and her eyes are wide with something terrified and bare, but beneath it there’s a clarity that slices cleaner than panic, something that shakes all the way down to the bone but still lands steady, and she swallows once, hard, her jaw tightening as if the truth might break her open even as she says it anyway. “He’s there as the father of one.”

And just like that, the air leaves the room. The silence that follows doesn’t echo—it spreads, it thickens, it settles across your shoulders like weight, and no one moves, because there’s nothing left to say that doesn’t feel like breaking something sacred in the air. Shotaro drops his gaze to the floor like it might offer a softer answer. Donghyuck blinks twice and says nothing, the disbelief too large to fit in his throat. And you—you stay exactly where you are, one hand gripping the edge of the counter like it might anchor you to the moment, but there’s a roar building behind your ribs now, something tidal and cold and rising.

Because of course it makes sense. The sound, the monitor, the pause in Jaemin’s voice, the way he spoke like his body was somewhere else entirely—of course it makes sense now. It explains everything. Except how he never said a word.

The laptop’s glow casts the room in a cold, artificial blue, and no one’s moved in fifteen minutes. Donghyuck’s pacing like his thoughts are running ahead of his body, Karina’s got her knees pulled to her chest with her sleeve over her mouth like she’s trying to keep something in, and you’re still at the table, headphones wrapped around your neck, knuckles pressed to your mouth as the voicemail plays again on loop, dissected down to the static. You’ve filtered it six different ways, dragged the audio into an editor you barely remember how to use, but you keep listening because something’s off—not just Jaemin’s voice, not just the beep, but something quieter beneath it, something no one else hears until you say it out loud. “Listen,” you murmur, dragging the cursor back again, volume low. “Right there. After the second beep, that’s a page. Three tones, then a voice.” You crank the gain and it’s almost lost to distortion.

You start cross-referencing layouts of the major locations, pulling up floor maps and old blog posts from nurses and interns who once filmed TikTok videos near Unit Twelve, and Karina’s staring over your shoulder now, her eyes glassy but sharp, and then her hand shoots out suddenly, jabbing at the screen. “There,” she says. “That corridor. That angle, the sound in the voicemail—it’s echoing like that. Hard tile, narrow space, no curtain buffer.” You nod, and Shotaro mutters something about ventilation sounds, mentioning metallic hums of older buildings.

Donghyuck throws himself into the search with the kind of intensity he usually saves for online scandals. “Okay,” he says, breathless. “We need something more direct. Something physical.” And then he curses under his breath, digging into his back pocket like it’s been hiding a secret this whole time, and pulls out the half-folded receipt. “Let’s dissect this again.” 

You unfold it again, slower this time, smoothing the softened receipt against the tabletop like it might yield something new if handled gently enough, and it’s familiar at first—too familiar, the kind of paper your eyes have skimmed a dozen times without ever really seeing, the ink faded at the edges, the item codes a blur of numbers that meant nothing to you before. The timestamp still sits at the top like a wound you don’t touch—two weeks after Jaemin left—and the location is as unremarkable as it always was: a few blocks east, a street you’ve passed without thinking. But this time, your gaze catches on something you didn’t register before. A symbol.

It’s small—barely the size of your thumbnail—stamped into the corner like a watermark or an afterthought, a clean-lined insignia shaped like a triangle split through the center, one side hollow, the other shaded in like it’s holding something it can’t name. You tilt the receipt toward the light, squinting at the lines, and it starts to feel like you’ve seen it somewhere before—not in this context, but maybe in passing, maybe attached to something industrial and clinical, something you didn’t know you were filing away until now. You pull out your phone, snap a picture, and reverse image search it with shaky fingers, the screen glow reflecting in the laptop’s black frame like a second pair of eyes watching over your shoulder. At first, nothing. Then a match. 

Holloway Medical Group. You say the name under your breath like it’s a password, and suddenly the rest of the receipt reconfigures around it. Not just a generic supply outlet, not some off-brand uniform store—it’s a licensed subsidiary under Holloway’s network, restricted to vendors, staff, and contract personnel affiliated with their medical partnerships. Donghyuck leans over your shoulder, brows pulled, voice quiet. “That’s a hospital supplier,” he says, more question than statement, and you nod, already pulling up their vendor delivery routes, cross-referencing purchase logs and site access histories against hospital facility records, and it narrows quick—too quick—down to two locations in the area. One is a small pediatric outreach center, low-capacity, designed for short-term care and routine follow-ups, no overnight staff, no NICU, barely a ward to speak of. The other is different—larger, established, not flashy but formidable, known for its cross-disciplinary research and high-volume surgical output, with specialists in pediatric medicine, general and trauma surgery, neurosurgery, and cardiothoracics flown in from across the country. It’s not just a hospital—it’s a flagship facility, a semi-private institution with federal backing and restricted-access wings, and its eleventh floor is listed as sealed to external access. Unit Twelve.

You don’t speak as you type, don’t blink as the screen flickers in front of you, the hospital’s internal directory locked behind a firewall that clearly isn’t meant for your hands, but you’ve cracked harder things with less reason, and tonight, reason is burning a hole through your chest. Karina watches from across the table, breath shallow, mouthing, “You shouldn’t—” but you already are. The guest portal is useless, restricted by default. No public access. No back doors. So you write your own—just enough code to ghost your way through the surface, no alarms, just static, and when the system coughs up a directory dump, you search his name, nothing, not a single trace—not in active staff, not in archived contracts, not even a flagged resignation file. It’s a clean absence, too clean, like someone swept it deliberately, and your mouth tightens as you scan again, reloading the system cache just to be sure. Still nothing—not within the last year. Which doesn’t make sense. That’s exactly when he disappeared. The exact window when everything went quiet.

So you adjust the parameters, pull the timeframe back—twelve months, then fourteen, and the second the list refreshes, your breath hitches in your throat. There he is. Chief Pediatric Surgeon. A three-month appointment. High-acuity work. Surgical lead on congenital heart defects, rare neurodevelopmental corrections, multi-system interventions in infants under two weeks old. You scroll faster, heart in your throat—two peer-reviewed papers in pediatric journals, one co-authored with a visiting trauma team from Boston, another documenting a successful experimental closure on a case other surgeons refused to touch. He was cited in a write-up on early-age stroke intervention, featured in a local op-ed about the rise of high-success surgeries under forty. He saved thirty three children in ninety-one days.

Then the record stops. No end date. Just a notation. Paternity Leave. You blink at the screen, once, twice, not because you misread it, but because the words land too quietly to process. Your cursor drifts down. There’s a patient name linked to his file—flagged for weekly outpatient evaluations. Pediatric cardiac recovery. Fridays. Every single one.

Tomorrow is Friday.

The city folds inward as you approach 87th and Crescent. The skyline narrows into teeth. Steam slicks up from the grates in rhythmic bursts like something breathing beneath the streets, and the wind doesn’t move around you so much as through you—threading the sleeves of your coat, brushing the inside of your collarbone, humming low between your ribs. Traffic presses forward in slow, glinting waves. A delivery truck exhales sharply into the curb. A kid on a scooter slices past and leaves behind the smell of burnt rubber and bakery sugar. But here—this block—feels peeled back. The noise thins. The color dulls. Time stretches just enough to make you notice the texture of the air.

The hospital rises without warning. No sign. No fanfare. Just mass. A monolith of stone and window tucked between two glass high-rises, squat and silent like it grew there by mistake and stayed. The stone isn’t cold, it’s ancient—scraped down by weather, smoothed by time, the kind of façade that absorbs secrets into its pores. The entrance—recessed, shadowed, framed in steel—doesn’t welcome you, it swallows. A single door, dark glass and pressure-sealed, blinks once before unlocking with a sound like breath caught in the throat.

Inside, the light shifts. It’s still artificial, but softer now, like it’s been diffused through skin. The air is warm and holds you in place. The floor tiles stretch in perfect grids, the faint shimmer of wax and fluorescence kissing your soles. The lobby hums low, like something alive and pulsing just below frequency—ventilation, elevator gears, a distant rolling cart wheel catching rhythm across linoleum. You pass through it like being moved by gravity. Your steps don’t echo, but you feel the weight of each one. Like the ground knows who you are. Like it’s counting.

To your left, a family sits pressed into blue waiting chairs, their coats still zipped, eyes blank in the way only people halfway between answers can look. To your right, a hallway draped in muraled paper—whales, giraffes, moons with smiling faces—trails off toward pediatrics. A paper butterfly flutters from a nurse’s clipboard as she passes. It lands on the tile and no one picks it up.

Karina walks like her spine is held by thread. Shotaro’s eyes keep moving—windows, corners, fire alarms—cataloging exits without knowing why. Donghyuck’s hands stay buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders squared like he’s forcing his heartbeat to stay inside his body. And you—you walk slightly ahead, chest tight, temples buzzing, like you’ve entered the part of a dream where everything starts to slow down but won’t stop. The elevator at the end of the hall glows under a brass sign stamped with floor listings that mean nothing to you. The up arrow is lit. The doors are closed. But it feels like the building already knows where you’re going. And it’s waiting.

The receptionist barely looks up when you approach the desk. Her hair’s pulled tight into a coil, nails long and lacquered, and she’s tapping through a scheduling interface like the keys owe her something. Her badge reads ‘DAYOUNG’ in pale block letters, and the lanyard around her neck is printed with a faded rainbow of hospital departments—trauma, cardiology, oncology, pediatrics. She doesn’t stop typing when she greets you. She doesn’t blink, she just says, “name of the patient?”

You exchange a glance with Karina, but she doesn’t speak. None of them do. It’s you who steps forward, pulling your coat tighter with one hand and resting the other on the edge of the desk like you belong there. “Na Jaemin,” you say smoothly. “We’re here to confirm his reassignment.”

That gets Dayoung’s attention. Her fingers slow. Her eyes flicker up. “Is he a doctor or patient?”

“Doctor, but he’s also the father of a patient,” you say. Calm. Steady. Not defensive. “Pediatrics. We’ve been told he was transferred back into the system, but we haven’t received floor confirmation.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “And you are?” You don’t hesitate. You reach into your coat and slide out the APEX behavioral clearance pass—laminated, coded, issued from your last cycle in clinical psych research under a federal child trauma initiative. It’s old, but still active. Gold-stamped along the bottom edge. You lay it on the desk with care, letting the light hit the seal just enough. “External psych field liaison,” you say. “Na was flagged for a cross-disciplinary study last year. I need to verify the current ward assignment for our internal records. It’s policy to confirm direct placement in person. This isn’t for visitation.”

Dayoung looks down at the pass. Then back at you. You keep your face smooth, shoulders relaxed. Not too eager. Not too calm. Just a little bit annoyed—like you’ve done this too many times in too many cities to pretend it still matters.

She picks up the pass with two fingers, scans the barcode under a recessed reader built into the desk. The machine chimes. Approved. She exhales. “One moment.” Her typing slows into something more deliberate now—layers of access, redirections, protected floors. Her expression doesn’t change, but you know the system’s making her double-confirm clearance. Good. That means she’s in.

A few more taps. Then her gaze lifts. “Dr. Na is registered under pediatrics. Currently assigned to restricted-access ward, floor six, south wing.” She clicks again. “Room 611. Parent-only level. You’ll need to enter through the secondary elevator bay. East corridor. Take the south access hallway past lab intake. It’s unmarked. You’ll see a security panel to the left of a janitorial door. Input code seven-seven-four-zero-three. That’ll unlock the elevator control.”

Donghyuck exhales low behind you. Karina doesn’t blink. Shotaro shifts his weight but stays silent. Dayoung doesn’t flinch. She taps something into her own screen—likely logging the clearance, maybe flagging it, maybe not. “Once you’re on six,” she says, “follow the signs for the blue pod. Pediatrics splits into four wings—he’s in the far end. You’ll pass the imaging annex. If you reach physical therapy, you’ve gone too far.”

You nod, like you’ve done this before. Like you’ll do it again tomorrow. “Thanks,” you say, sliding the pass back into your coat.

Dayoung just shrugs. “Don’t get lost. That floor eats time.”

You don’t answer. You just turn. Karina follows first. Then the boys. And together, you step into the east corridor, your pulse syncing to the rhythm of your own lie, wondering if this—right now—is the moment Jaemin starts feeling real again.

The east corridor feels longer than it should. You move through it like a current pushed underground, surrounded by steel, concrete and quiet pressure. The lights overhead buzz faintly in rows, casting sharp shadows that slice across the tile like surgical threads. The air smells of citrus cleaner and iodine, and beneath that, something warmer—steam, maybe, or freshly laundered linens still clinging to heat. The signage is minimal. Color-coded bands on the wall. Blue for pediatrics. Green for surgical transfer. Red for restricted. No one speaks. Your boots click evenly across the floor like a metronome too fast for comfort.

You pass a group of interns whispering by a vending machine, faces pale from night shift, eyes flicking up but not long enough to clock you. A nurse jogs past wheeling an empty isolette, her badge flashing with every bounce. Someone calls out a code over a hallway comm: short, clipped, not urgent—but the sound still freezes something low in your spine. This place doesn’t feel chaotic. It feels sharp. Fast. Like every second is being held in a fist somewhere you can’t see.

A little girl walks past with a stuffed whale tucked under one arm and an IV pole dragging beside her like a companion. She waves at Karina. No one says anything. The hallway narrows where the light shifts. The south access hall isn’t labeled. Just a matte-gray stretch of wall that curves slightly to the left, too clean, too quiet. You spot the janitor’s closet first—faux wood door, mop sink visible through the crack—and then the panel.

On your left, a janitor’s closet nestles into the wall beneath a recessed arch, its door edged open to reveal the pale curve of a mop and the shine of a rust-streaked utility basin. To the right, smooth and recessed into the steel, the keypad waits. The panel is seamless—machine cut, flush with the surface, its presence unannounced yet unmistakable. You place your fingers gently over it and it wakes beneath your touch, blooming with blue light in a slow pulse that spills across your knuckles like breath catching under skin. The numbers rise, pale and precise. Your fingers move without hesitation. Seven. Seven. Four. Zero. Three.

The panel releases a single chime, soft and final. A mechanism shifts behind the wall. Then the elevator opens—steel-framed, doors gliding inward on silent tracks, the kind of entrance that feels like being accepted rather than permitted. You step forward, and the others follow without a sound. The interior gleams. The brushed metal walls reflect your bodies back to you, stretched in quiet motion, flickering under the narrow downlight like silhouettes inside a pulse. The air here changes—slimmer, more deliberate, as though the space is regulating breath. The control panel illuminates, offering no numbers, only a touchscreen glowing with a red key icon. You input the code again, deliberate and slow. The system swallows it without pause, the screen fading before a new one appears.

6R – Access Granted. The elevator lifts—fluid, gliding, no drag in the movement, only an ascension that feels inward and precise. Karina stands to your left, arms folded in tight restraint. Donghyuck holds himself steady without leaning. Shotaro’s gaze remains fixed on the floor display as the numbers rise, his eyes unblinking. Your heart syncs to the movement. Each breath feels shaped around what comes next. The silence between you all sharpens. There’s no room left for theory or guesswork. Just this—this rising. This certainty. And beyond the steel doors, a hallway waits. And inside that hallway, the weight of every answer you’ve spent months trying to survive.

The elevator opens without a sound. The floor greets you with quiet lighting, walls painted in ocean tones, soft and sleep-heavy, like this corridor was designed to mute the outside world. You step out first, and the others follow without speaking. There’s a curved bench tucked under a long frosted window, a row of closed doors marked with soft blue numbers, a glass bulletin board lined with paper cranes folded from hospital chart paper and pinned like a constellation across cork. The air carries a warmth that doesn’t feel artificial—like something’s been lived-in here, touched by presence, by breath, by lullabies and antiseptic and grief folded into routine. A monitor hums behind the wall. Somewhere, a child laughs, then coughs.

You see him before your brain finishes registering the shape of him. He’s seated just beyond the nurses’ station, half-turned from view, angled into a patch of light that slips down from the window behind him like a benediction. He’s dressed simply—sweatpants, a dark hoodie pushed to the elbows, a faint smear of something pale across the collar, maybe milk or formula or sleep-deep exhaustion—and his frame is different now, broader through the chest, shoulders set like stone, forearms pulled tight under soft fabric. There’s a heaviness to him that doesn’t weigh down so much as anchor—like he’s settled, like the gravity around him has doubled and found its center.

In his arms, small and impossibly still, is a baby.

A little girl, no more than a few months old, her head smaller than the palm cradling it. She’s swaddled in a soft grey blanket stitched with tiny stars, her face turned in toward his collarbone, tucked beneath the edge of his jaw where the light can’t reach. One of her fists is curled loosely near his chest, her fingers wrapped instinctively around the cord of his hoodie drawstring like she’s claimed him in her sleep. He shifts her gently, barely at all, just enough to realign her head against his skin, and you can see the flex of his hands—big and careful, protective without tension, like every nerve in his body is dedicated to keeping her exactly as she is. He murmurs something low, a soft string of sounds just above a whisper, then presses his mouth to the crown of her head like punctuation. The way he holds her—secure and slow and whole—is so tender it hurts to witness.

You don’t need to see his face to know it’s him. Every line of him speaks. The way his knee bounces just slightly. The slope of his brow in profile. The way his gaze doesn’t drift. The world ends at the edge of that baby’s breath and he’s guarding it like it’s his only task on earth. He doesn’t see you. Doesn’t sense you. His focus is sealed in the weight against his chest, in the tiny rise and fall of her sleep.

Even though the signs have been building for weeks, even though every line of evidence has led you here—receipt, voicemail, badge record, paternity leave—it still crashes into you with a velocity your body wasn’t built to absorb. Because he’s real. And so is she. Karina steps forward, but her body goes stiff like she’s walked into the wrong dream. Shotaro’s mouth opens and closes again. Donghyuck stares, unmoving, his grip tightening on the cereal bar he forgot he was holding. And you—you feel the thud in your chest, the pull in your gut, the sharp hum of thought slicing through disbelief but unable to stick to anything solid.

He’s a father.

And somehow, even with every breadcrumb, every piece of this built by your own hand, the shape of that truth doesn’t feel possible. It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t settle. You can’t imagine him that way. You can’t imagine how. The timeline feels warped. The version of him you knew doesn’t stretch this far. It bends. It resists.

And then— 

A voice cuts through the air, sharp and passing. “Dr. Na,” a woman says, clipboard tucked under one arm, coat flaring slightly with her stride as she walks past. She doesn’t pause, doesn’t glance back. “Your daughter’s charts show her oxygen levels have finally stabilised. We’ll come check again in twenty minutes.”

Jaemin shifts her gently in his arms, one hand cupping the back of her head with a kind of reverence usually reserved for glass. His thumb moves in slow, instinctive circles against her spine, each pass like a whispered promise. Her breath is soft against his collarbone, feathering across the fabric of his hoodie as if even sleep trusts him to keep her safe. He leans in, mouth brushing the top of her head, one long, steady press of lips to skin, like he’s sealing something there. “I love you, baby,” he murmurs, low and warm, the kind of voice that can only come from the center of the chest. “I’ve got you. Always.”

The baby stirs a little, her tiny fingers uncurling and catching at the string of his hoodie. He lets her pull. He lets her hold. His arms tighten just slightly, the motion so subtle it feels like muscle remembering how to protect. He sways without realizing, a slow back-and-forth, the rhythm of someone who has been doing this long enough for his body to memorize the lull. His nose grazes the side of her head again. He whispers something else, barely audible, maybe a name. Maybe a promise.

He doesn’t see you yet, he only sees her.

You reach him slowly, every step drawn through molasses, like the air thickened the second you crossed into his orbit. His head remains bowed, breath syncing with the tiny one pressed to his chest. The light catches on the curve of her cheek where it peeks from the blanket, her skin warm and impossibly smooth, one fist curled into the collar of his hoodie like she was born knowing it belonged to her. Jaemin holds her with both arms wrapped around her, one hand cradling her back, the other resting along the top of her swaddle. His thumb moves in small, soothing arcs. He whispers into her hair.

The hallway has folded itself around him like it was built to carry this moment. Like this bench, this patch of light, this hour — they were waiting. Karina stops beside you, shoulder brushing yours, heartbeat loud enough to feel. You’re all watching him, watching them, watching a version of Jaemin that none of you have ever met. He’s still cooing to her. Still brushing her forehead with the backs of his fingers, rhythm soft, voice even softer.

And then Karina speaks. “Jaemin?” Her voice cuts sideways, choked and sharp at once. “What the fuck?”

Jaemin freezes.

The reaction is immediate. His head lifts in one motion, slow but full-bodied, like someone pulling himself up from underwater. His shoulders rise. His eyes snap toward the sound, and for a breathless second, he just stares—lips parted, lashes unmoving, gaze flicking from face to face as if the hallway has shifted into something he cannot place. He doesn’t speak. His hand on the baby stills completely. The rhythm breaks. She sighs once in his arms, adjusting slightly. He catches her instinctively, gaze dropping for a moment to check her weight, to shift her higher against his chest without disturbing her sleep. His body moves out of reflex. His mind is slower to follow.

You can see the question before it forms, sitting just behind his eyes—how the hell did you find me? But then she stirs. A soft sound escapes from the bundle in his arms, small but rising, a wet hiccup blooming into a whimper. Jaemin’s focus drops immediately, hands moving on instinct. He shifts her higher against his chest, one palm splayed across her back, the other brushing under her blanket to find the edge of her foot. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs, voice low again, quiet and certain, “Daddy’s here, I’ve got you.”

The fussiness crests, turns, then begins to settle. Her fingers twitch at his hoodie string again. He rocks slightly, rhythm finding him again then he looks at you. The recognition strikes him in full. First in his eyes, then in his mouth, which doesn’t speak but tightens just enough to reveal a language that only he’s caught. His throat works around a breath that doesn’t turn into words. The tendons in his neck pull taut. There’s nothing composed in his reaction—only the raw, stilled shape of shock pressed across his face like it was sculpted there.

You say nothing.

None of you do.

Because in front of you, Jaemin is holding a child. And the silence has never felt heavier.

“Hey,” he says quietly, voice rasped but steady. “You found us.”

No one answers right away. The baby’s breath hitches once in his arms, a little uneven puff that makes him glance down, adjusting the crook of her neck against his chest with a slow, practiced ease. The silence stretches until Karina’s jaw locks, her mouth opening again—but this time it’s not cautious. “You absolute bastard,” she hisses, stepping forward, voice pitched somewhere between cracked fury and relief. “I thought you were dead. I had Shotaro checking morgues. Do you know that? Morgues, Jaemin.”

“Technically only once,” Shotaro adds, holding up a hand. “And we didn’t go inside.”

“You ghosted us. You fell off the face of the earth. And now you’re just… here? At some unknown hospital? Rocking a literal baby?”

“Technically,” you murmur, arms still at your sides, voice calm in a way that feels vaguely misplaced, “this hospital isn’t exactly unknown. It’s one of the leading pediatric centers in the country. They’re affiliated with three different research labs, and they pulled top neurosurgery stats last year—”

Karina whirls on you. “You don’t need to correct everything, Y/N.”

Jaemin blinks at the two of you. Then glances down at Ha-eun again, his hand adjusting her sleeve, tucking her fingers in beneath the blanket like it’s the most important thing in the room. “She’s asleep,” he says under his breath. “Keep it down unless you want to watch me cry.”

“You cry?” Donghyuck scoffs. “Since when do you—”

“I cry all the time now,” Jaemin cuts in, eyes wide and unbothered. “I cried yesterday because her sock fell off and she looked betrayed. I cried last week because she rolled over and I didn’t record it. I cried this morning because she grabbed my thumb like she’d chosen me, and that’s insane because she doesn’t even know what a thumb is.”

Karina stares at him. “Who are you?”

He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound cracked open at the edges. “I’m Ha-eun’s dad.” The name lands with a softness you didn’t expect. Ha-eun. It fits the shape of her, small and whole and safe in his arms like she has always belonged there.

“She’s one next week,” Jaemin says, softer now, barely above the hush of her breath. His eyes stay on her, every word kissed into the space between them. There’s wonder in his voice, quiet but steady—the kind that glows from deep inside instead of trying to reach the world around it. His thumb brushes the curve of her ear, gentle and rhythmic. “Feels like she just got here yesterday,” he murmurs, half to her, half to himself. “Feels like she’s been mine forever.”

You watch her more closely. Her cheeks are warm, her lashes long and soft against the curve of her face, her body curled inwards like she’s learned to keep herself small. Her head fits perfectly beneath his chin. Her blanket rises and falls in slow, careful rhythm. You swallow, tongue caught against the back of your teeth. “She looks really little,” you murmur, eyes still on her, voice barely threaded together. “For a baby who’s nearly one.”

You knew the answer the moment you stepped into this hallway—the moment you saw the way he held her, not like something precious, but like something that could slip away if he blinked too long. You knew when you realized his badge had no department, when his voice broke around the word daughter, when every inch of him bent toward her like prayer. This isn’t a man in uniform. This isn’t a doctor finishing rounds. This is a father on borrowed time, keeping vigil in a place that only holds what it cannot promise.

Jaemin sighs, the sound deep and almost silent, then presses a kiss to the top of her head. His hand strokes down the length of her back once before he looks up. When he speaks, the words come quiet and full, like he’s had to shape them gently to keep from breaking. “She was born with a congenital heart defect. The medical term is truncus arteriosus—it means there’s only one large vessel leaving her heart, when there should be two. It makes everything harder. Breathing. Circulation. Growth.”

Shotaro’s hand flies up to his mouth. His eyes blur with too many things at once. “Oh my god.”

“We have to stay strong,” Jaemin says quickly, his voice cutting in with a soft, insistent edge. “She’s strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever met.” He glances down at her again. His hand moves automatically, smoothing the edge of the blanket near her shoulder. “She’s had four surgeries since she was born. One at three days old. One at four months. Another when she turned six. And just last month, they had to go in again to adjust the graft. It’s been—” he stops, exhales, then nods like he’s saying it to himself—“a year of holding our breath.”

Karina wipes at her eyes in silence. Donghyuck doesn’t move. “She’s getting better,” Jaemin adds, voice firm now, like he’s anchoring the sentence in truth. “She’s getting stronger every single day. Even when it’s hard. Especially then.” And in his arms, Ha-eun sleeps on, untouched by the weight around her, as if her body already knows that love like this will carry her through anything.

Jaemin shakes his head slowly, eyes still fixed on her like he’s drawing strength straight from her sleep. “She’s more than what’s happening in her chest,” he says, and there’s a quiet edge to it—tired, certain, protective in a way that feels carved into bone. “She’s brilliant. You should see her when she’s awake. She studies everything—faces, voices, colors. She knows when I’m the one holding her, even if she’s half-asleep. The second I walk into the room, she lifts her head. She says ‘dada’ when she sees me, clear as anything. She doesn't speak to anyone else.”

His mouth softens as he speaks, and something in his expression changes—lightens without losing depth. “She sticks her tongue out when she’s concentrating. She gets really quiet when it rains, like she’s listening to something I can’t hear. And she hates socks. I mean—hates them. We’ve lost twelve pairs this month alone. She’ll look me dead in the eye and rip them off like she’s making a point.”

A smile pulls at the edge of his mouth, lopsided and full of something sacred. “She’s funny. She’s opinionated. She loves the color yellow and gets genuinely offended when I eat the last bite of her yogurt without offering it to her—like she didn’t just fling half of it across the table and reject the last three spoons with full dramatic flair. She makes this little growl when she wants attention and she knows exactly how to fake-cry to get what she wants. She’s got the weirdest taste in music, a total old soul. She doesn’t like any of the baby songs I play for her but she’ll fall asleep to Debussy, perks up for acoustic lullabies, but her favorite song in the world—no joke—is a stripped-down jazz cover of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit.’ I swear, if I play anything too upbeat, she looks at me like I’ve insulted her lineage.” And in his arms, Ha-eun stirs softly, her tiny fingers flexing once against his chest before curling back into warmth—like she knows he’s telling her story, and she’s letting him.

Donghyuck stares at him, expression halfway between awe and something deeply unhinged. “You… you have a daughter. Like a real, breathing, sock-wearing, Debussy-listening baby. You’re someone’s dad. How the hell did that happen?”

“Not someone,” Jaemin mutters, smoothing her hair with his palm. “I’m Hae-un’s dad.” 

Karina makes a strangled sound and half-lunges at him—not to attack, but to slap his shoulder so hard he has to rock slightly to keep from waking her. “You idiot. You disappeared. You broke all of us. You broke me. You could have at least sent a fucking text!”

“I didn’t know how,” he says, and this time his voice folds inward, like he’s talking less to you and more to the version of himself that didn’t make it through. “After you and I fizzled out, everything around me got quieter but heavier. Like I kept walking through rooms that used to be full and couldn’t remember what I came in for. And I don’t mean it in a dramatic way. I just stopped knowing who I was when no one was looking.”

He glances down at her hand—so small it barely covers the center of his palm, her tiny fingers curled into him like they grew there. “Then she arrived and no one else mattered. I had to step up, it was only me, I had to do it all myself and it wasn’t easy, but she made it easy. There was one thing that mattered more than my shame, my pride or all the versions of myself I couldn’t live with. She came into the world already fighting for air, and all I could think about was whether she’d hear my voice first or the machines.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and there’s no mask left—just a tired, honest quiet. “I know it’s not an excuse but I needed time. To become someone she could trust without even thinking. Someone she could fall asleep on without wondering if I’d still be there in the morning. And maybe that meant disappearing from everything else. Maybe that’s the part I’ll always regret. But I couldn’t afford to mess this up, not this time, not with her.” He doesn’t add anything else after that. Just smooths the edge of her tiny sock where it’s slipped loose, then lets his hand rest there like it’s keeping the whole world in place.

Donghyuck breaks the silence first, tipping his head and raising both brows like he’s looking at a puzzle that somehow built itself while no one was watching. “So you just had a secret baby in the past year,” he says, voice too casual to be serious, too stunned to be joking. “I got a parking ticket. Shotaro dyed his hair. Karina joined a yoga cult and started meditating because of you. And you—” he gestures toward Jaemin with a flick of his wrist, “—you went full Witness Protection Program and showed up as someone’s dad.”

There’s a moment of stunned stillness, then a tiny snort from Karina that might have been a laugh if it weren’t drowned in disbelief. Shotaro shifts where he stands, something more serious pulling at his face now. His hands are loose at his sides, but his voice is careful. “Did no one know about this?” he asks quietly. “Jaemin… you should’ve come to us. We would’ve helped. You didn’t have to carry this all alone. Did you seriously tell no one?”

The silence is like pressure dropping in the room. Then you speak, quietly, your words more shape than sound. “You told Jeno.”

Jaemin looks up, and for the first time, his expression shifts—something flickering just beneath the surface. He doesn’t look surprised. He doesn’t ask how you know. He just nods, the movement slow, like it comes from a place that’s lived in this truth too long to hide it. “Yeah,” he says. “I told Jeno. He’s helped a lot. More than I can explain. When it got bad—when she had her third surgery and I didn’t sleep for days—he flew out and stayed with us. Slept on the couch. Took shifts with her when I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Kept the monitors from sounding like alarms. He was here for a while, a whole month, actually.”

Your stomach pulls tight.

The timelines add up. Too perfectly. That night last spring when the city felt too loud and too quiet all at once. The bar on West 38th, the one you never meant to walk into, the one where Jeno was already sitting, glass in hand, sleeves rolled to the elbow like he was trying to breathe. You never asked why he was in New York. He never offered. You both said things you didn’t mean and did things you never talked about after.

And now, standing here, the weight of it curls beneath your ribs like smoke rising from something you thought had gone cold. He was here because of Jaemin. Because of her. You blink once, slow. The hallway sharpens again around you. Jaemin’s still speaking, quiet and steady, eyes back on Ha-eun now like the rest of the world is just background. “I haven’t been alone,” he says, and there’s something almost grateful in his voice. “It’s been hard. But she makes it worth it. And I had help when it counted.”

Jaemin huffs a soft laugh, the sound tugged right from his chest, and glances down at her with mock betrayal. “She’s obsessed with her uncle Jeno,” he says, shaking his head. “When he’s around, I practically don’t exist. It’s like she forgets who changed her diapers at 3 a.m. for eleven months straight.”

His hand shifts slightly, brushing her tiny foot where it’s peeking from the blanket. “He walks into the room and she lights up like a lamp. Grabs at his shirt, tries to babble faster than she knows how. Do you wanna know the worst part?” He leans back slightly, eyes narrowing like he’s preparing to deliver a personal offense. “She flirts. I’m not kidding—she flutters her lashes. She gets shy and tucks her chin like she has a crush. Literally blushes. On cue.”

Karina snorts. Shotaro coughs into his sleeve. Donghyuck mutters something about being the forgotten godfather. But none of it reaches you, because something quieter has already taken hold, something slow and deliberate that rises not from what was said but from what lingers in the silence between their voices, something threaded beneath your skin in a place you have never named. It stirs when Jaemin speaks of Jeno, when he says his name like it belongs to something steady and sacred, when he smiles and recalls how she leans toward him like she has always known him, like he is home—and that is where it lodges in you, sharp and silent and echoing like a breath held too long. There is a ‘he’ in this room who isn’t here yet, but his shadow has already passed through you, has already marked you, and has already left something behind. And whatever it is that tightens now in the quiet curve of your throat, whatever it is that steals your breath before you can feel it—it’s already inside you, placing shape where none should be, forming quietly, unknowingly, and it moves like his.

There’s a pause. And then you ask it—softly, gently, like the answer might pull the light out of the room. “Who’s her mother?”

Jaemin exhales. Not like a breath. Like a weight. His mouth twists into something that tries to be a smile and fails halfway. His hand keeps moving over Ha-eun’s blanket in small, rhythmic strokes. His voice comes slowly. “That’s — it’s not important, I don’t wanna get into it.” And then he looks down at her again—like she’s the only thing keeping that story from unraveling in his hands.

Jaemin shifts her slowly, the kind of motion that carries memory in the muscle, like his body has learned her rhythm so completely it doesn’t need thought anymore. His arms fold in toward his chest, her weight still resting soft in his hands, and then he turns to you—not with words, just with his eyes, and something in them asks if you’re ready for something that might change you. 

You reach without meaning to. He places her in your arms with the kind of care that feels ceremonial. Not cautious, but reverent. Like handing over a piece of sky. Like trusting someone with light. Her warmth bleeds instantly through the fabric between you, her head nestling into the inside of your elbow, her fingers twitching once in sleep.

She is so light. Lighter than anything with this much gravity. Your breath catches, quiet and sharp, like it was startled into stillness. And then she stirs—barely. Just a sigh through her nose, a flutter behind her eyelids, and the smallest sound leaves her lips, softer than a whimper, louder than a thought. You do not mean to coo, but you do, and the sound that comes out of you doesn’t belong to the voice you know. It’s quieter. Warmer. Older.

Her eyes blink open, clouded and bright all at once, unfocused but seeking, and for a heartbeat she just looks up at you, small chest rising slow against the side of your forearm. She doesn’t cry. She just looks, as if she knows something you don’t. The moment lands heavy, not in your arms, but beneath your ribs—because this feels like the kind of thing that can only happen once. Like something the universe allows before it takes it back.

And you’re not sure if she’s giving you something or saying goodbye.

Karina steps closer, arms half-extended, like reaching for Ha-eun might snap whatever spell is humming in the space between all of you. Her voice comes quieter than usual, softer, rounded at the edges by something fragile. “Can I—” she starts, then swallows. “Can I hold her?” Her gaze flickers between Jaemin and the baby in your arms, and it isn’t anger anymore that sits in her throat. It’s wonder. She looks at Ha-eun like she’s watching something sacred sleep. And for a moment, every cruel thing she wanted to say to Jaemin dissolves into the air between them, too small to matter. Too human to hold.

Jaemin nods. You shift slightly, ready to pass her over—but the moment breaks before it completes. Ha-eun stirs, just a breath, just a soft movement that feels less like waking and more like remembering. Her tiny hand uncurls from where it’s been nestled against her chest and drifts downward, clumsy, unfocused, yet drawn with the precision of instinct. Her fingers find your wrist.

And they tighten. Not harshly, not in pain but in a way that stills everything. Her palm rests against the bracelet there—your bracelet. The one you never took off. The chain cools against your skin, her fingers warmer than anything has a right to be. And for a moment, the air feels like silk being pulled through water. Slow. Soundless. Crushing in its softness.

She clutches it like she knows the story it tells. The bracelet wraps around your wrist like a timeline masquerading as jewelry—delicate, yes, but heavy with the weight of things that shaped you. Each charm is a relic, a kept secret, a chapter without words. The microphone gleams gold, dulled at the edges from years of skin and stage-light dreams, a symbol from the first time you chose your voice over silence. The basketball hangs beside it, small and scuffed, the color worn from afternoons spent under dying suns and the memory of someone who taught you how to want without shame. A miniature book with a cracked spine dangles from the center—its pages fused closed, no titles, no words, only the echo of everything you never said out loud. There’s a tiny theater mask, one side smiling, one side hollowed out, a gift from a winter that almost undid you, when pretending was the only way you survived. A wave curls near the clasp, silver caught mid-crash, from the summer you lost something to the ocean and pretended it was just the tide. A charm shaped like a safety pin sits next to it—thin, silver, unbending—a quiet nod to the year you held everyone together except yourself. 

Near the clasp, where the chain begins and ends, rests the smallest charm—quiet in shape, but exact in meaning, a silver quill with its spine curved just enough to suggest movement, its tip narrowing to a point so fine it seems to tremble in the light. Each groove along the feather reads like a line already written, the surface cool and clean and carrying the stillness of something that has waited a long time to be found. Her fingers close around it gently, with a stillness that feels less like reaching and more like remembering, the motion dreamlike and inevitable, as if her hand was carved for this weight long before it ever found its shape, and in that quiet moment the charm begins to shift—no longer a feather, but a promise folding itself into form, a name blooming beneath silence, a future written so softly it settles into the air like ink that never needed a pen.

Now her fingers are wrapped around it, she isn’t letting go.

Karina stands with her arms open, but something stills between you—the baby’s hand wrapped around the bracelet at your wrist, her fingers curled with such delicate purpose it feels carved from something older than her body, and older than yours. Her grip is small, soft, but the weight behind it is immense, as if she’s touching more than metal, as if she’s pressing her palm to every shape and memory it’s ever carried. There’s no resistance in her hold, only certainty. The kind of certainty that steals breath. Your arms don’t move because it feels like passing her to someone else would unmake a moment that has already planted its roots inside your chest. And still, Karina waits. Her breath is uneven, her expression splintered somewhere between wonder and the ache of something breaking open. Her hands tremble as she reaches again.

You exhale, barely, and begin to shift.

The baby stirs, blinking once, her eyes cloudy but bright, lashes trembling with sleep, and the second Karina gathers her into her arms, something changes in the room. The air warms. The distance softens. And from the curve of Karina’s shoulder, a sound escapes—fragile, vowel-shaped, almost a laugh but shaped like language. A sound meant for her. Karina gasps, then smiles so suddenly it crumples her whole face. “You’re talking to me?” she whispers, voice cracked around the edges. “You’re saying hi?”

The baby gurgles again, a soft string of syllables that mean nothing and everything. And Karina holds her closer, rocking slightly, like her body remembers how even if her mind doesn’t. Her hair slips forward and brushes the baby’s forehead. The bracelet on your wrist is still warm. The space where her weight once was still pulses with memory. You stand there, breath folded sharp beneath your ribs, because even without her in your arms, something of her remains threaded through you—light as breath, deep as marrow—as if her weight carved a space inside you that hasn’t figured out how to close.

Donghyuck takes her next, arms slightly unsure at first, but cradling her with the gentleness of someone who knows how to make himself soft when it matters most, and the second she blinks up at him, he lets out a laugh so quiet it folds into a hum, bouncing her lightly as he murmurs something low and ridiculous, something about her cheeks being engineered in a lab to destroy him. She doesn’t cry. She watches. She settles. And then she sneezes once into his shirt and Shotaro chokes on a laugh, already reaching for his turn. When the baby passes into Shotaro’s arms, she sighs like she’s returning somewhere, her tiny fingers brushing his chest as he rocks slightly from heel to toe, his face open in the way only he knows how to be, full of wonder, full of awe, whispering “hello” like it’s a secret between them and only her eyes can answer it. They stay like that for a while, wrapped in a kind of silence that feels bigger than stillness, until her head tips slightly, her weight shifting again like instinct — and without needing to ask, without needing to speak, she comes back to you.

She nestles into the crook of your arm like she never left, her body folding soft into yours with a breath that shivers down your spine, and you shift her closer with hands that remember the rhythm now, your cheek brushing her temple, your voice cooing something senseless and warm just for her to hear. And behind you, quiet and unnoticed, Shotaro lifts his phone, screen dimmed low, not to interrupt, not even to remember—just to capture, to hold still the shape of something that might never happen quite like this again. The photo blinks into existence with a hush of light: you, holding her against your chest, your lips curved into a smile too soft to be posed, eyes half-lowered, your wrist glinting beneath her fingers as she touches your bracelet like it belongs to her. There’s something golden in the angle, something still. You don’t notice the click. You don’t hear it save itself. But when Shotaro looks down, the image quiets him. Because the moment is whole. And you are glowing. 

Monaco is the twenty-sixth country this year, though it doesn’t unfold the way the others did—no flash, no skyline stretch, no chaos pretending to be luxury—just stillness, just silence, just the kind of coastal hush that costs more than gold to maintain, and Jeno moves through it like breath caught inside the body of something too old to speak, streets winding like thought, alleys clean enough to mirror bone. His name followed him here, first in the windows of storefronts where his face hung beside gold-trimmed logos and limited edition sneakers, then in the whispers of brand reps in linen suits who smiled too wide and asked nothing of him but presence. Twenty-six cities, twenty-six courts, twenty-six languages softened into endorsements and autographs. They hand him heat-pressed jerseys and gold-tipped pens, call him the future with smiles that stretch too wide across brand decks, clip microphones to his collar while cameras catch the angles they already studied, and his face—clean, balanced, carved by sweat and spotlight—moves from billboard to broadcast like it’s no longer something he owns, just a polished surface they pass between them.

The season ended three months ago, but the world hasn’t stopped asking for him—the NBA called it a peak, the numbers called it a breakout, and he called it none of those things because there was never a version of this that didn’t feel like a performance, like precision dressed as prophecy, like grief passed down through muscle memory and sold as ambition. Every stop is the same: photos under heat lamp bulbs, contract meetings in rooms where silence matters more than answers, gym sessions booked at three a.m. to dodge cameras, and a new country pressing its fingerprint into the back of his neck before he can forget the shape of the last one. He hasn’t unpacked in months. The suitcase lives open.

He still ties his own shoes before every game, double-knots them the same way he did at seventeen, sits on locker room floors with his elbows on his knees and his head bowed like he’s praying for focus and not forgiveness, keeps the first towel he was handed after his rookie debut folded in the bottom of his gym bag like a promise no one else remembers. The drivers call him sir, the stylists ask if they can post him, the agents float words like empire and legacy and icon, but he nods without lifting his eyes, always thanks them by name, always clears his own plates, always trains until his chest aches—not because the cameras ask, but because the work is the only place that feels honest, the only place that asks nothing but everything.

But Monaco slows everything, slants the light gold and long across stone like it’s trying to teach him how to mourn in style, and he lets it, walking with the weight of his father’s watch wrapped twice around his wrist, gaze pulled down the narrow corridors that taste like salt and dynasty, steps echoing against glass storefronts that sell stillness at premium. The buildings here feel like they remember names even after the families forget them, arches carved into silence, marble clinging to old heat. He pauses at the edge of the overlook, not for the view but for the shadow that stretches before him, lean and tall and motionless across the glinting water, and the way it folds with the curve of the rail makes it look less like his own and more like the echo of someone else’s—someone who taught him how to stand like that, how to disappear without leaving.

The air smells like money and memory, seafoam and steel, and the harbor below shifts with a patience that makes his stomach tighten, because here even the water moves with legacy. His phone buzzes against his thigh, another message from another brand, another opportunity to be seen, to be owned, to be sold. He doesn’t check it. He keeps his hands at his sides, eyes on the line where the sea meets the light, and waits for the ache to pass. It doesn’t. It only deepens, slides lower into his ribs, joins the rhythm of his breath like it was always meant to be there. And the city watches. And the shadow holds.

He doesn’t raise his voice because he doesn’t need to, the quiet does it for him, spreading slow and deliberate across any room brave enough to ask about lineage, each mention of legacy left to hang midair like smoke rising from something already burned. He lets it breathe, lets it sour, lets the pause between words collect weight until the question curls in on itself and disappears, and when he turns his head toward the sea, it isn’t for beauty or peace, it’s for the way the reflection handles him—how the surface holds his face like a secret, edges soft, eyes dark, the sky folding around him like it’s tucking him away, like it’s preparing to bury something without ceremony.

The watch speaks in silence against his pulse, thick leather brushing bone, gold dulled by time and sweat, ticking steady as if to remind him he’s still inside the hour Taeyong never outran, and the key rides hidden in the same place it always does—tucked beside gauze, resin, salt—never reaching the lock but never leaving the bag either, carried like breath, like superstition, like proof of a door that still exists. Grief doesn’t ask for attention anymore, it lives in muscle and scar, in clean form and cleaner footwork, in how he lands his shots with the kind of finality that belongs to legacy, in how he looks past the questions now, not to dismiss but to disarm, voice cut to the shape of ritual, steady and stripped and shaped by years of learning how to say everything without offering anything. Nahyun calls it control, calls it dignity, calls it the strength his father would have admired, but she never felt the cold behind Taeyong’s voice when he issued silence like a sentence, never learned how stillness can scream when it’s taught by someone who held power like a blade.

So Jeno folds everything into movement, places it in the flex of his jaw, the evenness of his breath, the weight he drops into every step like his bones are measuring distance not in steps but in cost, and when he finds himself alone in the late light of windows that reach the floor, he doesn’t look away from the reflection, because it gives nothing, asks nothing, holds the shape of him without judgment, and the city gathers around that image like a crown built from shadow.

He wakes to headlines before the sun reaches the windows, name printed in sharp fonts and sharper praise, called the future before he can rub the sleep from his eyes, voice already hoarse from the weight of questions he hasn’t answered yet, and by the time he’s walking through the terminal—hood low, sleeves cuffed, security flanking him like shadow—there’s already a crowd waiting, already a camera rolling, already a child pushing forward with sneakers in both hands and eyes wide like he’s seeing something holy. They call him king. They call him an icon. They call him inevitable. And he signs his name like he’s pressing a bruise into the fabric, smiles the way he’s been taught to, holds their gaze long enough to be remembered but nothing touches him. Not anymore. 

The higher it climbs, the less it reaches. The air thins. The light glitters too cold. And every win drags something behind it, something heavier than celebration, something shaped like survival. Interviews stack on top of photo shoots, blur into press days, press days bleed into flights, into training, into sideline microphones asking him again and again what fuels him, what inspires him, what he’s chasing now. He tells them discipline. He tells them hunger. He tells them love for the game. He never says revenge. He never says father. You’re the one he never names. The one with ash on your smile and fire beneath your ribs, the one who held out your hand even as he stepped back, who stayed soft long after he’d gone silent. He left you in a breath, without warning, without apology, without giving you a place to set all the love he left burning, and he told himself that distance would erase the shape of you, that silence could starve what memory couldn’t kill. But you stayed. You stayed in the empty stretch between headlines and hotel rooms, in the stillness of locker rooms after the noise fades, in the way his chest pulls tight at every question he dodges, because your name still lives beneath his tongue like a secret bruising him from the inside out. And on the nights when everything else falls quiet—when the fans are gone and the lights are low and his hands won’t stop shaking—he finds you there again, not in forgiveness, not in fantasy, but in the part of him that never stopped asking why he left something that felt like being alive.

Nahyun keeps it all in motion, or at least gives it the illusion—schedules his fittings like they’re sacred, checks his call log before he can, turns down interviews with a smile that lands better than any statement he could’ve made himself. She walks through their apartment like she owns its quiet, adjusts the volume of the speakers without ever asking what he wants to hear, lays out clothes he never remembers choosing, hosts dinners where the wine is imported and the compliments feel rehearsed. Her hand curls into the crook of his arm just before the camera clicks, her laugh lands at the exact pitch that trends best on reels, and when she whispers “you’re the most wanted man in the league” it sounds like she’s reminding herself who she’s standing beside. He nods because it’s easier, lets her kiss land against his cheek with the softness of habit, but his fingers always drift to his chest after—just beneath the collarbone, to the hollow place that never closes, the one her hands never find, no matter how many rooms she fills.

Sometimes after games—after the roar fades, after the jerseys are swapped and the lights go down—he showers without speaking, moves through the water like it’s trying to baptise him into someone untouched by love, someone immune to memory, someone who never once stayed too long inside a goodbye. He wraps the towel around his face and sits there breathing, elbows on knees, head bowed, counting each inhale like it might bring something back that hasn’t had a name in years. And in that dark, inside that silence that wraps around him tighter than anything ever has, he lets the question come. If he stripped it all away—the cameras, the contracts, the kingdom built around his name—would anything remain but yours in the back of his throat, the syllable shaped like mercy, the one thing he never got to keep.

Outside the court, the pace never softens. The days spiral—early lifts in private gyms that smell like metal and intent, meetings held in penthouses where windows outnumber clocks, jet-black SUVs that move like shadows through cities that keep his name in lights. There are stylists waiting with garment bags he never picked, trainers adjusting macros to match analytics he never questioned, agents whispering forecasts like scripture between elevators. His phone doesn’t sleep. His signature moves faster than he does. He lands in one country before the sweat dries from the last, and when he walks into rooms, the air tightens—because even when the game ends, the game keeps playing. Just louder. Just cleaner. Just dressed in suits instead of jerseys.

There’s a building in Seoul’s financial core that rises sharper than zoning should allow, clad in obsidian glass that swallows daylight and brass so polished it throws reflections like weapons. It doesn’t shimmer. It stares. Security rotates every four hours. Every floor requires biometric clearance. The air smells like ozone and contract ink. Inside, the logo for ‘Vantae Group’ curves across a monolithic reception wall—matte black, unlit, unbranded—small enough to whisper, sharp enough to wound, the kind of design that doesn’t ask to be remembered, only obeyed. It began decades ago as a fashion house known for blood-slick runways and silk cut like shrapnel, but it expanded fast, teeth first—into luxury athletics, global media ventures, equity-controlled event syndicates, real estate portfolios spread across seven continents, and a closed-access network of neuro-performance labs buried beneath ex-military vaults in cities that never sleep. It doesn’t sponsor athletes. It engineers them. It doesn’t sell product. It trades futures. And if something moves the culture—Vantae already owns the patent on its breath.

The company began as a split vision between Taeyong Lee and Nahyun’s father—one known for his cold ascent, the other for his immaculate restraint—and now Jeno runs what they built. The partnerships are listed clean across documents, board seats shared, but in every meeting, the weight tips toward blood. He enters the first boardroom of the fiscal year in charcoal wool and shadow, jaw set like a warning, and they don’t stand. They don’t pause. They barely glance up from their numbers, seeing the face, the contract, the league asset, but not the threat. So he lets them. He flips the projections without speaking, listens to their pitch for a new digital rights package while silence gathers like static, letting the room warm itself with assumptions. Then he closes the folder with two fingers and says, “Not worth it.” Nothing more. And for the first time that morning, they stop speaking. By the next quarter, three directors step down, two entire departments restructure, and the company starts breathing through sharper lungs.

He learns quickly. Speaks slower. Lets silence drape across the table like velvet, eyes steady beneath tailored suits that sharpen the way his body already holds power, voice low enough to make people lean in, still enough to make them wonder if he’s waiting or watching. He wears less expression now, just precision—sits longer in rooms where men used to try to measure him, their smiles softening when they realise he won’t flinch. He ends calls with a glance. Fires with a phrase. Stands without needing to raise his voice, and the room folds around his absence like heat leaving silk. Every night ends the same: a cold dinner left untouched, half-read reports scattered in columns across the table, and Taeyong’s old memos sealed beneath glass—lines in red ink that feel more like warning than advice. One of them reads, ‘never trust a man who flatters before he listens,’ and Jeno keeps it folded in his coat pocket, right beside the place his heartbeat slows, pressed flat like a weapon made for silence.

So when an investor leans in over low firelight and a glass of scotch aged older than his father’s mistakes and says, “You’ve got his instinct,” Jeno doesn’t smile. He lifts his glass like agreement was never the point. That night he takes Nahyun to bed with the same hands he uses to close deals—measured, practiced, clean. He touches her like routine, moves through her like breath held too long, keeps his mouth pressed to her shoulder and exhales slow, as if the scent of her might drown out the part of him still listening for another voice. He finishes with his eyes open, his jaw tight, the quiet after feeling sharper than anything that came before. And before sleep thins the air between them, he whispers it—low, deliberate, the way someone says something they need to believe—“I’m nothing like him.” But silence holds memory like a knife under the tongue, and blood moves like handwriting through the body—unseen, unspoken, but always returning to its source.

Jeno’s days stretch like wire, tight and polished, pulled across cities that blur before they settle—training in glass-walled gyms where the mirrors breathe back precision, meetings in penthouses where coffee comes pre-sweetened and silence signs faster than language. His body moves through routine like ritual, protein calculated to the gram, recovery woven into ice, heat, shock, repeat. Security walks a step ahead, stylists wait behind velvet ropes, and agents speak in numbers that sound like legacy. So when a rest day arrives, carved out by publicists and trainers like a favour disguised as strategy, he takes it without question but never without weight. The world doesn’t quiet, it just tilts—less noise, more echo—and the stillness inside those hours doesn’t soothe so much as sharpen, because peace, when it comes, always arrives dressed like surveillance.

The villa stretches across the cliffside like it was poured from sun-bleached marble, every inch designed to keep secrets beneath silence—stone floors smoothed by time, glass walls angled to catch the sea without letting it in. The ocean sits far below, too distant to roar, humming soft like a machine that’s never broken. Inside, the air holds weight—sharp with citrus, brushed with something artificial, the kind of clean that feels curated. Security shifts behind mirrored doors, earpieces glinting once before vanishing. The chef slices into ripe fruit in the open kitchen, blades moving like punctuation. There’s jazz playing in another room, faint and unobtrusive, stitched into the background like a mood board someone forgot to mute. The house belongs to someone who understands appearances, and Jeno lets himself exist inside it like an echo, body submerged to the chest in saltwater blue, earbuds in but quiet, arms loose at his sides like he’s waiting for the weight to pull them deeper. His eyes track the edge of the sea with a stillness that feels like prayer held at knifepoint.

Jeno stands waist-deep in the pool, bare to the sun, shoulders gleaming with a sheen that comes from sweat worn down by ice baths and infrared saunas, from mornings that begin before the city rises, from training so strict even his rest days arrive with caution tape. His chest rises slowly. His spine stays long. There’s a stillness to him that feels uninterruptible—like his body has already calculated how many more breaths it will take before he moves. His abs tighten with each inhale, muscle etched into him by grind, not gift, and his hands float just barely away from his sides like something inside him is bracing for impact. His jaw is clean-shaven, cut sharp enough to draw focus. His arms ripple when he shifts. But nothing about him calls for attention. He’s sculpted to endure. To last. To outlive whatever it is still chasing him.

The water holds him like memory—gliding up to his ribs, curling around his wrists, cool and glass-like, but never forgiving. It mirrors him without distortion. Every ripple is earned. Every stillness earned more. His earbuds sit against his ears, silent. No music. No voice. Only the low static of his own mind, thoughts tight and quick, running in formation like they’re late for something. Headlines. Trades. Contracts. Time zones. Rotations. His trainer says the brain doesn’t rest until the body forgets how to fight but the body never forgets.

His phone buzzes once on the stone lip of the pool, then again, a pulse inside the quiet that doesn’t beg for attention but pulls it anyway, and while most alerts fold into background—business, agents, schedules wrapped in urgency dressed as relevance—this one carries a name that tilts the water. Jaemin. No sound, no shift, but his hand rises clean from the surface, droplets tracking down his forearm as he lifts the phone without hurry, thumb steady even as his pulse stirs, once, then twice, like something inside him already knows the shape of what’s coming. Anyone else, he’d leave on read and reply hours later, but it’s Jaemin so he opens it before the second buzz fades.

The first image arrives soft—Haeun swaddled in cotton blue, lashes feathered against her cheeks like closing curtains, one small fist curled around a plastic spoon with the stubbornness of royalty, and Jeno feels it before he processes it, the way something inside his mouth pulls open, subtle and warm, not a smile exactly but the beginning of one, the kind that lifts slow and lives behind the eyes. His body stills completely, chest loose, gaze locked, and it takes a beat for the shock to settle—the understanding that this is her, that this is real, that after a year of silence and sideways answers, after months of watching Jaemin vanish behind clinical phrases and guarded tones, he’s seeing the thing Jaemin never shared to anyone but him, the secret held so tightly it left no fingerprints, and it’s her, it’s his baby, and she’s everything.

He swipes again and the breath catches lower, deeper—Karina cradling her like it’s instinct, Shotaro caught mid-laugh with his eyes half-closed, Donghyuck blurred beside them with a snack pouch raised like a toast, and the light across their faces softens the air around them, the kind of gold that makes joy feel physical, that makes time slow into honey, and Jeno just looks, thumb resting against the edge of the screen like he’s afraid the image might slip away if he blinks too long. The smile comes again, realer now, a quiet stretch across his face that makes his cheekbones sharpen and his eyes crease slightly at the corners, but it’s the kind that carries ache beneath it, the kind he only wears when something beautiful arrives too late to touch.

The fourth photo opens like a trigger, velvet-wrapped and breathless, and his heart stutters so sharply it sends silence ringing through his ribs, the kind that only follows something you weren’t ready to want. It lands with the precision of fate disguised as accident—your image caught mid-laugh, your hands holding something fragile, and it doesn’t feel like a photo, it feels like a memory resurfacing in full color, sharp with light, brutal with beauty, and aimed straight at the part of him that remembers everything. Your hair is pulled low at the nape, knotted clean like it was meant to be undone slowly, and your shoulders curve bare beneath soft fabric that holds no shine but every kind of gravity. One hand cradles the back of Haeun’s head with a stillness that feels older than instinct, bracelet sagging just enough to show the charms—each one worn, gleaming in dull rhythm, each one the shape of something he remembers memorizing with his fingertips on nights when your breathing steadied him more than sleep. Your mouth is parted mid-laugh, caught in the soft blur between inhale and joy, and it hits him all at once—how alive it looks, how unscripted, how you’re looking at the baby like you’ve known her longer than language, like love is a memory that lived in your chest before it had a name. Haeun reaches up toward your lips, tiny fingers spread, and her touch lands on your mouth like it’s searching for the shape of a sound not yet spoken.

His gaze catches on the bracelet curled against your wrist, its shape so familiar it feels cruel, the way each charm still clings to its chain like no time has passed at all. He sees the book with its welded spine, the wave sealed mid-crest, the fractured heart held together by nothing, and near the clasp—the last charm, the one he pressed into your palm without a word, the one he thought you would have thrown away before the door even closed behind him. He had hoped you burned them, melted every memory down to ash, because the thought of them surviving—of them still touching your skin like a secret held soft—feels like a forgiveness he hasn’t earned, and he stares as the ache builds low and brutal, the kind that settles in the lungs like silence after goodbye.

Jeno doesn’t move, but the world inside him shifts. The water stays level against his ribs, warm from the sun and heavy from stillness, and his hand holding the phone lowers slightly, not in weakness but reverence. Light skips across the pool surface in small trembling arcs, and the horizon drags wider like it’s bracing to hold something bigger than distance. Then the messages arrive, sliding into place with the kind of softness that means something sharper waits beneath. 

Jaemin —  baby girl’s in good hands today, she’s obsessed with her. 

Jaemin — she can’t stop smiling. thought you might want to see it. 

He reads the messages once, then again, each word soft on the surface but sinking like lead, and the phone stays warm in his hand while the pool holds still around his ribs, tension curling beneath his sternum like a name carved into wet cement. His thumb brushes over your face with reverence more than touch, slow and exact, the way someone reaches for something holy not to claim it, but to be forgiven by it. He doesn’t zoom in because you’re already inside him, already threading through the part of his chest that applause never reached, already louder than every moment that tried to replace you. The ache comes without panic, without sharpness—just depth, just truth, just the quiet clarity that some things don’t leave, even when they’re gone. The sun slips lower behind glass, light bending over the surface like it’s bracing for the dark, and somewhere beneath the bone, the voice in his head steadies, quieter now, patient, familiar, shaped exactly like yours.

The screen’s glow reflects faint and ghostly across his chest, fingers resting idle around the slim weight of his phone, thumb unmoving on the glass. His head tilts in that unfocused, far-off way he gets when he’s disappeared into his own head, Jeno sits like a statue in the dusklight—bare thighs stretched out, muscles slack, unreadable. The screen glows against his chest, the only sign he’s even tethered to the moment. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, doesn’t notice the way the air changes.

Soft as steam, Nahyun emerges from the hall, her silhouette catching first—a glimpse of bare thigh, the dip of a waist, the shine of black satin brushing against her hips. She moves like something choreographed, like silk unraveling in slow motion, each step intentional, soundless, her bare feet gliding across the polished floor. The robe is black satin, cut short enough to tease the curve of her ass, cinched at the waist by a lazy knot that does nothing to hide the way the fabric clings to her like liquid. With every step, it shifts over her skin, catching the light, slipping up her thigh just enough to hint at what isn’t beneath. Her skin gleams—oiled, luminous, kissed bronze by the sun. Every inch of her is polished, perfected: collarbones carved clean, breasts full and high beneath the robe, nipples visibly hard and proud against the thin fabric. She smells faintly of warm sugar and expensive perfume, the kind that sinks into skin and stays. Her hair is pinned up in a loose twist, glossy and elegant, a few strands falling down her neck with studied imperfection. Her lashes are long, curled high, framing eyes that smolder without trying. 

She’s not just pretty. She’s sculpted—every line of her body a deliberate, obscene kind of perfection. The high arc of her waist, the taut swell of her ass, the soft weight of her breasts pressing against lace like they were made to be unwrapped. Her thighs, toned and smooth, shift with slow, fluid motion as she walks, each step an invitation. She’s the kind of beautiful that makes men ache, makes them stare too long and forget their own names. The kind you want to ruin and worship at the same time. Fucked into form—like someone, maybe more than one, had shaped her with hands and mouths and need. Jeno doesn’t look, not yet, but the air tightens around her anyway, as if even his silence can feel her coming. There’s something coiled beneath all that glow, something sharp beneath the silk. The kind of beauty that makes men follow, even as the ground falls out beneath them. Like a queen in a fairy tale, hand outstretched—apple already bitten. She’s the kind of beautiful that kills slow—like a crown dipped in poison, regal and ruinous, glittering just enough to make you lean in before it slips the knife. 

She stops beside him, leans one hip against the railing, head tilted just enough to let her hair fall slightly, as if offering her throat. Her body is lithe, legs long and toned, and there’s a kind of practiced casualness to the way she stands there, a predator in lingerie. She sighs, not loud—just enough to be heard, just enough to announce her presence. Her fingers find the knot at her waist and slowly, like she’s unwrapping a gift, she pulls.

The robe slides open with a whisper.

It slips down her arms, gliding over her shoulders and falling to the floor in a puddle of silk, forgotten. What’s left on her body is more suggestion than clothing: a lace bodysuit, jet-black and nearly transparent, hugging every contour of her with cruel precision. It’s cut high on the hips, making her legs look impossibly long, and the bodice dips low, exposing the curve of her breasts in delicate, floral sheer. A tiny satin bow rests between them like a tease, and the fabric is thin enough to leave nothing to imagination—nipples visible, hardened, the swell of her chest rising with each slow, deliberate breath. Thin straps cling to her shoulders, and at the base, near her thighs, tiny silver clips glint at the crotch, unfastened and waiting. There’s nothing underneath. Just bare skin, warm and flushed, thighs soft and parted slightly in her pose, the lace clinging to the slickness beneath.

“Hi bubba,” she purrs, voice low, syrupy, curling around the air like smoke. She shifts her weight just enough for the lace to stretch tight across her breasts, her hips angling toward him like an invitation. “You gonna keep ignoring your future wife?”

For a moment, something breaks. Jeno glances up. It’s brief, but real. His gaze drifts—slow, deliberate—tracking the slope of her body: the glossy swell of her breasts, the cinched curve of her waist, the open, slick line of her thighs framed in lace. His lips part without meaning to. His jaw shifts, tense for half a second. Beneath his shorts, there’s a twitch—small, quick, a reflex he doesn’t allow to grow. And then it happens. A flicker, so faint it almost passes unnoticed. His eyes narrow just slightly, the corners of his mouth pulling back in the barest twitch. Not a smirk. Not quite a wince. Something instinctive and unfiltered—like a taste gone wrong, like disgust he hasn’t named yet, rising from someplace deep and automatic.

Then, like a shadow slipping off his face, it passes. Whatever flickered in him—want, revulsion, something unnamable—fades beneath the quiet blankness he wears like armor. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at her again. Instead, he moves with eerie calm, the kind that feels deliberate, cruel in its precision. His hand lowers, placing the phone down on the stone lip of the pool beside him, screen up, still glowing. The image doesn’t fade. It bathes him in pale light, steady and unwavering. Behind him, Nahyun stands—bare-skinned, lace-clad, every inch of her honed to seduce. Her voice still hangs in the air, velvet-sweet, sticky with suggestion. Her body is flawless, posed, gleaming like temptation. And yet—none of it matters. Because on the screen, in that lit little rectangle of loyalty, it isn’t her he’s been staring at.

It’s you.

He slides his shorts off without urgency, just a shift of his hips and they fall in one slow drag to the deck, gathering limp around his ankles like they were never meant to stay on him in the first place, his cock freed and hanging heavy, half-hard already, thick at the base and flushed at the head, a drop of slick catching the light where it glistens against the curve of his thigh, and he doesn’t look at her, doesn’t move, just leans back with his arms slack at his sides and his eyes unfocused, like this isn’t even about her, like this isn’t about anything at all except the weight between his legs and the sky overhead.

She climbs into his lap with too much sweetness in her voice and not enough control in her hands, one palm splayed across his chest for balance, the other fumbling between them as she wraps her fingers around his cock and lifts her hips, guiding the head through her folds with a practiced sort of urgency, like she’s done this in dreams or mirrors or private rehearsal, and when she sinks down, it’s slow at first, deep and tight and wet, her walls pulling him in inch by inch, her breath catching on every stretch until she’s seated flush in his lap, thighs trembling, cunt full, a soft broken gasp leaving her lips like she’s trying not to moan too loud, trying to keep it controlled and pretty for him.

“There you are,” she breathes like it’s intimate, like it’s meaningful, like it’s earned, and starts to ride him with a rhythm that’s just a little too perfect, all angles and control, the bounce of her ass sharp, measured, glossy with slick where her skin meets his, her knees bracing against him, back arched, her tits dragging lightly across his chest every time she leans forward, and still he doesn’t look at her, his head tipped back, jaw flexed, throat bare to the sky, one hand lazily resting on her waist and the other falling useless beside him, fingers twitching slightly like he’s aware of the motion but doesn’t care to shape it.

She rocks her hips harder, letting out these high, breathy little whines that sound polished and designed, her moans sweet like honey melting in her mouth, and she presses her chest against him again, lips near his ear, sweat slick on her temples as she whispers nothings with the cadence of agenda, her words tangled up with breath and heat and strategy, “We have the shoot at noon, don’t forget, I confirmed with the agency, and the dinner’s at seven sharp, black tie only, we’ll match in velvet, you’ll wear the Saint Laurent I picked in Paris,” her cunt tightening on him as she speaks, as if her body’s trying to make the words mean more than they do.

His cock bounces once inside her, thick and wet where her cunt drags around him, and it pulls a sharper whimper from her lips, her rhythm faltering as the friction builds, her body starting to stutter with effort, but Jeno doesn’t look at her, doesn’t shift beneath her, just leans his head back slowly until it rests against the warm edge of the pool’s stone border, the muscles in his neck flexing slightly as he stares upward, gaze locked somewhere deep in the darkening sky like it’s the only thing worth seeing, like her body means nothing, like this is happening around him rather than to him, his hands rest loose on her waist, barely holding her, just enough to keep her from falling off but not enough to claim or guide or want her, his breathing shallow but steady, the kind that rides the edge of release without ever tipping into meaning.

“Say you want me,” she breathes into his neck, soft and syrupy like a kiss, her voice trembling at the edges but sharpened beneath, sweet the way poison is sweet when you dress it in perfume, her hips grinding in circles now, sloppy and wet, more need than rhythm, her body pressed so tight against his it feels like she’s trying to climb inside, her nails digging crescent marks into his skin as she whispers, “Say it, Jeno—say you need me, say you fucking love me, say you want to come inside me, that you’ll give me everything, just say it — because if you don’t, baby, I might just have to make a scene at that dinner tomorrow, tell everyone your little secret, wouldn’t that be fun—”

His eyes snap open like the temperature changed without warning, like the air thickened and soured in the space between heartbeats, and for one stretched second nothing moves at all. Her hips are still working, her cunt still dripping around him, her breath still caught on that fake sweetness she coats everything in, but his body has gone still beneath hers, breath tight, pulse misfiring, pressure climbing in a way that feels wrong. His cock twitches once too hard and the warning hits behind his ribs, not fear but a reaction, not thought but refusal.

He grabs her hips hard and lifts her off in one motion, clean and unceremonious, her body dragged up and off his cock with a slick, messy sound that leaves her open and twitching, a high gasp spilling from her lips like she wasn’t ready to be emptied so fast. His hands drop away the second she’s off him. His jaw is locked. His knees shift slightly apart. He leans forward and wraps a hand around the base of his cock with a kind of focus that looks like control but feels like severing. He leans forward, jaw clenched, hand closing around the base of his cock with a grip too tight to be for pleasure, wrist working in short, hard pulls, no rhythm, no grace, just motion, just necessity, his thighs tense and still as if bracing against gravity itself, and with each jerk he angles away from her, his body curling slightly inward like the last thing he wants is for any part of this to land where she is.

She’s still breathing hard, still shaking beside him, cunt flexing uselessly around nothing, but he doesn’t look at her. His hand works tight, rough, no rhythm to it, just force and friction and the urgency of not letting it happen inside. They’ve used protection before, she’s on the pill but he’s never finished inside her, not once, not even by accident. He doesn’t care how many precautions she stacks up, the idea of her with even a trace of him inside, even for a second, makes his stomach turn. His grip tightens like muscle memory, like recoil, every motion small and controlled, the angle of his wrist turned sharp to keep the spill contained, his hips held still, thighs braced, not a single part of him tipping toward her, like his body knows without needing to be told that nothing from him belongs in her.

He comes in a breath that barely breaks the silence, shallow and sharp through his nose like pressure releasing from something sealed too tight, his stomach tightening beneath his own hand as thick streaks of heat spill across his skin, landing high on his abs, lower on his chest, nowhere near her. His cock jerks with each slow pulse, flushed and wet, twitching against his stomach while his fingers stay locked around the base a moment longer than they need to, like part of him doesn’t trust it to stop. He stays there with his head slightly bowed, jaw tight, shoulders drawn in like the tension inside him broke without easing. When it’s done, when the twitching fades and the grip releases, he lets his hand fall to the side, fingers sticky, thighs loosening under her but not inviting, his body starting to come down but his eyes never lifting from the surface of the pool, still rippling from the movement earlier, glowing faint blue under the lights like something colder than the heat between them.

She watches him for a moment, her breath still uneven, chest rising fast then slower, cunt still flexing around absence. Her thighs tremble where they straddle his, wet and aching, and her hands hover at her sides like she doesn’t know whether to touch him, hit him or curl into herself. Then she laughs, a small, disbelieving sound under her breath like she’s been slapped with something invisible. “What the fuck was that?” she asks, voice thin and fraying around the edges like fabric stretched too far. 

He just shrugs, low and uninterested, “What it needed to be.” 

“You didn’t even look at me.” Her voice is low, almost quiet, but it carries that sharp edge she doesn’t bother to hide anymore, the one that rises when sweetness fails. “You can’t even come inside me. You can’t even pretend to want to.” She says it like a joke, like it’s funny, like she’s still in control, but her mouth shakes slightly at the corners and her knees shift on either side of his, like she’s trying to stay on top even when the high is gone. “I’m not asking for much, Jeno. I’m right here. I let you—” her voice breaks off, just slightly, and she swallows, then reaches for his shoulder like it’ll ground her, like touch might make it true again. “It’s not a crime to give a fuck.”

She opens her mouth to scream, to sob, to demand answers, some flicker of validation, and then her eyes on land on the stone lip of the pool beside them, his screen still unlocked, still glowing, still untouched since before he even looked at her, and the image displayed is not her, not even close, but a photo of you, soft and unfiltered, caught mid-laugh, hair falling out of place, smiling at something behind the camera, and his thumb print rests just near the edge of the screen like maybe he had been scrolling through you the entire time. 

Her chest caves in, her lungs forget how to move, her hands curl into fists on either side of her bare thighs and she swallows once, twice, bile thick in her throat as she whispers, “What is that?” Her breath catches sharp and wrong in her throat, like something hooked itself behind her ribs and pulled, and she forgets how to inhale, forgets where her body is supposed to move, the air stalled between her collarbones and her spine as her gaze locks on the screen. She doesn’t want to see him look but she can’t stop tracking the slow tilt of his head, the turn of his face toward the phone beside him, she sees it, sees the moment something changes behind his eyes, sees how the muscles in his jaw still, how his mouth slackens just slightly, how his whole face seems to ease in the smallest, most dangerous way. 

There’s something in his face she’s never him give to her before, something unguarded, drawn toward the screen like gravity lives there now. It’s attention, pulled clean and direct, his eyes soft at the edges, lips parted just slightly, the kind of stillness that only comes with wanting. The way he looks at the photo isn’t passive. It holds him. His whole body quiets under it. There’s a flush at his throat, a softness around his mouth, and for one suspended second she sees what it looks like when he’s drawn to someone — not just physically, not just out of need, but want, deliberate, low and sure. He doesn't look like that with her. Not when she moans against his neck, when her body wraps around his, not when she rocks herself raw just to pull sound out of him. She does everything, she gives everything but he never looks like this.

Her lungs stay locked for too long and when they finally open it’s fast, shallow and uneven, a ragged inhale like a gasp she doesn’t want anyone to hear, and her hands curl into fists on either side of her bare thighs, nails sinking deep into skin that doesn’t even register, her whole body buzzing with something too sharp to be just breathless. Her vision tilts at the edges. The lights smear. Her knees press tighter and her pulse races so loud she can’t tell if it’s inside her skull or under her skin, and when she blinks she can’t stop blinking, can’t stop swallowing, her mouth dry and sour as she stares at his face. He’s still looking at it. He hasn’t looked away. He’s staring at the photo of you — your smile out of frame, your body lit soft and clean, a moment he wasn’t even in but somehow lives in his head anyway — and it’s not the image that breaks her. It’s the expression on his face. Gentle. Present. Like something inside him is actually there.

She breathes in, shallow and sharp, like she’s about to speak, then doesn’t, her lips stay parted just long enough to tremble. Her eyes flick from his face to the phone again, then back, like she’s still hoping he’ll look away from it first but he doesn’t. That stillness is still in him. That softness. Her mouth curves. It’s not a smile. “Wow,” she says lightly, voice stretched into something breathy and almost amused, like it’s just gossip, just banter. “So she got herself knocked up, huh? Is that what this is?” A quick laugh slips out of her, dry and mean, like she’s entertained. “Who’s the father? Are you guys picking names yet or do we need to line up a few paternity tests?”

His gaze stays on the water, steady, unflinching, breath pulled slowly through his nose as if each inhale chooses patience over instinct. The muscle in his jaw flexes once. Heat settles beneath his skin, clean and silent, and his mouth tilts just slightly, something like a smile but shaped with contempt. He gets used to tuning her out, used to the sugar-laced venom, the way her words always reach for something they can’t touch. 

She leans in slightly as she says it, eyes glittering, voice sweet as sugar syrup. “I mean, come on, it’s not like she’s known for keeping her legs shut.”

His eyes stay on the water, steady, detached, the kind of stillness that says everything without shifting an inch. The glow from the pool cuts along his jaw, calm at the surface but carved clean underneath. Her voice scrapes at the air, bitter and thin, but he lets it roll past like wind he has already walked through. His fingers press once against the ledge, measured, his posture all silence and tension. Then he speaks, low and smooth, the kind of voice that holds weight no matter how soft it sounds. “Nahyun.” His tone barely shifts. “Just stop talking.”

Her pout deepens like she’s been wounded, like his voice bruised her pride more than any shove ever could, and she leans in again, lashes fluttering, hips brushing close to his. “Why?” She whispers, fingers curling over his wrist like sweetness might pry an answer out. “Why are you being like this?”

He waits just long enough for her to think he might not answer at all, then lets out the flattest, driest, most unbothered exhale of breath. “Because I have a headache.” The words land with no inflection, no smile, just cool finality, like she’s the migraine.

Her lips push forward in a pout, soft and automatic, like habit, like she can still play the game. “But I was joking,” she murmurs, blinking slowly, head tilted just enough to pass for sweet. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know how I get when I’m nervous.”

“Nahyun.” The pause holds. “Just stop before I decide I’m done being polite.”

Her mouth pulls into a pout, glossy and trembling, like the words tasted worse coming out than they sounded, and she shifts forward on her knees, hands crawling over the stone ledge and then to his thighs, slow and deliberate, her voice curling into something soft. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, head tilted, lashes lowered, already climbing into his lap like gravity called her there. Her knees slide open around his hips, satin skin brushing his as she settles down, body warm and pliant, all sweetness now. She presses her chest to his, her fingers sliding up his arms, across his shoulders, into his hair like she’s smoothing the moment away, and she leans in with a kiss that lands just below his jaw, hot and lingering, her lips trailing lower as she murmurs again, “I didn’t mean it, baby, you know I didn’t.” Her hips roll once, light, teasing, breath catching as she drags herself against him with slow, syrupy pressure, hands everywhere now — his stomach, his sides, his chest — like if she touches him enough he’ll forget the sound of her voice a minute ago, like she can pull the apology out of his skin instead of his mouth.

The silence stretches long enough to sting, long enough for her to shift on his lap, thighs pressing tighter around his hips, her hands curling around his jaw like she can coax a reaction out of stone. His face stays still. His breath doesn’t change. His eyes never leave the water. She swallows once, then twice, then lets her voice drop low, curious and sweet like she’s asking out of interest, not need. “Who’s the baby then?”

The question hangs, soft but pointed, and for a beat he considers keeping it closed but then he remembers Jaemin’s voice, calm as ever, from that last conversation they had: “I’m not keeping her quiet anymore. When she was born, I needed space, time to get things right, but that chapter is over now. We’re ready, she’s ready, her health is finally stabilising, I want her to live a normal life. Plus, people are going to start asking questions, so I’d rather show her to the world the way she deserves, on my terms. She needs to feel that love from the people I trust, the ones who matter.” So Jeno nods once, like it’s an answer to himself before it’s one for her, and when he speaks, his tone stays level. “Jaemin’s daughter.”

Nahyun scoffs, short and sharp, like the words offended her by existing. “Since when does Jaemin have a daughter?”

His eyes don’t shift. “Nearly one year.”

She pulls back slightly, enough to blink at him, enough for her hands to slip from his face to his shoulders like she’s trying to recenter. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jeno’s gaze stays fixed, steady on the water, his voice low and even like the words have been sitting inside him for a while. “Because it was never yours to know. Jaemin didn’t tell anyone, not just you, so don’t take it so personally and don’t make it about yourself. He disappeared before she was born, no texts, no updates, nothing, he had completely vanished. I couldn't even reach him, and I tried every day. It didn’t start with Haeun, it started months before her. He needed out, it’s a blessing she came when she did because she saved him.”

His fingers press once into the stone ledge, slow and deliberate. “She’s had a rough first year and so has he. He needed privacy, not to hide her, but to focus, fully, on giving her a life she could hold onto. No noise, no pressure, no cameras or crowds. Just him and her, that’s what he chose and the only reason I found them is because I wouldn’t let go. I kept on looking until I found him, and when I did, I found a baby girl with a heart so fragile it scared me just to be near her. He didn’t stay quiet to shut the world out. He did it so he could give her the world first.”

She tilts her head like someone hearing bad news they already know won’t touch them, her lips parting into a small pout, eyes softening just enough to fake depth, trying to work out where in that story she’s supposed to care. One manicured hand lifts to her collarbone, fingers brushing lightly over skin like she’s reacting with emotion, but her breath stays even, her voice low and flat in the wrong way. “That’s… really sad,” she says, slow and delicate, like she’s reading from a card. Her gaze flicks to his chest, not his face, then away just as fast, already shifting her weight like the moment’s passed. “Must’ve been hard, I guess.” She doesn’t ask about the baby, ask how she’s doing, if she’s strong now, if her heart’s holding up. There’s no follow-up. No care. Only silence filling the beat before she steps right past it.

Her tone lifts before her face does, brighter now, lighter, already somewhere else. “Anyway,” she breathes, tucking hair behind her ear, “we really do need to talk to someone about the schedule—everything’s back to back next month and no one’s factored in Jaemin finally being back. We’ve got the Saint Laurent dinner, and Paris fashion week’s opening night, and I got the official invite for the Venice premiere. You know, the one where they’re expecting full couture and editorial coverage—” her eyes flick to his again, suddenly excited, mouth glossy and half-smiling, “it’s going to be so good for us. Press, photos, all of it.” Her hand lands softly on his leg, like she just remembered to be sweet. “We just need to stay ahead of it, right?”

Jeno exhales slowly, long and quiet, the kind of sigh that comes from somewhere low in the body, where patience used to live. He pushes himself up from the ledge without a word, water slipping from his skin in clean streams, his body bare under the low pool lights, tension rolling through his shoulders as he steps out with deliberate stillness. He doesn’t look back or reach for a towel. He walks naked and silently back into the house.

Behind him, Nahyun scrambles to her feet, nearly slipping on the wet stone as she grabs for her robe, her voice fluttering after him like tissue caught in wind. “Wait—Jeno, wait—I didn’t mean it like that, babe, I’m just saying—it’s just hard on everyone, that’s all—wait for me—” Her steps are quick, almost clumsy, legs too long for the panic in her voice, her movements all gloss and no gravity, like a doll trying to chase a man who already left.

The suite is dim when he steps through, the light from the pool still flickering faint on the glass walls, casting ripples across the white stone. The bathroom glows gold behind frosted glass, the shower already running, steam bleeding out across the floor like breath. He walks in without a glance back, stepping beneath the spray, the heat dragging over his body in heavy streaks as water pools at his feet and runs down the clean lines of his back. His hands press flat to the tile, eyes closed, water darkening his hair, breath even. He stands there in stillness as the steam builds and then she enters like she always does. Quiet but aching to be noticed, robe whispering to the floor, her silhouette soft in the light as she steps inside and slides her arms around him from behind, the press of her breasts slick against his spine, her hands curling around his waist. She tilts her head into him, lips brushing the curve where neck meets shoulder, voice syrupy against wet skin, something like apology threaded into sweetness as her fingers move down, over his stomach, around his hips. 

He turns without resistance, catches her face in his hand, and kisses her like it’s not forgiveness, not affection — just muscle memory, clean and closed. His mouth drags hers open with heat and breath, no rush, no hunger, just pressure. She moans into it, soft, grateful, nails pressing into his back as she lifts herself higher, thighs wrapping around him before she even realizes how ready she is. He lifts her by instinct, her back pressed hard to the tile, one hand under her thigh, the other gripping her jaw as he pushes into her in a single slow thrust. She gasps — breath breaking, head tilting back — and the sound echoes across the glass like a ripple. His rhythm is relentless but calm, each movement deliberate, his eyes locked on her face like he’s watching a performance he already knows the ending to. She wraps tighter around him, arms shaking, voice faltering in praise, but he doesn’t answer, just keeps fucking her with the kind of control that feels surgical, her pleasure nothing more than a rhythm to hold.

When it’s over her cheek rests against his shoulder, lips parted, legs still trembling around him as the water runs down her back and his breath evens out again, his hands slow now, sliding over her hips, through her hair, resting for a second at the base of her neck before he speaks. “Tomorrow’s important.” He says it like a fact, tone nonchalant but filled with warning. 

Her breath catches, her lashes fluttering once as her eyes lower, and her voice comes out soft, trying to stay sweet. “I know,” she murmurs, almost too quietly, like she hopes softness can rewrite what she knows is coming. “I’ll be perfect.” 

His fingers move again, this time curling lightly under her jaw, tipping her face up just enough for their eyes to meet as steam coats the mirrors and his voice drops.“You better.” His tone doesn’t rise. His eyes don’t flicker. “You ruin that night and I’ll leave you standing in it.”

The Legacy Court Complex emerges from the cliffside with the weight of something sacred, every line carved into the Alpine stone like it was meant to exist before blueprints were ever drawn. From above, the structure appears as a dark cut through the white, glass catching sky at a sharp angle, obsidian stone drawing a boundary against the mountain, geometry so exact it feels like it was discovered rather than constructed. Helicopters move in coordinated intervals across the air, their descent slow and deliberate, rotors sweeping the snow into soft spirals that drift upward before dissolving. The landing terrace stretches wide and bare, the stone beneath polished to reflect more shadow than light, and each arrival plays out with choreographed restraint. Doors open with soundless precision. Figures step out one at a time, each one wrapped in wool and cashmere, coats belted high, gloves fitted close, platinum invitations held with fingers that have never fumbled. No lines form, no voices rise. The complex receives them like it remembers them.

Past the court’s edge, a corridor curves inward toward the archival wing, a long, dim hall lined in frames that climb the stone wall from knee to crown, each one inset with anti-reflective glass and museum-grade lighting. The first few hold black-and-white legends, their jerseys stiff with era, their expressions quiet and proud. The next shift into color, into sharper footage, into limbs extended mid-air, sweat glinting, teeth bared, motion frozen just before impact. One by one, they move forward in time, names that reshaped eras, arms that built empires, faces that lived across generations of screens. Jordan. Bryant. Garnett. Duncan. Curry. Every photograph in the hallway is dated and placed, each one selected from the moment that changed a season. The gallery reads like scripture. Each frame is a page, each face anointed.

At the very end, mounted beneath a new arc of white light, a final portrait waits. Jeno. Caught in the apex of a jump, mid-air, ball still lifting from his palm, breath visible in the cold above the court. His name is etched below in clean type, no embellishment, just fact. The plaque reads ‘Lee Jeno, Europa Trust Legacy Award, 2025.’ The wall has carried decades of greatness, but now it carries him. He stands before it without moving and his body stills, his suit doesn’t crease. The glass holds both, the image framed in stillness and the figure standing before it, their outlines nearly seamless, one suspended in motion, the other shaped by everything that followed. The light wraps them together in a soft gleam, reflection and portrait fused at the edge, twin echoes drawn from the same silence. The shutter clicks once, crisp and far away, but he remains exactly where he is. The moment folds into him like a thread pulled tight across the chest, something invisible, something ancient, something worn like iron beneath his skin. 

At the end, the space opens with scale, the kind that holds its own silence, stretching into height with a stillness that feels earned rather than offered. The court reveals itself beneath the mountain like a preserved relic, a chamber shaped by reverence, each surface curated with the same care reserved for cathedrals and museums. The parquet floor gleams in long uninterrupted panels, hand-laid in a pattern that mirrors the golden ratio of the original Boston Garden, each plank sealed in lacquer so clear it reflects outlines before it reflects movement. The room’s proportions trace the legacy of the Chicago Palace, rebuilt by three award-winning architects whose lines bend like memory and precision combined, their names cast discreetly into the foundation beneath the marble edge. Above, the ceiling stretches into a vast inverted dome, structured in netted crystal, a constellation of shot arcs, rebounds, and suspended form, each piece hand-cut and strung in mathematical rhythm, refracting light across the court like breath caught mid-air. The shimmer moves without rush, soft and full of tension, casting gold across wood in long ripples. The temperature sits in perfect calibration, tuned for tailored wool and sculpted skin, designed to preserve elegance rather than react to it. 

Along the perimeter, recessed lounges line the curve of the room, each one carved deep and upholstered in velvet the color of dried wine. The seats are spaced in clean, private symmetry, enclosed in gold trim and glass panels so subtle they fade into the architecture. Each one is marked discreetly, house crests, insignias, founding dates pressed into the corner in shadowed embossing. Guests step into their spaces like they are returning to them. Foundation directors, captains of defunct dynasties, firstborns and financiers all dressed in iterations of inheritance, monochrome suits cut like armor, evening dresses folded like sculpture. Each body holds its place with quiet precision, no slouch in spine, no flicker of distraction, only posture shaped by bloodline and silence carried like inheritance.

Jeno and Nahyun’s hands link with the kind of ease that’s been rehearsed, his fingers resting just behind hers, barely curled, skin against skin in a way that reads intimate from a distance but carries no anchor beneath it. Nahyun moves beside him in a dress the color of moonlit glass, cut to drape off one shoulder and slit high enough to part around each step like fabric made to chase camera flashes; her lips are lacquered, lashes curled wide, collarbone gleaming with something deliberately expensive. Jeno wears black, sharp and matte, collar firm, cufflinks discreet, the suit fit so exact it carries silence in the seams, and together they move through the gallery floor with the kind of slow authority reserved for people who no longer need introductions. Hands reach to greet them, nods tilt in their direction—veterans with weight in their names, men who once carved empires out of courtlines, suits that speak in legacies and trade history—Jeno meets each one with a nod so slight it borders on stillness, says nothing but lets his presence fold into theirs like he’s already surpassed the story they expected of him.

Music stirs above them, unannounced and unhurried, a quartet tucked behind a carved archway playing from shadow, the sound uncoiling with reverence rather than rhythm. It’s an anthem he knows—everyone does—but the tempo has been hollowed out, each note slowed to the breath between memory and echo, the melody rising soft like a eulogy hummed into glass, and as the first few measures melt into the room like polished stone, his spine pulls straighter, shoulders still. The projector comes alive without warning. No frame. No sound cue. Just a flicker on the far wall, a pulse of white light softening into motion, and before he even registers what he’s seeing, his grip on Nahyun’s hand releases.

His father.

Taeyong in flight. Taeyong in stillness. Taeyong mid-rotation, the ball leaving his fingers with the kind of precision that lives beyond physics, the arc clean, the form holy, sweat glinting at the base of his throat like it belongs there. There’s no commentary, no title card, just moment after moment stitched together from different years, different jerseys, different lighting, from his prime, all of them folding into each other like time never broke. Jeno doesn’t move. His chest expands once, slow and shallow, like surf dragging against the pull of tide, and he stays there suspended, breath caught high in his throat, gaze locked to the wall like it might split open and pour the past out in salt. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t shift, doesn’t speak—just stands with his mouth slightly parted, as if the shape of a name has risen behind his teeth but lost the sound to carry it, and when the voice comes, low and deliberate and cut from the same steel that once ruled the court, it doesn’t arrive like memory, it arrives like undertow. The room doesn’t fall quiet because quiet was already woven into its bones—it just holds still, like a wave stilled mid-rise, and in that moment he becomes part of it, breathless and bracing, spine upright against a current that only he can feel.

Jeno’s hand closes around Nahyun’s without looking, palm firm, grip tighter than it needs to be, and he leads her forward in silence, their steps echoing against polished stone as the projection fades back into the wall. The corridor opens in two clean angles, revealing the inner hall where the award will be given, the ceiling climbing higher, the air rich with the scent of cedar oil and ironed wool, the lights dimmed to dusk tones along the walls. The carpet underfoot runs deep and smooth, the kind that muffles heels and softens each step until it feels like walking through breath, and as they move through the threshold, the space stretches around them, rows of velvet seats dipped into the floor like theatre stalls, each pair centered with a candlelit table holding a single engraved program and two flutes of still champagne. Brass rails gleam at the edge of each tier, the floor subtly lit from beneath so the architecture glows without ever showing the source.

They are led toward the center row, front and exact, the seats placed directly across from the stage, a low platform set in ivory stone, the backdrop smooth and curved like the inside of a chapel, its surface empty but radiant, prepared to carry whatever name is about to be spoken. Nahyun lowers herself with a flick of her train, crossing her legs elegantly, the hem of her blue dress catching the gold footlight beneath the row. Her hand stays on his knee. Her perfume opens soft in the warmth. She leans toward him with a smile that touches only her mouth, whispering something that sounds rehearsed, “This is the moment, baby. You look like power.” Her nails tap lightly on the program as she glances around the hall, eyes tracing the coats, the house names, the cameras hidden like sculpture in the corners. Jeno doesn’t respond. He sinks into the seat with both feet planted, spine upright, his hands pressed to his thighs as he watches the empty stage. His father’s face is still printed behind his eyelids, etched into the air above the projection wall, not from the footage but from something older, something caught in the way his name was spoken, like stone cracking under its own weight. The speech lives behind his ribs, already memorized but constantly shifting, rewritten in the language of silence, of obligation, of everything he has trained himself to carry. 

A single spotlight lands on the stage, slicing the hush with warmth, and the host steps into view, a former franchise star in deep navy velvet, his medals worn as accessories, his smile tuned to elegance. The mic waits for him like a cue. He speaks slowly, practiced, with gravity that flatters without imposing. “Good evening, distinguished families, honored guests, and keepers of the court. We gather tonight at the Legacy Complex not only to reflect, but to consecrate. “This award,” he lifts the plaque, silver set in white, gleaming under the light, “is more than a title. It is testament, to weight carried across seasons, to form held under fire, to discipline measured not by restraint but by how long it endures. The Europa Trust Legacy Award is granted only when legacy surpasses lineage, when performance turns myth, when consistency becomes history. Tonight it is awarded to an athlete whose name echoes across continents, stitched into languages that speak sport like scripture, whose record now stands unmatched, eighty-two consecutive starts without injury, highest point efficiency under pressure in the league’s modern era, three back-to-back franchise pivots with no loss in form. His balance redefined movement, his silence redefined presence, and his ascent was not a rise but a return to the place that always waited for him.” He looks up and his eyes find Jeno’s. “And so, without delay I’m honoured to present this award to Lee Jeno, this is your court.”

Applause rises like a tide pulled by moonlight, smooth at first, then swelling into something full and rhythmic, hands clapping in measured succession, camera shutters joining like quiet percussion beneath it. The lights above sweep slowly across the audience, picking up the gleam of velvet shoulders and champagne flutes, while the stage remains still, held in that suspended breath just after the name is spoken. Jeno doesn’t move, he remains seated in the center row, jaw tight, eyes fixed where the projection had once flickered, his face half-shadowed and perfectly framed by the overhead live feed, his image now cast large against the back wall, composed, breath shallow, mouth parted as if something unsaid still lingers between his teeth. His father’s voice echoes nowhere now, but Jeno still hears the cadence, still sees the arc of that shot frozen in time, still feels it hover just behind the eyes.

A warm hand presses against his shoulder, fingers firm, familiar, his manager, leaning in just close enough to speak low without a microphone. “Go on.” The words come like a click in the mechanism, a quiet shift that resets his spine. Jeno blinks once, eyes sharpening like glass under pressure, and rises in a single motion, legs straight, suit folding clean at the knee, collar sitting crisp against the cut of his jaw. Nahyun turns toward him with her smile already in place, mouth glossy, lashes dipped, and presses a kiss just below his ear, a whisper tethered to it that doesn’t quite reach his expression, “you’ve got this, baby.” The cameras catch the moment exactly how she wanted. His hand moves out of hers before the second frame. He steps into the aisle with the grace of something rehearsed in private, steps cut to soundless rhythm, the floor beneath him reflecting his movement like water catching shadow.

Jeno stands at the podium with his jaw set, his hands resting flat on either side like he knows exactly how much pressure to apply, his body cut into silhouette by the angle of the overhead lights, posture tuned, shoulders broad, collar perfect. The hall leans into the silence that follows, a silence he owns, and when he speaks, the voice that emerges carries no urgency, only gravity, a quiet command that tightens the room without force. “I spent the last twenty seven years choosing this,” he says, no rush in the words, only shape. “Choosing the pain, the loss, the repetition. Choosing to wake before light, choosing to lose before I learned how to win. Every movement cost something, blood when the cut didn’t stop bleeding, sweat when the court kept burning, and tears when no one else stayed to see it.” His voice stays even, but it holds. “None of it was chance. This is what it looks like when a body survives the pressure it chose for itself.”

He lets the pause stretch, lets the breath fill the space, then lifts his eyes just slightly, locking on no one and everyone at once. “I’m here because of who stood next to me. Because of the names I carried and the ones that carried me.” His tone shifts, quieter but firmer, his right hand sliding once over the edge of the podium before falling still again. “I want to thank my brother, Mark Lee. Playing basketball with you in our raven days changed my life.” His voice stays low, shaped by memory more than emotion. “Those courts built the way I move and you were part of every rep that made me sharper.”

Another breath, pulled clean. “My mother. Seulgi. Who gave everything before I understood what sacrifice looked like. She held the roof over me and told me I could build my own. She is the reason I know how to stand still and still be strong.” The crowd holds still with him, the air charged, shaped around his cadence. “Jaemin. My best friend. My mirror. My proof that love and loyalty don’t have to shout to be real.” 

His gaze slips sideways, drawn to her through instinct more than intention, and for a breath that stretches too long to be casual, he just looks, Nahyun bathed in the low shimmer of the stage lights, her body coiled into a perfect seated shape, back straight, gown clinging like liquid foil, lips parted in a smile already timed for the flash. Her eyes catch his like they’ve been waiting, rehearsed, ready. There’s a softness she summons — glossy, practiced — the same one she’s used in interviews, the same one she wore the first time she slid a hand across his jaw and said ‘we’re unstoppable.’ He watches her long enough for the room to expect something. His manager probably would like it, even. A nod, a name, an acknowledgment to his fiance, a gesture that paints the right headline and for a second, he imagines doing it. Giving her the last slot. Letting her name carry the aftertaste of legacy.

But then the light behind his eyes sharpens, the projector still playing somewhere in the back of his skull, Taeyong’s frame frozen mid-jump, arm extended in that impossible line, mouth slack, eyes already beyond the arc. The silence of that image pulls tight around his spine, wraps itself across the base of his ribs like a weight remembered too late to drop. His father’s voice floats up again — not proud, not warm, just cut clean — and the echo feels like iron in the mouth. It reminds him of what matters. Of who bled for this moment. Of what should be spoken and what should be left to silence. So he looks back at the crowd, jaw tight, throat dry, and lets the tension stretch out one second longer before he closes his hand gently around the edge of the podium and says it, calm and exact. “That’s all.”

Nahyun claps before he finishes the sentence, her hands crashing together with too much force, too much rhythm, too much everything — the sound sharp, uneven, her nails catching against her rings like she needs to hear something louder than what he didn’t say. Her smile stretches too wide, teeth flashing under the lights, lips trembling from the strain of holding it in place, and her eyes lock on him with a shine that could pass for pride if it weren’t brimming with demand. She leans forward in her seat like she’s about to rise, chest high, shoulders squared, mouth already parted as if she thinks there’s still a chance he might look back, might double back, might say her name late like a plot twist written just for her, and when he doesn’t, when the stage swallows him in motion and silence, her expression flickers — not into sadness, but disbelief, like the world’s cut her from the scene by mistake.

Her fingers tighten around her clutch until the beading imprints into her palm, the silver catching in the stage lights like broken glass, and she shifts her weight as if moving might change what just happened, as if posture can rewrite omission. Her gown spills like liquid mercury across the seat and floor, perfect in every angle but heavy now, as if even the fabric is punishing her for waiting. She claps again, softer this time, mechanical, like she can’t remember how to stop, her face fixed in something breathless and brittle. Jeno never looks her way. He descends from the stage with the award in hand, eyes focused forward, footsteps unhurried, and holds the plaque like he’s forgotten it was meant to be precious, like it weighs exactly what she no longer does.

The applause has dissolved into conversations pitched just above candlelight, the sound of glass stems tapping against gold-plated rims, and Nahyun moves through it like she’s been choreographed, one hand still looped around Jeno’s arm, the other smoothing the edge of her dress with a touch too performative to pass as absentminded. Her heels click faster now, rhythm slightly off from the music in the room, posture taller than usual like she’s compensating for something unseen, and when she pulls him toward a man in navy velvet with a Legacy Sport pin at his collar, she interrupts mid-sentence with a smile like a mirror turned too bright. “We’ve been thinking about a spring ceremony,” she says, nails brushing the inside of Jeno’s wrist as she speaks, her voice styled to sound soft but slip into the space like perfume. “Seoul always photographs best in April.” The man glances at her, then at Jeno, then somewhere else entirely as he changes the subject without blinking, and her smile doesn’t fall but it tightens, like silk stretched across glass.

By the second round of drinks she’s speaking in wedding syntax, weaving it into conversations that had nothing to do with her, turning small talk into strategy as she gestures just wide enough to catch the downlight against her ring. “He helped design it, you know, I said no diamonds at first, but he wanted something timeless,” she tells a woman whose badge says investor but whose earrings say old money, her fingers grazing the rim of her wineglass, each swirl of her hand angled to flash the stone. “I’m still getting used to the weight,” she adds, louder, as someone walks past behind her, and when no one responds, she sips without breaking eye contact. Every question she asks is baited — “Would you choose lace or silk for a winter ceremony?” “Do you think candlelight photographs better than uplighting?” — and each time, her smile holds until it bruises. A photographer passes and she shifts toward the lens like her body already knows how to find the light, like there’s no difference between being in love and being in frame.

Jeno stays beside her, but his stillness grows louder with every minute, the shape of his silence sharper than any disagreement could be, and when people speak to them both, his answers cut diagonally through hers like wires misaligned. “That’s more her vision than mine.” “We’re figuring it out.” “It’s a process.” His mouth moves but his eyes stay elsewhere, and when someone jokes about punctuality — “Don’t be late to your own wedding, Lee” — he smiles with his teeth but not his mouth, the kind of expression that doesn’t sit well on camera. Nahyun laughs too hard, touches his cheek like she’s turning him toward the spotlight, but he moves just enough for her to feel it, the recoil subtle, precise, real.

She guides him toward the media wall after that, arm still wrapped around his, and the flash goes off the moment he steps away to adjust his cuff, catching him mid-turn, his jaw in profile, expression unreadable, alone. The image hits feeds within hours, clean, striking, untouched by context. while the second photo, the one where she’s laughing at something he’s already turned away from, circulates with captions that sting in their simplicity. One says, She thinks this is still about her. Another: When the ring is the only thing in focus. By the end of the night, she’s heard enough to know what people are saying without needing to ask. A woman near the exit murmurs, “She’s trying to marry a legacy.” A man nearby says, “That’s not a couple. That’s a costume.” And a gossip blog posts a candid of her reaching for his hand mid-step while he’s already walking forward, the headline clean and cruel, ‘you can’t hold onto someone who already let go.’

She finds him near the marble hallway behind the main floor, where the air is cooler and the lighting falls in gold streaks along the walls, and she pulls him by the wrist like it’s an emergency masked as affection, her voice still sugar but thick at the edges. “You didn’t tell anyone about the date, or the venue, or the ring.” Her eyes shine with the kind of disbelief that doesn’t understand how to die quietly. “You didn’t say my name.”

He doesn’t speak right away, just breathes slowly, eyes low, jaw tight from holding in something that never needed to be said until now, and when it comes, it’s flat, no edge, no effort. “Because we haven’t even planned the wedding.” His voice stays steady, each word measured like it’s been waiting in his chest. “And they didn’t ask.”

Her breath stutters, lashes batting hard, mouth parting like the sentence wounded her, not just hurt but humiliated, and her voice rises too quickly to sound stable. “That’s not true.” It spills before she means it to. “You said you wanted something small, you said you didn’t care about the venue, that it could be anywhere, as long as I was there. You said that. So now what — now it’s not real just because we didn’t put it on a fucking Pinterest board?” Her hand tightens against his jaw, nails digging slightly into his skin like pressure will make the moment true, and her face twists with that bright-sharp pain she always wears when she’s cornered, glossy eyes, trembling lips, performance made from panic. “I’ve worn this ring every single day like it means something. I’ve changed my name in my notes app. I’ve had conversations with people about what to call me after we’re married. Do you even see me anymore, or do you want me to be someone else?”

He exhales once, slow, the weight of her emotion sliding over him like water on stone, and his voice comes lower, steady, shaped to anchor her without offering anything more than the bare minimum. “I see you. You’re here. This is happening.” His thumb brushes over her wrist as if that could pass for tenderness, and he leans in, closes the space between them with a kiss, not cold, not empty, but not pulled from heat either. It’s containment. A gesture built for peace and it almost lands until the sound of leather soles breaks the hallway quiet, and a voice cuts clean through the air behind them, bright, familiar, irritatingly amused. “There you two are,” says Jeno’s manager, stepping into the light with a grin too wide for the atmosphere. “The night isn’t over yet.” His hand gestures back toward the hall like an invitation, but his tone makes it a command, already turning to lead the way as if he never noticed the tension bleeding down both their wrists.

Jeno pulls back first, the kiss half-finished, breath still caught between them as he turns away without a word. Nahyun blinks, lips still parted like she might chase it, but he’s already walking. Already following. Already back in the shape the world expects him to fill. They return to their seats like nothing happened. Only the cut of the silence has changed.

The lights dim again, low and slow like a curtain drop, and Jeno exhales as he settles into the velvet seat, the pressure still lingering beneath his ribs like residue. He can feel Nahyun beside him, stiff, breath quick, thigh pressed hard into his, like she’s still trying to stay in the moment even though it’s already passed. Her energy is sugar-laced panic, too still to be calm, too alert to be composed, and he knows what comes next if he doesn’t intervene, the quiet unraveling, the questions, the voice that rises behind closed doors. He doesn’t want that. He wants sleep tonight. So he leans in, arm sliding around her shoulders like he means it, his lips brushing her temple in something that looks like comfort and tastes like surrender. “You looked beautiful tonight,” he whispers, the words warm but weightless, soft enough to soothe but hollow enough to pass, and her body stills slightly beneath his hand, her breath catching like maybe this is the moment that saves her.

The host’s voice returns, now smooth, rich with nostalgia. “Before we close the night, we want to take a moment to celebrate the journey of one of our own, Lee Jeno. The heart of modern basketball today. This is for everything it took to get here.” 

The screen lifts in slow light, the kind of golden that lives behind the eyelids when you close them too long under the sun. A boy runs across uneven pavement in a backyard just wide enough for a game and just private enough to make it sacred, a plastic hoop bolted high against a crooked fence, wood splitting under rust and weather, the net tied back with string where it frayed. His sneakers slap too hard against the concrete, the ball bouncing wild under hands still learning how to control weight, not because he’s weak but because he loves it too much to let go. His laugh doesn’t belong to the camera, it belongs to the air, and the shot holds just long enough to show him chasing after the bounce even after it rolls past him, his fingers curling over it like it carries something more than rubber. Jeno feels his own throat tighten, a heat behind the ribs. That ball was his first secret. His first rhythm. His first way of keeping quiet without ever being still.

The screen cuts to an older video, softer in grain but sharper in meaning, two figures in frame. One small. One made of legend. Taeyong dribbles slowly, one-handed, bent slightly at the waist, eyes locked on a boy no taller than his ribs. Jeno stares up at him like the world exists in his palms. The ball bounces between them, deliberate, slow, rhythmic like a heartbeat passed back and forth, and then Taeyong steps back and gestures for him to try. Young Jeno plants his feet, lifts the ball, and shoots with every muscle in his arms — the motion clumsy, imperfect, too strong, but the sound of the swish lands clean. Taeyong claps once. Jeno looks at him and grins so wide it splits through the grain. In the chair, Jeno’s jaw tightens, his breath shallow, his posture frozen like muscle memory caught in motion. This was the first time the hoop opened like a doorway instead of a target, the first time the weight in his hands felt like belonging instead of pressure, the first time greatness bent low enough to meet his eyes and said ‘everything worth chasing already lives in your reach so take it and keep going.’

The footage shifts into the echo of a gym, the Little League season when the jerseys still came in a plastic bag, numbers printed too high on the back, everything oversized except the pressure. The sound of shoes squeaking on waxed court fills the speakers, high and close, and there he is — smaller than most of the team, faster than almost all of them, arms loose, form wild, dribbling down the side of the court with his tongue between his teeth. His face is serious in that way only children playing with purpose can be, expression pulled tight with concentration, even when his pass goes wide and the point doesn’t land. The ball returns to him and he moves again, no pause, no tilt of the head to check the scoreboard. Just the want. Just the movement. Just the decision to be better before he’s even learned what better means. Someone calls his name and he glances once toward the sound, a quick flick of attention, then takes the shot with his feet just shy of the line. It doesn’t need to land for the moment to hold. It just needs to be seen.

The footage sharpens into the Seoul Ravens era, the high school years where things stopped feeling like a dream and started demanding blood, the gym wider now, bleachers packed in navy and silver, the Ravens logo stretched across the court like a seal of initiation and Jeno moves through it with a focus shaped by repetition, his jersey no longer oversized but claimed, number stitched tight against his spine, feet sure, cuts clean, the pace faster but the rhythm calmer like his body had finally caught up to the ambition behind it. Coach Suh stands at the edge of the court in a structured jacket, face unreadable, arms crossed, only speaking when the moment earns it and every time Jeno looks his way he receives nothing but the expectation to rise so he does, over and over, even when his legs burn and his lungs scrape raw, because that’s what the Ravens meant — not flight, but fight. Jaemin runs beside him in one clip, eyes quick, hands signaling before Jeno even turns, the pass connecting like it was rehearsed in another life and the shot goes up without hesitation and drops clean through the net just as the gym erupts, and Areum appears next, barely in the frame but smiling wide with her fingers pressed to the glass, mouthing something he doesn’t read but still remembers, and in the next beat it’s Jeno on the bench during a timeout, towel over his shoulders, sweat catching on his jaw as he nods once to himself like the future had already introduced itself and he’d decided to answer.

The screen flares once more, light cascading like liquid gold through the stadium rafters, bathing every surface in radiant clarity as the state championship footage settles into view. The camera trembles slightly—breathless, urgent—but still manages to capture the decisive seconds counting down, numbers burning away into nothingness, as the court blooms into an ecstatic chaos. The ball arcs toward Jeno with almost poetic inevitability, spinning serenely as if guided by invisible threads only he commands. His feet slide effortlessly to the three-point line, a single perfect stride anchoring him firmly to the earth before he rises skyward, arms slicing through the air with a grace so precise, so practiced, it resembles scripture etched against dusk. The release is holy, a quiet prayer set loose, the basketball spinning serenely through the air before slicing through the net—smooth and effortless, silk splitting beneath glass.

The buzzer erupts a moment too late, overwhelmed by the roaring wave of sound pouring forth from the crowd, thunder wrapped in velvet, exploding in euphoric celebration. Teammates surge forward, voices raw with triumph, but Jeno remains momentarily rooted—eyes wide, mouth parted, frozen not in disbelief but in profound recognition, as though every nerve in his body had already whispered this outcome to him, and reality had merely caught up. He's barely taken a full breath before you collide into him, sprinting from the sidelines, face alight with wild, boundless joy, hair streaming behind you like a banner carried through battle.

He watches as you leap into him, your cheer skirt flying up with the force of your sprint, thighs flashing under the stadium lights as your pom poms tumble from your hands and scatter across the court like offerings, forgotten the second your body collides with his, legs wrapping around his hips without hesitation, your fingers diving into his hair while your lips find his with a gasp that’s half-sob, half-laugh, your hips grinding forward instinctively as he catches you with both hands gripping under your thighs, pulling you tighter into the cradle of him, breath spilling into your mouth like heat caught between two people who’ve waited too long to pretend this is just adrenaline, the kiss tipping into something deeper as you moan into him, soft and sharp and shaking, your skirt bunched around your waist and his hands flexing over your bare skin like memory and muscle had planned this all season.

Your lips find his cheek before intention registers, and his eyes flutter closed, surrendering immediately to the quiet sanctuary your touch creates amid the storm. His forehead dips to yours, his breathing ragged, chest rising and falling with breaths you've chased all season, your fingers knotting urgently into his jersey—holding onto more than fabric, anchoring him to this ephemeral now, grounding him as the world fractures open around you both. His hand rises tenderly, thumb tracing the delicate line of your jaw, noses brushing softly, lips parting just enough to taste the corner of his mouth, not fully a kiss but something hungrier—a whispered promise ignited in the heat of victory.

Confetti descends slowly, gold and white drifting lazily like snowfall inside a dream, catching in your lashes, brushing your skin in delicate caresses, but neither of you moves, locked in the quiet gravity of your shared orbit. And then the moment deepens—the kiss lands fully, your mouths melting together hot and open, your hand sliding possessively into the warmth at the back of his hair, the roaring celebration fading to insignificance beneath his absolute focus. He molds perfectly against you, his hips pressing insistently forward, fingers sinking into your curves like they've memorized every contour, the kiss neither polite nor reserved—it's fierce, greedy, raw. It speaks of victories earned, wounds healed, scars worn proudly; a kiss that knows intimately every sacrifice made to reach this pinnacle. You arch subtly, shifting him gently off balance, and he anchors you instantly, arm tightening protectively, mouth moving with silent, relentless devotion. A camera flash bursts briefly—neither of you blink—and his tongue sweeps tenderly against your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to whisper your name into your mouth, syllables reverent and heated, a prayer woven from sweat, triumph, and something deeper still.

Watching himself from the darkened audience, Jeno breathes differently now, the rhythmic certainty of his lungs disrupted, chest constricting sharply beneath his tailored suit, pulse visible at his throat like an unsteady heartbeat beneath thin ice. His gaze remains riveted to the screen, intensity cracking open something unseen within him, jaw tightening reflexively, hands resting deliberately still upon his thighs. It's not the win that unravels him—it's the raw intimacy of his past self, captured vividly in the way he once held you, claiming you not just as part of his victory but as its very essence. The way your mouth sought his without question, certain and unapologetic, a truth recognized in skin and soul. Nahyun beside him is utterly motionless, her eyes locked forward, knuckles blanching as they tighten against her satin clutch. Her carefully poised smile doesn't falter, though her stillness seems an attempt to rewrite a story already etched irrevocably into history. The footage fades. The room exhales collectively. But Jeno remains unmoving, pulse throbbing quietly, awaiting the inevitable—what comes next, the unraveling, the reflection, the ultimate reckoning with choices now impossible to escape.

Nahyun doesn’t blink for a full ten seconds after the screen fades, her body rigid in its posture like the fabric of her dress had hardened around her bones, her chest rising faster than it should beneath the sequins as though her heart is racing toward a truth her mind refuses to accept. Her hands stay curled on the clutch in her lap, knuckles stiff and bloodless, as she forces a soft laugh under her breath — high, almost musical, but too sharp to land as joy — and her voice spills out sweet and breathy like an actress closing a scene. “That clip was so old,” she says with a tilt of her head that looks like grace but tastes like panic, her tone styled for cameras that aren’t even on her. “We’ve filmed so many better moments. Paris, that week in Rome, that boat in the Maldives when you said I looked like a woman someone would fight for.” Her fingers glide along the inside of Jeno’s sleeve, feather-light, too rehearsed, her smile flickering wider as if daring the lights above them to turn back on and redo the scene with her in it this time. “They chose it because of the score. That’s the only reason, it has nothing to do with her, she doesn’t even look pretty —”

Nahyun turns toward him with the force of someone coming undone from the inside out, her breath catching before her words even form, her hands flying up to his arm and gripping it hard like a lifeline she has to hold or drown, her voice breaking the moment it leaves her mouth but still rising, still reaching. “You said she was just a phase, Jeno,” she says too loud, too fast, too breathless, like each syllable is chasing the one before it, like if she stops now the truth might slip through the cracks. “You said college never mattered to you, you said none of it lasted, you said you didn’t even remember what she looked like anymore, you said that win didn’t matter because you’ve won bigger ones with me, with me, with me.” Her smile shatters as it forms, mouth shaking into a laugh that doesn’t sound human, eyes wide with something too sharp to be sadness, too wild to be joy. She grabs his hand with both of hers now, pressing it against her chest like that touch could rearrange what just happened, like heat alone can rewrite the timeline. “We have real history. Real memories. Real life. I’ve already booked our honeymoon. I ordered matching rings for our dog tags. I’ve already spoken to Chanel about the gown. I’m the one who’s going to walk down the aisle, not her. I’m the one who’s going to get your babies, your name, your future.”

She leans in too close, her body pressed into his side, hands still locked around his as she breathes fast, uneven, almost gasping now as if the thoughts are too many to speak at once, as if the entire theater is shrinking around her and he’s the only anchor left. “You love me, Jeno. You said I was your peace. You said I made you feel still. You said you didn’t want anything else but me. You said I was your home.” Her fingers clutch tighter, her grip panicked now, frantic, nails digging lightly through the sleeve of his suit as she searches his face for proof, for softness, for anything that will tell her this isn’t the moment it all slips away. “Tell me that clip means nothing. Tell me it was just nostalgia. Tell me I’m the only thing that’s real now. Tell me. Right now. Please.”

Jeno’s eyes widen just enough to register the shape of the warning, his pulse tightening low in his throat as the sound of her voice coils sharper than the words themselves, and he recognizes it instantly, the pitch she only uses when she’s already crossed into the version of herself that speaks in ultimatums dressed as declarations, the tone that wraps desperation in sweetness and throws it like a blade, the one he’s learned to read like weather, like instinct, like a threat dressed in satin. His body stills beneath her grip, jaw flexing once as if weighing every possible version of wrong, and he moves only when the silence between them begins to drag too long, his hand lifting with practiced gentleness as he brushes her hair back behind her ear and leans in just enough to let the world think it’s affection. “I know,” he says, voice low, even and warm at the edges like comfort, like concession, like control shaped into calm. “I know what we are.” His lips press to her temple, light and slow, his hand staying against her cheek like he’s grounding her, but his eyes don’t close and his breath doesn’t shake and the words never touch the inside of his chest.

They come back to the hotel just past midnight, and the silence between them is louder than the echo of her heels on the marble floor. The clatter cuts through the hallway like a warning shot, sharp and deliberate, every step a wound neither of them acknowledges. He walks ahead, keys still in his hand, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. The front door clicks shut behind them, but the tension that’s been building all night doesn’t settle. It tightens. Coils. Gathers itself in the corners of the room like storm clouds. She doesn’t speak—not in the hallway, not as she shrugs off her coat, not even when she kicks off her heels with more force than necessary, letting them land where they fall. Her dress clings to her, satin and spite, the same deep blue that earned her camera flashes all night, the same blue he refused to even glance at.

“You didn’t touch me. All night.” Her voice isn’t raised, but there’s a crack underneath it, something trembling and furious. She’s not asking for an explanation—she’s offering a challenge. He turns slowly, meets her eyes without flinching.

“You didn’t shut up all night.” That hits. She laughs—sharp, cutting, nothing like joy. She steps forward, dress slipping around her thighs as she closes the distance.

“Is that what this is?” she spits. “You couldn’t kiss me because I was too loud? Because I smiled too big? Talked too much? What, am I too embarrassing for your legacy now? Is Nahyun too messy for your pristine little highlight reel? You didn’t even look at me, Jeno, not once, not after they played that fucking video, not after the entire world saw you kiss her like she was yours and smile like she mattered, like she was the reason you won, like I was never even in the story to begin with.”

He loosens his cuff in one slow motion, gaze cool, head turned slightly toward the window like the night might answer instead, and when he speaks it lands like fog, distant and dry. “It was the state championships, it was such a big moment, people remember the shot and I wasn’t with you then.” 

She laughs instantly, too fast to sound real, and her voice jumps an octave as she storms across the room, dragging her earrings off and throwing them onto the bed like the sound might punctuate the unravelling. “They remember the way you looked at her. Don’t lie to me — don’t sit there like a statue and pretend you didn’t feel it too, like your fucking soul left your body and went back to hers when they played it. You’re still in that clip, I watched you relive it, I watched you breathe like she was still in your arms.” Her hand shoots out and grabs his wrist and she presses it against her stomach, breath shaking, lips parted. “You’re with me now. You promised me everything. You said you didn’t want the past, you said I was your future, you said I was forever.”

His head snaps toward her like a trigger pulled without hesitation, the calm in his jaw gone, his voice tearing through the space between them with sharp, final weight. “I never said that.” His hand drops from her grasp and he steps forward once, not to hold her but to break the rhythm, to cut the scene before she can twist the next line into fiction, his breath tight now, jaw locked, the heat in his eyes no longer soft but forged. “Not everything is about you,” he growls, louder this time, each word carved with precision and held long enough to hurt. “I was there to receive an award, for my game, for my name, for what I built. It wasn’t a party, it wasn’t your goddamn runway, it was my moment, and you walked into it like it owed you something, like I owed you something.”

She throws her hands up, laughing again, but there’s fire behind it now. “Oh, fuck you. You loved it when they chased us down in Milan. You loved it when they called us the power couple of the year. You loved it when I was a trophy for you. But now—what, I wear one tight dress, and suddenly I’ve ‘stolen your moment’?”

He moves toward her then, sudden and close. “You turned it into a photo op. You couldn’t even let me have that.”

“You make me lose my fucking mind, you—”

His eyes flash. “What did you lose, Nahyun? A brand deal? A stylist? Or did one of your pet photographers miss the shot?”

The slap comes fast, heat cracking across his cheek like a fuse finally touched flame, her hand trembling after the impact like it hadn’t caught up to what it just did. His head turns with it, the sharp twist of his jaw drawing the light across his cheekbone, but his body stays still, rooted, spine straight, breath measured as if every part of him had already braced for this. She stares at him, wild and shaking, chest rising too fast, fingers curling like they want to throw something else, and he only breathes — once, deep and slow, then again, deeper, sharper, like he’s dragging oxygen through restraint. And then he moves.

His hands find her waist like impact, rough and immediate, and he turns her so fast her back hits the wall with a thud that silences everything. Her dress rides high around her thighs, the fabric crushed between them as he grips her hips and yanks her flush against him, one hand at her jaw, the other at her waist, and still he won’t kiss her, won’t touch her mouth like it deserves softness. He pulls her panties aside with a motion that feels like war, not seduction, and when he thrusts into her it’s raw, brutal, full-bodied and breathless, the air between them hot with hate and heat and the kind of desperation that doesn’t wait to be forgiven. His jaw is clenched, throat tight, eyes burning at something behind her, through her, inside himself, and every thrust feels like punishment, not just for her, but for everything he’s never said out loud.

Her moans come fast, high, fraying at the edges like fabric too thin to hold weight, and she claws at his back, thighs trembling, breath breaking as she rocks against him harder, needier, frantic for friction, for proof. “What’s our future, Jeno?” she gasps, voice cracking like glass underfoot, “Don’t you want something that’s yours? Don’t you want my babies? Don’t you want to stay?” Her hands cup his face then, dragging his gaze to hers, mouth searching for connection, for closeness, for something real. But he doesn’t kiss her. He just fucks her harder, eyes dark, locked on hers like the intensity might disguise the emptiness behind it.

His breath catches for a moment at her words, not in tenderness, but tension, his jaw tightening as her voice breaks like crystal across his chest and her hands reach up like they could pull something true out of a face that no longer mirrors anything back. His rhythm doesn’t falter, it deepens, sharpens, the force of his body driving harder into hers like refusal shaped through motion, like denial disguised as devotion, and he stares into her eyes as if holding her there might force her to understand. 

“You know what this is, you know I have no choice” he says, voice steady, almost quiet, but threaded through with something raw and buried. “You know why it keeps happening. You know what your father set in motion and what mine never got the chance to stop.” His fingers tighten at her side, not to bruise, to remind. “You know what was lost and what was owed. What this was meant to fix.” He pulls her hips forward again, slow and deliberate, like gravity is doing the work for him. “You know I didn’t ask for this and you know why I never walked out.”

His thrusts slow but never soften, rhythm tightening into something mechanical, unfeeling, a rhythm set by memory not desire, and his hand finds the back of her neck with a grip that doesn’t threaten, just holds, like a weight pressed to glass, like a warning left unsaid. “You want something to keep,” he murmurs, breath hot and unshaking against her cheek, “You think a child would make this permanent, that blood would bind me the way memory never could, but you don’t understand what’s already been traded.” His voice deepens, darkens. “You don’t know what my father had to erase to keep my name clean. You don’t know what yours offered in return. You want babies, Nahyun?” His grip tightens, final. “I would never bring a child into this, into this lie, this family, this fucking performance you’ve built like it’s a future. I wouldn’t trap my worst memory in this house, Nahyun. Let alone my blood.”

And just as her body begins to come undone, just as her thighs tighten and her voice lifts and she arches toward release, he pulls out, breath ragged, falls to his knees like gravity snapped the last thread in him, fists clenched against the floor, cock twitching once before he comes hard on the marble between her feet, head bowed like he’s praying to something no longer listening. She braces herself against the wall, dress twisted, hair falling from its pins, skin flushed and trembling with nothing left to hold.

She doesn’t move for a full breath, her eyes fixed somewhere above him like the ceiling holds an answer or a script or maybe a timeline where everything went the way she planned, and when she exhales it comes out through a laugh, small at first, soft and melodic, but it twists too quickly, brightens into something that shakes at the edges, and she turns to face him like the argument never happened, like the sex meant everything, like the story hasn’t already ended. “You always do this when it gets scary,” she says, voice sweet and rushing, eyes wet and full, hands smoothing her dress like she’s about to walk down an aisle no one else can see, “you push me away and pretend it’s fear but it’s not, it’s just habit, it’s just what happens when you’ve never had anything worth staying for until now and you don’t know how to carry it, but you will, you will, because you love me and you know this is real.”

She crosses the room slowly, her heels unsteady now, hair falling from its pins, lips parted like she’s still whispering to a dream, and she picks up her clutch from the dresser like it’s delicate, sacred, sets it down again and reaches for nothing, just air, just the space between them, then speaks again in a voice full of bridal lilt and practiced control. “They’re going to ask about the video,” she says, smile curling even as her throat tightens, “they’re going to say she looked happy, that you looked at her like she was the last thing you’d ever lose, but they’ll never understand what that really was, you were young and naive, you were chasing a feeling, she was just a moment that got filmed too well, and you didn’t know what forever looked like until you saw me in that Dior fitting room holding your ring.”

Jeno has no fight left in him, the space between them expands until the bed feels impossibly wide when they finally lie down. Nahyun curls onto her side, her back to him, eyes open and staring blankly at the far wall. Jeno remains motionless on his back, gaze fixed to the ceiling as if answers might bloom there, slow and careful like cracks in plaster. Eventually, their breathing aligns into something steady and shallow, slipping toward sleep in a rhythm of resignation. Nahyun's breathing evens out first, delicate and careful as if afraid to disturb the fragile truce of the moment. Jeno listens carefully, muscles wound tight beneath sheets that feel cool against his skin, thoughts circling relentlessly around the images of the night. Slowly, finally, he falls into restless sleep, dreams tangled and dark, his subconscious haunted by moments he can neither reclaim nor erase.

Morning arrives like an eclipse, sudden and consuming, the light aggressive and merciless as it bleeds through the curtains, spilling relentlessly over the bed. It feels apocalyptic, the warmth searing into his skin as though punishing him for every thought he kept hidden through the night. Nahyun wakes first, phone buzzing urgently on the bedside table, screen glowing ominously, relentless alerts stacked on top of each other like waves cresting before the crash. She reaches for it blindly, eyes barely open, heart dropping as headlines flood her vision—each more damning than the last, each tearing into a carefully maintained reality she had begun to trust.

By the time Jeno wakes, the room feels starkly different—tension hanging thick, air charged like before a storm breaks. Nahyun sits upright, rigid, phone clutched tightly, eyes hollow. He doesn't have to ask what's wrong; the silence already screams volumes. She hands him the phone without looking, and he scrolls through headlines with numb fingers, each title slicing deeper, sharper, bleeding truths he'd buried far too long.

“Lee Jeno: Love, Legacy, and the Woman Missing From the Montages” —                                                           The Athletic The Legacy Invitational Gala was designed to honor greatness, yet it exposed a fracture far deeper. Amid tributes to the late Lee Taeyong, a moment of startling clarity emerged—a clip from the Seoul Ravens' state championship victory resurfaced, capturing Lee Jeno’s euphoric kiss with renowned Apex Analytics strategist Y/N. While the moment drew collective awe, the conspicuous absence of Lee’s current fiancée, Kim Nahyun, sparked immediate and fierce public discourse. Analysts are left dissecting the delicate intersection between personal history and public legacy, questioning if perhaps Lee’s true legacy lies not in his heritage but in the woman who quietly disappeared from view, only to resurface in a flash of undeniable intimacy.

“The One That Got The Crown” —                                   We all saw it—the glow, the exuberance, the unmistakable way Lee Jeno’s face softened at Y/N’s touch. The gala tribute, intended as a celebration of dynasties and inherited glory, inadvertently crowned someone else entirely. Legacy isn't only about bloodlines; it's about those who stand beside you, those who rewrite narratives and inspire victories. Perhaps, as Y/N stepped back into collective memory, the world realized they'd crowned the wrong queen all along. This isn't just gossip; it's a reckoning with public perception and emotional authenticity, proving once again that history—and legacy—often belongs to those we never saw coming.

“Who is Y/N?— Forbes Culture” —                                    Until last night, Y/N was a name whispered mostly in niche industry circles. Known for revolutionizing player analytics with emotive storytelling, Y/N transformed Apex Athletics' Seoul branch into an influential powerhouse. But beyond professional acclaim, her personal history with Lee Jeno during the Seoul Hill Ravens era had largely faded from view—until a single clip resurrected her role in his narrative. Sources confirm she left Apex quietly a year ago, slipping beneath the public radar. Now thrust unwillingly back into spotlight, Y/N stands at the intersection of nostalgia, speculation, and legacy, prompting fresh curiosity about her abrupt departure and what lies ahead.

“The Forgotten Fiancée: gossipforum.tv” —                                                                  The Legacy Invitational’s editing oversight—or deliberate choice—sparked an unexpected firestorm online. Kim Nahyun, celebrated influencer and fiancée to NBA star Lee Jeno, found herself erased from the evening’s key tribute montage. Fans quickly polarized: many condemning the gala for disrespect, others revealing a harsher reality—that few had even noticed her absence. Social media narratives spiraled rapidly, turning Nahyun into a symbolic figurehead of forgotten partners everywhere. With each repost, like, and biting comment, Nahyun faces not just public humiliation, but an undeniable truth: the world was looking elsewhere, focused on a past she'd believed was irrelevant.

Nahyun doesn’t blink as the screen fades, eyes glassy but dry, fingers curled around her phone so tightly the metal frame digs deep into her palm like a blade she doesn’t plan on letting go of, and even though the room stays still around her, quiet, unbothered, untouched, she can feel the entire narrative collapsing under her, the ground shifting beneath her spine, like waking in a life that’s no longer hers, like lying in a bed she spent weeks designing only to realize someone else had already left their imprint in the mattress. She doesn’t hand the phone to Jeno so much as discard it toward him without turning, as if looking at his face would confirm something irreversible, something sickening, something she’s already decided to ignore. 

She moves with the stiff poise of a woman betrayed by fantasy, not reality—chest lifted, chin sharp, like she’s the one being wronged by the world for not clapping hard enough. She scrolls through every post and headline like she’s feeding off them, dragging them deeper and deeper into her bloodstream, and each image of you, smiling, glowing, being looked at like that, etches itself behind her eyes until the jealousy rots into something feral. She memorizes the photos like studying an enemy, like preparing for a face transplant she believes the world will thank her for, reading the captions like gospel, like scripture, like a prophecy that went wrong because someone cast the wrong lead, and when she stands in the mirror later that night, hair tied up like yours, lips glossy like yours, necklace subtle like yours, she doesn’t see herself at all, and she doesn’t care.

She dyes her hair darker two hours after the last article drops, chooses a cooler undertone to match the lighting in your college interviews, asks for volume and shape through the ends, shows the stylist a blurry screenshot she cropped to hide your face, and when she leaves the salon she walks past every reflective surface with her head tilted slightly, strands bouncing softly around her shoulders like they belong to someone with memory worth chasing, and when she gets home she waits by the mirror for Jeno to come out of the shower, hand already mid-swing to casually toss her hair back, neck exposed like a dare, but he doesn’t pause, doesn’t slow, just pulls on his hoodie and leaves a damp trail behind him on the carpet, and still she smiles into the mirror like she won something, because even his silence feels cinematic if she frames it hard enough.

The makeup comes next, soft and luminous with sheer foundation and cream blush pressed into her cheekbones exactly where you wear it, brows brushed upward with restraint, lashes curled and left almost bare, lips filled in with a mauve balm she had overnighted from a niche brand she saw in the background of a locker room clip where you smiled after someone called your name, and she studies the light across her face in different rooms of the apartment until she knows which lamp mimics golden hour best, sits there practicing her expression—neutral, open, gentle—with the camera just below her chin to catch her jawline the way yours turns when you laugh, and she waits by the kitchen doorway when Jeno walks past, radiant in soft light and practiced stillness, but he barely lifts his gaze, just nods once with a flat “hey,” and she holds that word inside her mouth for three hours like it might reshape into something more if she doesn’t breathe too hard.

The bracelet comes after—the same silver thread of charm links you used to wear, delicate and soft and clinking when you gestured in videos, except this one is hers and empty, bare except for a single heart she picked herself from a mall kiosk, and she wears it to bed the first night, letting it knock gently against her wrist as she scrolls through old photos of you at galas, laughing with friends she doesn’t recognize, zooming in to count the charms you once wore, memorizing them like symbols in a language she plans to steal, and when she passes Jeno the next morning, she lifts her arm casually to brush her hair behind her ear, the charm flashing in the light like an invitation.

He notices, and it hits her like a spark catching fabric, because the moment she lifts her wrist, his gaze lands there with precision, eyes locking on the flash of silver, the faint glint of the charm she angled perfectly toward the light, and there’s a stillness in him, something shifting behind his eyes like a memory rising too quickly to name, and for a breathless second she watches the shape of his mouth change like a question forming in silence, the crease between his brows deepening with something that feels like recognition, and for a heartbeat she’s certain he sees it, the styling, the weight, the mimicry carved into every decision and there’s a quiet thrum of shock beneath the tired slope of his shoulders, but he doesn’t speak, instead he nods softly, like a thought he’s still catching up to, murmurs something about needing to call Jaemin, and reaches for his phone, his fingers brushing the counter without looking back. She stays frozen in the doorway, the charm still swinging as if hoping to be touched, replaying that look over and over as she lies in bed later, her body stretched perfectly across the sheets, the bracelet imprinting gently against her wrist while she stares into the dark, imagining how much closer she must be now, how the next one might be the charm that makes him stay.

She shifts again, this time without subtlety, shedding whatever softness she had left in favor of silk and lace and skin, wearing versions of your old outfits with an eerie kind of precision, she pairs sheer mesh with oversized jackets the exact way you used to in winter, wears cardigans half-slipped from her shoulders with bralettes peeking beneath, keeps the lingerie visible, deliberate, curated for effect, and even the things meant to look accidental feel staged, like she’s dressing for a memory that doesn’t belong to her but still clings to the seams of Jeno’s past like perfume that never faded. One morning, she steps into the living room barefoot in the same sheer slip you once wore to an afterparty, the hem brushing her thighs, her collarbone framed with delicate lace, and the look on Jeno’s face flickers with recognition, immediate and exact, like watching a rerun of a scene he never asked to relive.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just lets his eyes travel down and then back up with the kind of silence that burns hotter than words, and when she crosses the room with a smile that tries to mimic your alluring confidence—soft, unbothered, a little sharp around the edges, his posture changes, shoulders stiffening, hands curling around his phone like he needs something to ground him, because he knows, fully and precisely, what she’s doing. She tosses her hair back in the exact rhythm you used to when you laughed in bars past midnight, when you danced barefoot on balconies, when you wore those same low-slung jeans and camisoles without ever asking for attention but earning all of it anyway. She starts wearing the bodysuit—the exact one, or close enough—a ribbed black piece with snap closures and a neckline that plunges at the same slope, and one evening she stands at the edge of the kitchen island in it, waiting for a reaction, leaning her hip just slightly into the marble the way she’s seen you do in photos, and Jeno looks up once, says nothing, but his eyes hold longer than usual, jaw tight, and then he turns away, almost too fast, retreating into the bathroom and closing the door like it’s a break he’s forcing into the timeline.

She begins organizing her outfits by moodboard, your moods, not her own and not casually, not as inspiration, but with the obsessive precision of someone reconstructing a ghost wardrobe piece by piece, down to the cut of your jeans and the exact shape of the neckline that once made his eyes linger half a second longer. She tapes screenshots inside her closet doors, cropped, zoomed, sharpened stills she’s pulled from fan accounts and background sightings, building a catalog of your expressions, your silhouettes, the subtle hierarchy of how you dressed when you knew you were being watched versus when you didn’t care. She doesn’t label her drawers by type anymore—no bras, shirts, skirts—but by scenario: studio drop-by, post-game silence, backseat of the car after a win, hotel breakfast in someone else’s hoodie. It becomes a ritual, it becomes warfare. She studies softness like it’s weaponry, takes lace and crumples it in her fists just to see how it wrinkles against her palm, practices leaning against counters with your posture, rolling sleeves with your carelessness, existing not as herself but as an echo she’s desperate to make louder than the original.

Jeno notices. Of course he notices. He watches every outfit like déjà vu bleeding into high definition, every loose cardigan and half-buttoned shirt scraping across his memory like nails down a familiar wall, and though he says nothing, though his expression stays fixed and neutral, there’s always a second too long of pause when she walks into the room, always a beat where the air stretches tight with recognition, but he doesn’t speak because he doesn’t trust himself to say it kindly yet. His silence isn’t ignorance—it’s restraint. He’s biting his tongue until it bleeds because he knows the second he opens his mouth, something irreversible might snap in her, in him, in this space they’re both pretending hasn’t already caved in on itself. He hasn't commented yet but he could, at any moment. And the weight of that unspoken possibility is something she wears more intimately than any of the clothes. 

After Nahyun falls asleep, still in the bodysuit, still smelling like the perfume she thinks might remind him of something better, Jeno steps out onto the balcony and wraps a blanket around his shoulders like he’s trying to disappear without leaving, the air too warm for comfort but just cold enough to help him breathe. The city hums quietly below, soft streetlights stretching across the pavement like veins beneath glass, and he lowers himself into the lounge near the far edge of the railing, phone heavy in his hand, chest heavier still. For a long time he doesn’t scroll. Just sits there, still and quiet, thumb hovering but unmoving. And then the feed updates.

The first post that loads is Areum’s. It’s the kind of photo that makes your breath catch, sunlight soft and honeyed, the ocean behind them quiet and wide, her hand held up to the camera in a casual gesture that hides most of Mark’s face but reveals everything else: the shape of their closeness, the comfort in their knit sweaters, the familiarity in the way his body tilts toward hers. The ring sits perfectly on her finger, sparkling even in the warmth of late afternoon light. Her caption reads, ‘forever sounds like him, marked for life.’ It’s simple, bare, and real, and Jeno doesn’t scroll past it—he reads it twice, maybe three times, something in his chest cinching tighter with each word. He remembers how nervous Mark was picking out that ring, how he’d dragged Jeno into a quiet boutique on a Tuesday afternoon and held up every option with trembling hands, how he paced the aisles like he didn’t trust himself to choose something worthy. Jeno stood with him for over an hour, made him laugh, offered him steady words, told him she would love whatever he gave her because it was him giving it. When Mark finally picked one, Jeno took a picture of it on the velvet stand and texted him later that night: You did good, so proud of you man. Now it’s here, on her hand, in the middle of the life they built. Jeno double-taps before he even realizes it, the sound of the ocean almost audible in the stillness around him, and his heart presses heavily behind his ribs as he keeps looking, and looking, and looking.

The next post is Jaemin’s. The image opens to a soft, low-angle shot of his daughter lying on her back, dressed in a pale embroidered dress with delicate eyelet detail, her cheeks full and flushed, hair messy from sleep and spread out in dark waves across a cream pillow. Her smile is wide and open, showing tiny teeth, her eyes caught mid-laughter, and there’s a white clip tucked gently into her bangs like something chosen with care. The lighting is warm, the carpet in the background blurred into soft tones, and the entire moment feels private but lovingly offered, like he couldn’t keep her to himself any longer. The caption reads, ‘world, meet my girl.’ One grey heart. Nothing else. Jeno stares, chest drawn tight beneath the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, thumb hovering over the post until it lights up red, then lingering there even after it’s done, and without thinking he presses the save icon too. The glow from the screen softens the edges of the night around him, and he keeps looking at her face—so free, so bright, so unfiltered—wondering when the last time he felt that kind of peace in his own skin was, and why it aches in his throat now.

Then the tag hits. A fan account. One he doesn’t follow, but the post floats into his feed like fate. It’s a throwback—college game night, a flash, a moment he never knew someone captured. You’re on his shoulders, laughing so hard your mouth is wide open and your head is tilted back, hair flying in waves. He’s crouched slightly, hands gripping your thighs, and his lips are pressed to your ankle like it was instinct, like it was holy. You’re both backlit by stadium lights. He’s smiling like nothing bad has ever happened. The caption cuts through him. remember when his smile looked like this? The next inhale doesn’t come easily. He swipes out of Instagram. Locks his phone. Keeps the screen pressed to his lips for a second longer than he should. And then he just sits there, heartbeat shallow, blanket bunched in his fists, the night wrapping around his shoulders like the only thing left that knows what he’s holding back.

The moment he closes the app, the decision feels inevitable, like he’s been quietly walking toward it for months without knowing, like his body knew long before his mind caught up. He stands from the balcony with the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, breath shallow, pulse slow, the glow of the screen still ghosting the inside of his vision as he walks back through the apartment without turning on any lights. Nahyun is still asleep in their bed, one arm stretched into the space where he used to be, her face soft, lips parted, breath slow and unaware, but he doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t give her any part of this moment, because this isn’t hers. He opens the drawer, pulls out his passport and wallet, slips his phone into his pocket, and walks out of the apartment without checking if the door shuts gently behind him, because it doesn’t matter anymore.

He books the flight in the back of the cab, fingers fast and practiced, eyes scanning departure times until one appears that leaves just after three a.m., a direct one-way ticket to Seoul with no return, no extras, no baggage added. He doesn’t tell anyone, doesn’t text Nahyun, doesn’t alert his manager, doesn’t clear it with the team or send a calendar block to his agent, doesn’t even open the group chat, because the silence feels better, purer, more honest than any explanation he could try to give. The driver doesn’t speak and Jeno doesn’t ask him to, just stares out the window at the city flashing past, already detaching from it, already untethering himself from every version of the life that’s still running behind him on autopilot.

At the airport, he moves like a shadow through the low glow of overnight terminals, hoodie pulled tight over his face, cap low, sunglasses hiding the weight in his eyes, and he doesn’t stop for food or water or distraction, just walks to the gate with nothing in his hands and everything in his chest, the ache pressed right beneath his sternum like a secret. He boards without hesitation, phone set to airplane mode before they even ask, and when the plane lifts into the dark sky, the city falls away beneath him with a kind of quiet relief, like he’s finally slipped beneath the surface of something he was never meant to keep surviving.

He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t watch a movie, doesn’t speak to the flight attendants, just folds the blanket over his lap and stares at the clouds outside the window as they start to shift from black to blue, dawn slowly curling at the edges of the earth like it’s making space for something to begin again. He doesn’t know if Mark will be home, doesn’t know if he’ll pick up when he lands, doesn’t know if you’ll even be in the same time zone, he doesn’t know where you are but none of it matters, because he’s going back to the only place that’s ever held him right, and this time he isn’t looking for answers, he’s just looking for air.

[continuation — 53k words]

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

authors note — 

if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions-whether it's sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi gives me so much motivation to keep writing. i'm always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don't be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

[amimuu]

“Hope”

VTA AU - #1

Word count: 5188 words

Reading time: ~15 mins

[‼️TW!: Implied decapitation, violence, suicidal ideation (?). Discretion is advised‼️]

Fic under the cut

They couldn’t keep their head in place.

And they tried, really hard. To keep it upright. It was stitched to their neck for a reason. But it had never actually depended on those strings to stay there. 

It depended on the crown.

A crown that moments before had gingerly placed itself back on their god’s head, slowly taking away what little sliver of power remained within the Lamb along with it. 

But they couldn’t rest just yet. They had to hold on for just a little longer. They had to listen to what their god had to say. 

But even with how much the Lamb pushed down the ringing, they couldn’t hear a single word. Their god simply stared at them, silently. Clearly, this was what he was expecting would happen.

Clearly, this was what he wanted to happen. What they both knew would happen. What the Lamb so desperately hoped wouldn’t have to happen.

But naturally, they were wrong. Of course.

Slowly, they let their gaze fall back into the ground, pristine white sand now stained crimson, proof of their mortality; slowly slipping away.

Of course, of course.

They squeezed their eyes, slowly taking their hoofs away from their neck. There was nothing left to do. This was the end. 

Of course, of course, of course.

A relief, he had said. They’d be finally fred from the role they were forced into playing. A leader. A prophet. A god-slayer. The last of their kind. The Lamb was no traitor, of course they were willing; how could they be not?

Back then, the Lamb had simply lowered their gaze, deep in thought. 

“Promise?”

“Hmm?”

“That it’ll be the end?” And they looked up to their god, a tiny glimmer in their eyes.

Rest, rest at last.  Their god had simply smiled back at them, a wide grin that exposed his sharp teeth.

“Yes” He replied, “I promise”

Still, the Lamb, unsure of what they truly wanted, had allowed themselves to hope. Entertain their selfish wishes for a while. Some pitiful way of self-comfort, they guessed. Maybe he’d change his mind. Maybe he’d let them stay by his side.

But when had hope ever been of any help to them?.

Hope hadn’t saved their kind. Hope hadn’t avoided their first death. And it certainly would not avoid this one.

Nothing would save them this time. Not hope. Not even their god.

A fool, the Lamb though, a bitter chuckle escaping their lips as they looked up to their god, one last time

 I was a fool.

–

Two thumps on the ground. And then, the sound of chains breaking.

The god of death stared at the little lump in the ground, unmoving, unresponsive. A prophecy fulfilled. Just as he had willed it so. 

His gaze softened, ever so slightly. “Rest now, vessel” He muttered, extending a clawed paw towards the lamb.

“You’ve earned it”

.

.

.

And they had. They truly had.

Still, it seemed like fate had different plans.

A small glimmer, and then another, and another, and another, until everything was filled with light—

And then, nothing.

SLAM!

Almost nothing.

They were supposed to be dead. 

But in the way their body ached, and the way it had definitely slammed into the ground a few moments prior it was clear that was likely not the case. Not anymore at least. Their head spiraled, ears ringing, and they could faintly make out the sound of retching–Oh. It was them. They were quickly pulled out of their thoughts, vision clearing ever so slightly, only to be welcomed by the sight of wood, covered in some dark matter. Ichor. It was ichor. A…resurrection ritual? But who? Why? How? What happened?

A heart offered, a vow made–

No, no that wasn’t right. They weren’t focusing on the most important question. Where were they? The Lamb squinted, struggling to push themselves upright, with trembling arms. Everything felt hazy, yet not like before. No welcoming light, no peaceful silence, no warmth.

Just cold wooden floors. Like in their temple. Their temple…

Their temple?

Their thoughts were interrupted again by yet another wave of ichor up their throat. They coughed, hands curling into fists. They felt a light touch on their shoulder. Great. Now they were choking.

“–to the side, it’ll be easier like that.”

What?

They tried looking in the direction the voice–likely belonging to the one that performed the ritual–came from, yet they were given a soft pat in the back, reminding them they still had something else to worry about. What had the voice said? Side–Turn to the side–? So they tried, yet it only caused them to lose balance, almost falling face first into the ichor-stained floors, if not for the other person holding them upright.

Finally–after roughly 13 seconds–, they were able to compose themselves. The other one present seemed to notice as well, swiftly removing their hands from the Lamb and standing once more. A paw was extended towards them in place, likely to help the lamb on their feet.

Their hoof was halfway towards reaching the paw when their gaze finally cleared enough to make out who was offering it to them.

Four red eyes stared down at the Lamb. Silently. Their god stood before them, the crown–in the form of a snake–curled around his shoulders.

The Lamb froze. No, no, it couldn’t be-

“My–My Lord” They blurted out. Their god tilted his head sideways, as if amused. The Lamb rose to their feet in a quick motion, ignoring the hand held out in front of them.

What. Why. How. Why. How. Why. Why. Why–

Their god was talking. They should listen. They couldn’t listen. Their ears were ringing, their head was spinning. There were too many questions. They felt like they were gonna throw up again. Their breath paced up. They couldn’t think. Their eyes fixed on the ground. On the runes. They were wrong. They–

Oh, that’s it.

Their god seemed to notice their discomfort, taking a step towards them. “Lamb–”

“My Lord, you– you made a mistake”

“Pardon me?”

The Lamb looked up, red eyes meeting their own, already settled on a reasonable explanation to what was going on. “You…tried to do the resurrection ritual, yes?” They continued, ever so calmly

“Not tried, it worked. Now if you–”

“Well surely you must’ve done something wrong- you brought me back, not whatever follower of ou- of yours that you were aiming for”

“Lamb–”

‘This runes here. They are all wrong. But don’t worry, I’ll help you fix it.” Their eyes scanned around the floor, fixing on a little red spot in the corner of the room. Chalk. “There, we just change this a bit and…done! Should work adequately now.” The Lamb made their way to their god, still talking, 

“Now you just turn the crown into a dagger, kill me again, and you should be good to go.” The Lamb smiled, fidgeting with their hoofs. Their god looked down at the now changed runes, and then back at them, unamused.

“So..?”

“I didn’t make a mistake.”

“…I’m sorry?”

“I didn’t make a mistake, vessel. The ritual worked as it was supposed to.” He continued, brows lifting slightly. “It was meant to resurrect you. Not some other follower. You”

…Them. 

He resurrected them. Meaning to resurrect them. Going all the way to change the base structure of the ritual so he could ensure it was them who was brought back. Them. No one else. Them. Them.

The lamb’s hoofs started to shake, eyes widening, an ever so familiar warmth spreading through their chest.  They shook their head, struggling to find the next words. “But…Why?”

Hope. Tiny, foolish hope.

“Because” Their god closed his eyes, sighing. “I still have need of you.”

Hope–

“ Your duty is not over.”

–Gone. 

Of course.

What else had they ever been, but a tool? Merely to be used, like a pawn upon a chess board. Yet the pawn could feel every stab, every kill,  every time they were taken off the board, only to be pulled back again and again until the players decided they were bored, and had had enough.

A tool, simply to be toyed around with. 

The lamb took a step back. Memories flooding into their head. A conversation. A wide grin, showing sharp teeth. A promise. Rest. Rest at last. Cut short. Hope. Cut short as well. Acceptance. Warmth. Calm. Peace. All gone. 

All gone.

Their gaze widened, mouth opening and closing like a fish before they were able to blurt something out. 

“It’s not–But, but you said–” 

He lied.

“And I misspoke, vessel.”

Of course he did.

“At the gate, you said–”

He went back on his words.

“My word is final.”

He broke his promise.

“What more could you possibly want from me?!” The Lamb snapped, causing Narinder and the snake-crown to flinch ever so slightly. Oh, they were getting themselves killed again for this. Good. “What haven’t I done for you?! I gave you my life, I gave you my death, my everything! I killed, I lied, I bribed, I stole–Everything you asked, I did! No questions asked, never!”

The god’s gaze sharpened. “Exactly. You performed your duties masterfully. Almost flawlessly. So that’s why I expect you to help clean up this…mess we caused.”

“What are you talking about?? What “mess”? Your siblings are dead, you are free, you have a faithful following–Has your greed for power truly made you that blind?!” The Lamb groaned in desperation, a little horrified with the satisfaction they felt when a look of annoyance spread through Narinder’s face.

“That is no way to talk to your god.”

“I am aware” The lamb took a step forward. And another. And another. Until they were standing right in front of Narinder. “So what will you do? Surely you won’t accept such blasphemy, will you?”

“Lamb–”

They chuckled, hysteria seeping through their words ”Go on, kill me again. See how I care.”

“Do not speak such–”

“Do it! Kill me!”

“SILENCE!!!” Narinder’s voice rang out through the entire temple, loud, divine; the crown positioning itself on his head, spikes stretched. His tone clearly not meant for mortal ears to hear. Mortal ears such as the lamb’s, who covered them and bent over in pain, wincing.  This seemed to snap Narinder out of his anger, being replaced with worry as he reached an arm out towards the Lamb, only to pull it back just as fast “Listen. I– This isn’t what I was planning either.” He sighed.

The Lamb looked up, hoofs no longer pressing as hard against their ears. “What?”

The crown on his head returned to its usual form. Narinder looked up for a second before talking. “It’s been eight summers since you laid down your life at my feet. Eight summers that the cult has prospered in your absence. Yet last week I was contacted by a nameless merchant whom I hadn’t seen in more than one millennia. They demanded I…free my siblings from the punishment I bestowed upon them.”

The Lamb scoffed, fully lowering their arms and folding them in front of their chest. “So? Why don’t you? Too much for your ego to handle?”

“I can’t”

“You what?” 

Narinder looked up at the Lamb, eyes fixing on theirs. “After I was freed from my chains I…There was a shift in my power. It’s not as strong as it is before. I can no longer access my realm.”

“As if you had been, what, cut off?”

“Precisely. Yet even after I informed them, the merchant pressed forward, saying it was my responsibility to do so. They told me without access to my realm I’d have to traverse their domains and slay them again.”

“Well? They said it themselves. It's your responsibility. How do I fit into this?” The Lamb’s gaze sharpened.

“I’m getting there.” Narinder straightened his posture, clearing his throat. He looked at the Lamb, mirroring the look he gave them when they first met, after the Lamb’s first death. A crowned deity, and a curse-bearing sacrifice. 

 “Lamb, I bestow upon you the honor of serving your god once again. You shall crusade the lands of the Old Faith a second time, slay the Bishops in my name…and, even if they clearly don’t deserve it, free them from the punishment I gave them, for I have given you life anew and you shall pledge it to me. In the meantime, you shall return to your duties as a cult leader and take care of the flock. Naturally, I’ll be here to assist you if it is needed. Are we clear?” The god smiled placidly, looking down at the Lamb–

–Who stared back at him with such intensity he almost felt their gaze was weighing him down, as if they couldn’t believe what they were hearing. Perfect. Narinder thought. Now that his vessel’s initial confusion had been cleared, surely they wouldn’t have a problem moving onwards. They shall crusade together and spread his word far and wide. All shall pledge themselves to the cult. Side by side, just like they wanted.

“Is that it?” The Lamb asked, quietly, unsure.

“Yes.” It is what we want, is it not? “That’s it”

Silence.

The Lamb looked down. Slowly, after what felt like an eternity, they extended a hoof towards Narinder, gently placing it on his cheek, lifting their gaze towards him. Tired eyes looked into his. The god felt goosebumps crawl up his spine, but he let them have their way. 

“...Vessel–”

SLAP!

Next thing he knew, he was on the ground. They were both on the ground. And the Lamb–

“YOU UNGRATEFUL ASSHOLE!!”

–Was punching him, continuously. Narinder tried to grab their fists, yet his paws were held down. The lamb was yelling, but Narinder couldn’t focus on half the words they said. He considered turning the crown–which was nearly knocked off his head–into a weapon, yet as soon as the thought crossed his mind,he decided against it. He didn’t want to hurt the Lamb. 

 “Stop this! Calm down!” He tried instead.

“Calm down? Calm down?!” The Lamb yelled back. Still punching, still speaking nonsense.

Yet with every punch they delivered, it looked as if they were the ones receiving the hit, not Narinder. Ichor stained the ground once anew, as the god and his vessel struggled. Narinder had never seen the Lamb this angry. Not when they were crusading, not when they were facing their siblings, not when dealing with dissenters. They always managed to keep themselves composed, always with a calm expression on their face. Nor happiness, nor sorrow, nor fear, nor anger. 

The god knew his words had caused them to snap. Yet he failed to grasp the why of it. He was giving them what they wanted. Eternity is to be spent in company. Once upon a time the Lamb would’ve been overjoyed hearing this news. Last time he saw them he knew they would’ve been. Last time–

Narinder felt something wet fall into his face. He looked up. Tears were falling from his attacker’s eyes. His own widened slightly. The Lamb’s eyes were filled with pain and desperation. Betrayal. Rage.

Directed at him.

And it clicked.

“You just don’t get it, do you?! What wouldn’t I have done?! How far wouldn’t I have gone?! Where wouldn’t I have followed, had you just said the word?! And yet you threw it away, you– you–!”

And they stopped. 

Narinder wasn’t fighting back anymore. He simply stared up at the Lamb, arms to his sides in defeat. 

“Calm down.” He tried again, softly. It’s alright. He lifted his paw towards the lamb, placing it on their shoulder and giving them a gentle push backwards. The Lamb complied, getting off Narinder and quickly pushing themselves back until they reached a wall, knees against their chest.

Narinder stood up, hesitating before approaching the lamb, slowly, paw outstretched towards them.

“Vessel–”

“Go away.” They interrupted, voice muffled. 

Narinder was not going to argue with that. He stepped away, back towards the entrance of the temple, sparing one final glance at the lamb before he disappeared through the door.

It was cold outside.

The Lamb looked up to the door, confirming that they were alone. Only then did they move away from the wall, opting to sit on the small stairs that led to the platform instead. They recalled the countless times they had given sermons from the lectern, preaching the word of their god, wholeheartedly believing the words they spoke; unaware of the fate which awaited them. 

They sighed, tears pooling at their eyes once anew.

There was no way to avoid it, was there? They could fight it all they wanted, but it wouldn’t change the outcome. No matter what they did they would be shoved back into their role.  A leader. A prophet. A god-slayer. The last of their kind. The devoted vessel of the god of death. Rest was not something possible for them. Maybe it would never be.

 There was a time where they would’ve been happy with it. Where they would’ve gladly taken eternity if it meant to remain by their god’s side. But what was that if not a lie? So they tried something else. Maybe he had skipped some details, but it was okay. They’d see their kin again, they’d know peace. 

But that too, was a lie. 

The silence continued for a while, until the doors of the temple opened once more. The lamb didn’t even bother looking up, they knew who it was. Quiet footsteps approached them, and then stopped. Something warm—a blanket?—was placed on their back.

“...It’s cold” Narinder said, hands lingering on their shoulders for a couple seconds, before he pulled them back.

The lamb looked up at him momentarily, and then back down.

“Get out of my sight” Was all they muttered, waiting for the sound of footsteps exiting once again. But it didn’t come. Instead, the Lamb heard a shuffling noise to their side, black fur visible from the edge of their vision.

“…You don’t want to do it” He acknowledged.

“You won’t let me refuse, will you?”

“...”

“Of course” The lamb scoffed, pulling at the blanket–No, it was a cloak–around their shoulders. They both fell quiet, sitting side by side, only illuminated by the light the crown–and partly, Narinder’s eyes–emitted.

After some minutes, Narinder spoke again. “Listen. There is something else.” 

The Lamb continued to stare at the ground, completely ignoring Narinder. 

The god sighed, and pressed forward. “Before my liberation, I thought you had destroyed the crowns of my siblings after you defeated them, or taken them back to the cult grounds as trophies to mark your victory over—“

“I don’t know how to destroy a crown, my Lord. And taking it back to the cult grounds was too risky. Might’ve gotten some crazy follower that could try to use its powers.” The Lamb interrupted, in a low voice.

“Then what did you do?”

“As far as I’m concerned, the crowns destroyed themselves after I took the hearts of the Bishops. I didn’t see them after the battle.”

Narinder hummed, reaching for the crown in his head and taking it in his hands. “There’s been sightings of miracles and impossible acts outside of the cult grounds. And we both know that couldn’t have been you”

“Who knows, maybe the Red Crown was thrown off balance and now it’s causing all this mess” The Lamb tapped their hoof against the ground, already having a vague idea of where this was going.

“What I’m meaning to say is—“

“You think the crowns fell into the hands of mortals who aren’t worthy of their powers?” The Lamb interrupted.

Narinder frowned slightly “Yes. And I could’ve dealt with that myself hadn’t your following been so stubborn”

“Ha, they don’t like you?”

“Nonsense! They fear and worship me…yet their loyalties remain elsewhere”

“You tried asking my disciples for help, didn’t you.” The Lamb stated, not asking.

“…”

“You knew they’d only listen to me” The Lamb muttered, mostly to themselves. They sighed “You want me to convince them to help you, yes?”

“Lamb, if the crowns were to fall in the wrong hands, hands that do not know how to make use of them, or worse, do know— the results would be catastrophic”

“Hmm…hands like yours?”

“Does the world around you look like destruction and chaos, Lamb?” He was starting to lose his patience. No. He couldn’t. Last time that happened he had accidentally blinded a follower. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t see clearly, but he could’ve sworn the Lamb was smiling.

“I have a proposal.” Narinder said after a few seconds, calmer. “If you do this, I’ll…consider giving you something in return.”

“Consider?”

“I’ll be indebted to you, Lamb”

 Their hoofs twitched. “You’ll let me ask for something in return?”

“One thing. Whatever you wish for. And then, If it’s still what you want, I shall send you back to my realm. Sounds reasonable?” he looked at them, a patient look in his eyes.

The Lamb looked back at him, ready to deny the offer, yet their gaze quickly fell towards the cloak Narinder was wearing. They hadn’t noticed it before. It was white, with accents in red and yellow that complimented his fur. Soft and warm, perfect for the winter. Woven carefully in the hopes it’d be of their god’s liking and comfort. Even with the dim illumination, they’d recognize it anywhere.

Crafted from their own wool, for their one and only god.

I guess what I’m trying to say is—

“...It gets pretty cold during winter.” They muttered instead, voice trembling.

Whatever you need, I’ll be there.

“It does.” Narinder replied softly. 

They fell quiet again, caught up in a moment in the past. The last death before fighting Shamura, the Lamb remembered. They had brought the cloak to their god, if only to show it to him, see how he would react.

“But…It’s too small” Their god had said, a little unsure. The Lamb chuckled, their expression not changing

“I don’t see the problem! You can shrink down at will, can you not?”

 Oh, how filled with hope had they been back then. How badly did they want to show their god the wonders of the realm above. How faithful, how foolish.

The Lamb looked back up at Narinder, hoofs trembling. Maybe, just maybe… “Whatever I wish for…you’ll do it? You’ll really do it?”

“You crusade, you convince your disciples, you have my word.” But that means close to nothing now, doesn’t it?

The Lamb fell quiet, considering their options, which weren’t many, they knew this was a deadend. Might as well take the offer before it’s gone. They stood up, looking down at Narinder. “Alright.” They gave in. “I’ll do it”

Narinder smiled, standing up as well. “Then so be it”

“However–”

“However?”

The Lamb tapped their hoof on the ground. “I won’t last a single crusade without at least a weapon. Got one in mind?”

Narinder looked at them, and then started walking towards the lectern. “Better than that, actually” He said, picking up a fancy–looking cup and walking back towards the lamb, placing it in their hoofs. “Here, hold this.”

The Lamb did, a little wary.

“See, back when I was still a Bishop,” Narinder started, willing the crown into a small dagger. “We had a certain problem, in which our disciples would become almost obsolete after just a couple years of service.” He pressed the blade into his palm, slicing a clean cut, ichor coming out and sliding down his hand. “It was pitiful, really. They might have been fully devoted to us, yet at the end of the day, they were only mortal. How could they ever hope to keep up with gods?”. He positioned his paw directly above the cup, letting the ichor fall into it, slowly filling it up.

 “Yet instead of simply accepting this, we came up with a method, a way for them to grow stronger alongside us, that would also allow us to lend them some of our power. This was a honor reserved only for the most faithful of our following, and a new title was bestowed upon those who received that blessing–”

“The witnesses?” The Lamb asked, eyes locked with the cup.

“Indeed.” Narinder said, pulling his paw back away from the cup, not bothering with the cut; he knew it would heal in less than an hour. 

“So” They started toying around with the cup. “I drink this and become a super creepy-looking giant creature that’ll be devoted to you forever?” 

“The beastly form was something achieved through mass sacrifice, Lamb. I thought you’d know that much” Narinder rolled his eyes. “You’ll simply reach a state similar to that of when you wielded the crown. Your devotion should be high enough to not blow up into bits.”

“Huh” The Lamb said, and lifted up the cup above their head, eyes locking with Narinder’s. They chuckled lightly, clearing their throat before talking. “And so the Lamb, twice betrayed, chooses to put their trust in the god that denies them rest once anew! Shame on them.” They exclaimed, pressing the cup to their smiling lips.

“Cheers”

They drank the entire cup in one gulp, coughing lightly before placing it back into Narinder’s paws. They squeezed their eyes, waiting for the stomach-churning pain that would surely overcome them for drinking the blood of a god. And they waited. And waited. But nothing came.

“Let me guess. Waiting for the gut-wrenching pain?”

“...”

“Don’t worry about that. As I said before, your devotion is high enough to safely consume ichor. Mine, at least” Saying that, Narinder’s gaze wandered upwards, towards the Lamb’s head. “Andd….there it is”

“There is…?” But the Lamb didn’t even need to finish their sentence. They could feel its presence. A light colored halo was now gingerly placed atop their head, emanating a very faint glow. “...So that’s the thing that appeared on the kids’ heads”

“Your disciples?” Narinder inquired, yet only received silence in response.

The Lamb poked their halo, seemingly already disinterested in the god standing in front of them. Some seconds later they heard the doors of the temple open and close, glad the god had understood the memo. The temple was filled with silence.

A voice in the Lamb’s head told them they felt a little lonely now.

 “...I like it better like this” They lied.

They sat back down, this time behind the lectern, and closed their eyes, focusing on the new flow of energy inside them. It was nice. They wondered if it would have the same effects as the crown. Would they need to eat? Sleep? They missed doing that. They missed normal meals, at least. Normal meals that weren’t—

The doors of the temple opened once again, and the cat walked in, this time with a candle in hand. He looked outside for a second and then back at the Lamb.

“What is it now?” The Lamb said, rather annoyed, standing up from the spot they had been meditating in.

Narinder’s eyes shifted between the door and the Lamb. He finally stepped away, opening the doors a little, as if to let someone in “I figured you’d like some company aside from me”

The Lamb was about to ask if he had gone mad when they saw three familiar faces walk in through the door. They froze. Halos that mirrored their own upon their heads, looking at the Lamb with wide eyes, almost as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

“Kids?” They asked softly, taking a small step towards the figures. 

One of them–A deer–stepped forward, almost hesitantly. “Leader…? Is…is it really you?” The other two followed suit, looking at the Lamb expectantly.

“Yes–” The lamb chuckled “Yes, yes–! And–And you guys…you–Oh, come here–!” They opened their arms, the three disciples running towards them and wrapping their arms–and wings–around them, in a bone crushing hug. The Lamb laughed. The disciples laughed too. The god of death looked at them from the distance, a small smile appearing on his lips as well, which he forced down just as quickly.

“Look at you three! I almost didn’t recognize you!” The Lamb stepped back, their gaze moving from one disciple to another. “Pam–Oh, what happened to your beak?” They focused on one of them, a teal bird, worry appearing in their face. 

The bird–Pam, simply laughed “Got it from a dissenter! He smashed a glass bottle hard into my beak! Certainly didn’t know who they were messing with!” She nudged the lemur, who also laughed. “Sylvie here punched him square in the face right afterwards! Knocked the poor bastard out!”

The lemur, Sylvie, blushed lightly upon the comment “Well–It was still Pam who dealt with him..”

“And then I had to come and fix the mess you were causing.” The deer popped in, a look of playful annoyance in his face. “Fancy me almost single-handedly keeping this cult from burning down for the last few years” He continued. Pam rolled her eyes. 

“Oh yes Dipal, what would we do without you?”

“Paperwork. Loads of it.”

“Yuck, you’re right Syl. Seems like we’ll have to be stuck with him forever”

“HEY!”

The Lamb simply continued to laugh at the comments their disciples made. They sighed and patted their shoulders. “Alright, Alright, how about we take this back to my tent and you tell me all about the last couple years, hm?” The disciples looked back at them. “Unless my tent is already occupied?”

“It is not” Narinder popped in, leaning against a pillar. “It’s been left untouched since…since you last used it. Only the occasional offering left outside of it instead of the statue”

“Statue?” The Lamb muttered, a little confused.

“It was built after The One Who Waits was fred” Sylvie explained “A way to honor you. It is also where you were originally buried..”

“Original– What do you–?”

“Alright!! Let’s take it back to the tent! Oh! Surely, we should have some hot camellia tea left.” Pam interrupted, pushing Sylvie and the Lamb towards the entrance of the temple. Dipal followed along. One by one, they exited the temple, until only the Lamb and Narinder remained. The Lamb stopped for a second, hoof on the door.

They looked at him.

Really, really looked at him. 

Red eyes met their own. Just as tired. The Lamb sighed. “Go get some rest. If not for your sake, then my own” Was all they said, exiting the temple and scooting towards where their disciples were.

“You won’t believe half the things that happened after you were gone. It’s crazy!”

“And the paperwork…Oh the paperwork…I haven’t gotten a day of proper sleep in years”

“Dippy, you’ve been complaining about that even before the Leader…uh…left”

“Because it’s true. You two lazy heads don’t even try to help me–”

“Calm down you three, I’m sure you all had loads of stuff to deal with…” 

“...”

Narinder watched them go, exiting the temple, yet heading in a different direction than the one that led to his hut. 

Maybe he’d pray a little tonight.

–

[Comics offer a different perspective of certain events...]

damn i really wonder who is narrating huh.

Anyways OH BOY. WHAT AN UPDATE. What's to happen next? Will they get along? Will the Lamb attempt to murder Narinder? What's up with the disciples? And the crowns?!? Where are they?

With time, we shall know....And so concludes the second installment of the VTA au! Until next time :3

And then they kiss kiss fall in love