#something something... I think this is how tags work... thank you for your time!

[humanjarvis]

a lot to say about this one! my first time writing fully in past tense 😶‍🌫️

i think the main idea driving this was extracting zayne’s tendency to withdraw when things get too dire and putting them in a different world. like, this is something mc can handle and work with him on, but what if he was with someone who couldn’t? how does someone whose entire life revolves around him move on from his withdrawal? and thus this story was born

i said this in the tags but this is the most abstract thing i’ve written so far & probably my first time writing a nonlinear story? i was worried it would be hard to follow but i really wanted to lay the story out that way both as a writing challenge but also to convey reader’s fragmented state of mind. i wrote them with different aspects of psychopathology in mind (severe depression, personality disorders, etc) and one aspect of that can be a distorted sense of time, so that was something i wanted to play with in the structure of the story.

another thing that really inspired this was music because i genuinely was not going to write this 1) until winter and 2) in the way it’s written at all until i listened to “somewhere” by charlotte lawrence. and the song just consumed my brain and completely transformed what this fic was (i really just wanted to write the professor/student trope and it was probably gonna be so surface level and smutty but i wouldve been happy). anyway. there’s a lyric in the chorus that goes “i can see razor blades / pieces of sunlight hitting your face” and i could not for the life of me figure out what that meant until i just assigned my own meaning to it, which is juxtaposing the bleakness of a razor with the glow of the sun on someone’s face. and like. kind of thinking of the sun as a halo, a way to idealize that person and put them on a pedestal the way reader does to zayne. that idealization of him helped reader escape the tragedy in their life until he, well, exited their life. hence the relapse & regression. also the structure of the graduation scene and the fic as a whole was heavily inspired by the last chorus. i lowkey have synesthesia. anyway great song highly recommend

mmmmi will shut up soon i doubt anyone is reading this far anyway but 1) the lack of insight into zayne’s thoughts was definitely intentional, i feel like this is the only fic i’ve focused more on the reader’s character than the li’s character. and 2) there was always going to be a very intentional open ending to this to fit with the abstract theme. i thought of writing a part 2 but since i actively wanted there to be an ambiguous ending (first time writing one of those too!) a sequel would undermine that. and also i had so much writer anxiety and self doubt writing this fic that im not sure i would go back. so.

and finally it’s been so long since i’ve done this but thank you all for leaving feedback and also the people who’ve sent asks about this fic, i appreciate the interaction more than you know 💓 some highlights:

winterbreak

tags: professor/student, plot with porn, complete au but i stole the name akso, whirlwind romance, age gap (zayne is 30 and reader is 21), power imbalance, mentally ill reader, isolated reader, unreliable reader, references to self-harm, references to suicide attempts, zayne isn't a bad person this is just a bad pairing, if it looks like zayne and it talks like zayne is it zayne, alcohol use, ambiguous ending (there will be no part 2), unhappy ending, virginity loss, breakup (twice), breakup sex, boob sucking, fingering, slight cum eating, missionary, condoms, riding (failed), crying. there are lengthy flashbacks & time skips. this is the most experimental/abstract thing i've written so far. title & zayne's perspective inspired by "winterbreak" by muna, reader's perspective inspired by "somewhere" by charlotte lawrence

pairing: professor zayne x student reader

word count: 11.6k

a/n: this is so incredibly not what it originally was that i don't even know what to say

read on ao3

Warm lips ghosted over yours in a cautious caress. Soft, tender, as if you might have vanished at any moment. 

A hand, gentle yet eager, settled around your waist. Urging you closer. Another lay on your cheek, tender, parting you open for more. 

A pause. A pull. Whispered praise against heated skin. 

Four months ago, you kissed Zayne for the first time. One month ago, you last spoke to him.

And every day, his words replayed in your mind:

“It feels like fate that I met you.”

Becoming a nurse wouldn’t be easy.

You’d known as much the first time you stepped through Akso University's double doors, greeted by the gaunt, stricken faces of students who'd seen one too many scantrons. 

But after spending years in and out of hospital rooms, under the kind gaze of caretakers who never judged your sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, you thought that maybe, the world would give you the chance to do the same. To make a difference in someone’s life, even if they’d lost their smile and gotten a little reckless. To do something that mattered, to be someone who mattered.

After a childhood of nightmares, nursing was your first dream. 

And you did everything you could to make it a reality. Between trips to the emergency room, you spent high school hidden behind the yellowing pages of used textbooks, learning, absorbing, until your eyes surrendered. Even then, you spent the space between consciousness and dreams replaying what you’d learned.

You couldn’t risk forgetting. You couldn’t risk missing a step. You had to get out, get better, get useful, and it was completely up to you. Your parents had seen one too many close calls and paid one too many medical bills to offer you anything more than a resentful glare. As if telling you to just do it already. As if their lives would be better if you did. 

The day that scholarship letter hit your email inbox was the best of your life. Tuition paid in full, with more than enough left over for you to move into your own apartment. 

So yes, the towering walls and prestigious programs were more than a little daunting. Yes, the number of students trudging by with energy drinks in hand was concerning. But the time you’d spent battling bouts of depression and perturbed parents; the nights you’d stayed up studying and barely gotten to rest; the already fragile friendships dissolved by your determination—they were all worth it under Akso’s stained glass ceiling.

At least, that’s what you thought, at first. The first two years, you burned bright. Letting your luck and rose-colored lenses send you straight to the top of your class, pushing through the bad days that tried to dull your shine. 

But as you entered your third year, you felt your star begin to fizzle. Akso was a lonely place, full of students trying to one-up each other and faculty subtly encouraging it. It wasn’t like you’d had close relationships before, but even your parents’ quiet rejection was better than being utterly invisible. 

You were rootless here. It was hard to celebrate success when barely anyone knew your name. 

You started the fall with slashed motivation, having to bargain with yourself to get out of bed. You couldn’t see the point when your actions seemed so meaningless. 

And Dr. Li was certainly no help. 

With jet black hair and jade green eyes, sharp features between rounded cheeks, and a sculpted body underneath his sweaters, he was more of a menswear model than a medical ethics professor. 

You couldn’t guess how old he was. It felt wrong to try, knowing he couldn’t be too far off from you. It was like revealing the existence of a legendary creature, only for it to lose its mystique. Like a secret that, once exposed, would suddenly feel a lot more real.

And Dr. Li was anything but real. You didn’t know his exact age, sure, but you knew for certain that he was ridiculously young to have achieved all he had. To have authored so many papers, won so many awards, and be trusted with a position at such a prestigious school…he was wise beyond his years. 

And he was the reason you were failing.

Dr. Li was a good professor. Engaging, responsive, passionate about his work. 

But he was absolutely terrifying. His face was cold, his tests were hard, and his brisk, deliberate steps at the beginning of every class made you realize that dread and admiration could be felt simultaneously. 

Since you’d been in his class, you’d started your days mired in loneliness, only to wash it down with his prescribed daily dose of inadequacy. 

You were slipping again.

You couldn’t let that happen. 

But that hadn't made the dark panels of his office door any less daunting. 

His soft voice—almost soothing, if it didn’t hold so much weight—sounded from behind the wood. “Come in.”

The office was plain, barely lived in despite his five-year tenure. Filtered sunlight shined on neat stacks of papers, and colorful textbooks lined the shelves. There were no personal photos, from what you could tell—only a framed translation of the Hippocratic Oath on the wall. The room smelled lightly of jasmine. 

You hardly realized you were snooping until the man in front of you cleared his throat, and your curious eyes met icy green ones. “May I help you?”

Feeling your cheeks heat, you cleared your own throat and smoothed your hair. “H-hello. I’m in your medical ethics class. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you had time to discuss the first exam with me?” God, talking to him felt like pleading your case before a court justice. You bounced on your heels. “I want to improve my grade before we get too deep into the semester.” 

The face has 43 muscles, you recalled from your anatomy class. 

Not a single one of his moved. 

“I have time—that’s what office hours are for. Take a seat.” 

***

For the entire two hours, he went through each and every exam question with you. Differentiating a good answer from the best answer, sharing new sources, creating new scenarios and letting you come up with solutions.

When time was up, he looked at you—plainly, openly, as if it were his right to do so, and something warm and unfamiliar fluttered in your belly. 

“You’re the first person bold enough to attend my office hours this semester.” 

“I wouldn’t call it bold,” you mumbled, suddenly fixated on your too-long sleeves. “I just want to do well.” 

“Why is that?” 

Your eyes widened, and before you could stop them, they were fixed on his face. “What do you mean?”

He quirked a brow. Dr. Li leaned closer, hands neatly clasped over his mahogany desk. “Why do you want to do well? What motivates you?”

You thought for a moment. And then, the words poured out of you before you could stop them. 

“I could never really imagine a future for myself growing up,” you began with an awkward cough. “I didn’t have a lot of goals, other than making it to the next sunrise. When people asked what I wanted to do…I never had an answer.” 

Piercing green eyes nearly nailed you to the floor, and you averted your gaze. 

“And then,” you paused, “I wound up in the hospital. A few different stays. But every time…I was so in awe of the nurses. My parents were upset with me. My classmates thought I was scary. But none of those nurses ever looked at me with anything but compassion—and I decided I wanted to be one. To give other people that comfort.”

At your admission, his cold expression finally started to thaw. 

“One of the better reasons I’ve heard. I’m glad you’re here.” 

Here. A double meaning in a simple word. 

A lump formed in your throat, and all you managed was a whisper. “Thank you, sir.” 

“There’s no need for that. Call me Zayne.”

Days passed, leaves changed, and it turned out that Zayne wasn’t so intimidating after all. 

He was nice to talk to, after that first day. He listened and taught and looked at you with all the support in the world, as if there was nothing you could do or say to turn him away. He made you want to be here. He made you meaningful. 

So you kept visiting him in his office—even when your GPA was no longer in need of a lifeboat. You just wanted to be near him. To hear his quiet chuckle when you said something unexpected, to watch his eyes crinkle when you went toe-to-toe in a philosophical debate, to wonder what his subtle frown meant when he bid you goodbye. 

He was habitually lonely and had been forced to grow up too fast. The youngest professor in his department, he was undermined and ostracized for his achievements and repute. For being dedicated. For being different. 

But in all his divergence, he was more than a little like you. You couldn’t convey the comfort you found in that. If there were words to describe it, you’d never had a reason to use them. 

You and Zayne were like two melting snowflakes—unique but of the same kind, and falling perilously from the safety of the sky. But when you crossed paths, you re-formed into something more complete. Delicate, but strong. Beautiful in its novelty. 

Day after day, week after week, you saw him. Until that fateful day of your first kiss. 

It wasn't intentional—you didn't know whose lips had gravitated toward the other's first. You only knew that they did, and you were happier than you’d ever known you could be. 

When you whispered your goodbye to him that day, the frown on his face was replaced by a gentle, almost anticipatory smile. To see him look at you like that, to be the cause of it…you couldn’t suppress one of your own. And when you burst through the doors and squealed to yourself, your warm cheeks met the cool autumn air. 

He couldn’t give you everything you deserved, he warned you. You’d be sneaking around in broad daylight, stealing kisses between classes. You wouldn’t—couldn’t—fully belong to each other. 

You’d agreed without hesitation. It wasn’t ideal, but it was everything. You could hardly imagine life without him now.

It was fast and intense and you’d be told it was wrong, but you were falling in love with Zayne. 

You loved the way he’d tease you with a straight face—the one that, looking back, you didn’t know how you were ever afraid of. The way he’d lend you his scarf on chillier days with the faintest of blushes coating his cheeks. The way he was the fairest bit biased: cold-calling on you, but only when he knew you knew the answer. Assigning group projects, but making sure you had a responsible classmate to rely on. Adding office hours before exams, just so he could tutor you. 

The way he made every effort to understand you. 

“Do you want to watch the sequel next time? The reviews are pretty bad, but I’m so hooked now! I have to know how it ends.” 

Afternoon sunlight streamed in through large windows, brightening the elegant furnishings in his living room. Your legs were laid atop his for the last act of the movie, and he’d gently massaged your calves while you’d watched with rapt attention. 

Noting his silence, you turned to face him. “Zayne?” 

He was looking at you—your body, rather—with a whirlpool of mourning in his eyes. “What are those?” 

Confused, you looked down. Only to feel a wave of nausea crash into you. 

Your sleeves had ridden up. 

The lines were faded, barely visible under normal circumstances. You hardly noticed them anymore when you stepped out of the shower. 

But today, they were betrayed by the sun. 

Panic pulsed inside you. “I’m sorry, I—You were never supposed to see. I was supposed to keep them covered, I’m so sorry.” Frantically tugging the fabric down, you swung your legs off his lap and raced across the room. Turning to mutter a hasty goodbye—the least you could do after ruining his weekend—you came face-to-face with a broad, heaving chest. You slowly lifted your gaze, and guilty hazel eyes—as if he were the one at fault—bore into yours. 

His voice trembled with an anxiety he never showed in the classroom. “I shouldn’t have said anything, I apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for—no need to leave, either. Please, stay with me.”

Wary and ready to bolt, you allowed him to see your unease. “You don’t have to do this, you know—act like it’s normal. I know it’s not. I’ve been told it’s not, more times than I can count. So you don’t have to coddle me. Just let me go.” For the night or forever, you didn’t dare clarify. That was for him to decide. 

“May I show you something?”

Bristling slightly, you nodded. 

And slowly, as if trying not to spook you any further, Zayne rolled his own sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the raised, uneven scars on his arms. 

A lump formed in your throat. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. “You…?”

“No. Not that way, at least. I pulled someone from an accident when I was younger. Her windshield had completely shattered—nothing but broken shards in its place,” he said, running a finger over smoothed-over skin. “I hardly knew what I was doing back then. But they managed to save her, and suddenly these became a lesser matter.”

Swallowing thickly, you inched forward, raising a daring hand to hover over his left forearm. 

“If I hadn’t become a professor, I like to think I would’ve been a doctor. It feels meaningful to take care of people. I’d like to take care of you as well.”

His larger hand brought yours to his skin, and the jagged ridges of his purpose kissed your fingertips. 

Your agreement was automatic. 

Even taking care of you, Zayne made you bolder. He taught you not just in life, but in love as well. 

You kissed harder. For longer, too. And there were the strangest times when he looked at you like he was hungry. As if somewhere under that tender chivalry lay a deeper urge to devour. 

You’d never teased anyone before him. Never knew how, that you could, that it would even work. But you remembered in great detail how you'd splurged your savings on a short trip to the mall, possessed with the urge to surprise him with the shortest skirt you could find. The very next day, you’d worn it. And when you sauntered to your desk at the front of his class, spreading your legs just enough for him to see a wet patch darken the longer he lectured, he all but marched you to his office and stole your breath away against the door. 

Not long after, you gave him a gift: the title of being the first man inside you. A night of bitten lips and averted eyes and whispers of encouragement. His soft strokes, in and out, and dutiful pauses until the pain melted into pleasure. His patience as your tears of bliss and overwhelm dampened his cotton sheets. 

There were several repeat performances. But laid bare on his cool mahogany desktop, the muted chatter of your less fortunate peers drowning out your pleading moans, was your favorite. 

Every time, your only regret was the thin layer keeping him from claiming you fully. 

Despite it all, your brain still harshly reminded you that Zayne was the treatment, not the cure. You still had your fair share of rough patches—staying in bed, afraid to face the world, afraid to face the mirror—but with him only a secret message or clandestine phone call away, rough became manageable. Rough patches became yet another excuse to seek his attention and win his affection. 

Zayne was an ancient elixir coveted by warring factions, only to fall into your unsteady hands. He made bad days good and good days even better, and he’d made it his mission to give you some of your best.

Snow fell from his office window as you jittered in your seat. “What is it? What did you want to show me?”

“You always show remarkable restraint during our study sessions. I wonder where that went today,” he said, squinting at you from behind his desk. 

“Um, you called me onto campus the day grades are due. Either I’m a genius, or I’ve failed out of college entirely.”

His lips twitched. “The former is correct.” Tugging open a drawer, he brandished a mid-sized box stamped with the local bakery’s logo. “You scored the highest grade on my final exam, and in my class as a whole. I wanted to congratulate you.” 

Looking at you expectantly, he slid the box across the desk with a small smile. Grabbing it by its edges, you slowly raised the lid, and the warmth in your heart could have melted the ice outside. 

A colorful array of cupcakes, arranged to spell out Y-O-U D-I-D I-T, greeted you. The ninth was frosted with a big yellow smiley face. 

“Thank you,” you croaked. “For everything this semester, not just thi—”

“That’s not all,” he interrupted, a pink tinge spreading across his cheeks. 

While you were distracted, he’d pulled out a long velvet case. You barely had time to wonder before he cracked open the lid, revealing a delicate chain of intertwined snowflakes. 

“I truly meant what I said that day. It feels like fate that I met you.” He gently removed the bracelet from its box, and the crystals glinted in the overhead light. “You don’t have to accept it, but I hope you’ll consider it as a token of my feelings for you. Of how you make me feel.” 

Tears pricked the back of your eyes as you looked down and up again, as if this were all an intricate joke the world would reveal in an instant. 

You didn’t remember the last time you’d gotten a gift. 

And here you were, two in one day. 

Slowly, cautiously, you gave him your arm, not trusting yourself to speak until you’d swallowed down the lump in your throat. “I…It’s gorgeous. Where’d you get it?”

The clasp fit perfectly around your wrist. “I’m much more interested in its new owner.”

It was an admirably smooth evasion. But you pressed on. 

“Please?” you asked, lips settling into a pout. “It really is amazing.”

He gave in beautifully. “If you must know,” he sighed, reaching down and swiping a pad of frosting across your nose, “I ordered my 30th birthday cake from this bakery.”

Your frown deepened. “You know that’s not what I meant,” you grumbled, dotting his cheek in blue buttercream to return the favor. “But…you ordered the cake?”

He swallowed and nodded flatly. “Yes. The one faculty gift me every year doesn’t taste as good when there’s no sincerity behind it.”

Giggling softly, you took his hand. “Well, I would’ve gotten you one. Maybe I’ll order from there for my 22nd and give you half. I think I’m out of luck on the jewelry, though—this was probably half my scholarship payment,” you joked, dangling the bracelet with an awed gleam in your eye. “But maybe I can get you something too around graduation? A year and a half should be enough time to save the money, plus, my scholarship funds increase incrementally. By then, I should have some left over.” 

In your musings, you failed to notice the way his hand tensed. 

“Anyway, thank you, Zayne. I mean it—I don’t know where I’d be right now if it weren’t for you.” Grabbing two cupcakes, you circled around his desk and held one up to his lips. “To many more bakery orders,” you said, bending to kiss the frosting off his cheek. 

Chuckling, he leaned up to do the same to your nose. “To many more.” 

You should have noticed. It would have given you the chance to brace yourself. 

“Thank you for coming out with me today,” he said softly, his bicep brushing your shoulder as you strolled down the sidewalk. 

“What was I gonna do, say no?” You laughed. “Wasn’t exactly like I was going home for winter break.” 

Mounds of snow rose over the concrete, trapping your feet with each step. Your boots sloshed through sloping piles, and you held your arms out for balance.

“I suppose you have a point. But still, you accepted without hesitation. Thank you.”

You craned your neck to peek up at him. “I’ll never hesitate to spend the day with you.” 

The moment of distraction cost you. Slipping on a hard patch—ice disguised as snow, you realized all too late—you lost your footing and grabbed Zayne’s hand with a sudden squeal. He flinched, his rare inaction almost sending you tumbling to the ground, but tightened his grasp a second later. 

Sighing in relief, you shook your head fondly. He startled so easily.

Calming your racing heart, you pressed forward, continuing the familiar path to your favorite cafe. Once Zayne saw you were steady on your feet, he loosened his grip on your hand and returned his to his coat pocket. You bit your lip and shrugged. Your hands always were too cold. 

He held the pastel pink door for you as you stepped inside, and the homey scent of coffee put you at ease. 

“Order anything you like,” he said, his voice quiet behind your back. 

***

From the cozy nook Zayne had chosen at the back of the cafe, you sipped your drink and stared in wonder at the building storm. “It wasn’t supposed to do all this today.” You pouted. “It’ll be such a pain walking home.”

“Yes, it will.” His face was impassive—not in the usual way. It was somber, disengaged. As if he’d responded only out of pre-programmed courtesy. 

Deepening your frown, you set your cup on the table. “You seem a little off today—are you okay? If it’s because of the storm, we can leave early. I really don’t mind—”

“I’m not certain it’s in either of our best interests to keep seeing each other.”

In an instant, you felt like you’d stepped back outside.

Bitter cold consumed the warmth from the drink he’d bought you. 

“…What?”

“I said that it’s no longer in our best intere—”

“I heard what you said,” you snapped through the panic bubbling in your throat. “But…why? Did I do something wrong? Did I upset you?”

He shook his head. “You did nothing wrong, and you never upset me.”

“I don’t…I don’t understand.” Trembling, you laid your wrist on the table and gestured tearily to your bracelet, its chain warm from your body heat. The crystals were as lustrous as they’d been when he’d gifted it to you—even you couldn’t do that much damage in a week. “What was this for? If you were just…if you didn’t…”

Your lungs felt like they were imploding. 

“You can keep it, of course. I want you to—it’s yours. Nothing will change that,” he said, leaning forward to touch your outstretched hand.

It was your turn to flinch. 

He blinked at the movement and retreated tactfully, as if it hadn’t happened at all. “In my office last week, you simply said something that I,” he paused, searching for the right phrase, “hadn’t properly considered before. An oversight of my own fault.” He pursed his lips before continuing. “You’re a wonderful student. A pleasure to have in my class, and a privilege to know like I’ve known you. But with only a year and a half until you graduate, and such a major scholarship at stake…you mustn’t lose that. I couldn’t live with myself if I were the cause of it.”

Your lip wobbled as you chased coherence. “But no one knows! No one has even suspected anything! I need you, Zayne. You can’t just—please, don’t.” 

Finally, his face softened. “The first day you came into my office, you told me nursing was your goal. That making others comfortable was your motivation. Every moment you spend with me endangers those wishes.” 

Your body seemed to shrink in your chair. Curling in on itself. 

“Your time and resources while enrolled here are precious. I was selfish enough to take those from you. But now, I’m returning them to where they belong.” 

He stood up. You looked down. 

“Please don’t make this hard on yourself. I only want to see you succeed. You’ll no longer be in my class next semester, so it should be easier for both of us.” 

Measured footsteps faded into nothing. When you raised your head, his figure had already vanished into the snow. 

You’d argued once—a close call. 

You’d surprised him with lunch in his office, and a dean came bursting in. Luckily, you’d finished early and held an open textbook in your trembling hands. 

“Oh my gosh, that was so scary! Do people usually just come waltzing in like that?” 

His face darkened as he stared at the door. “Only the impolite ones.” 

You bit your lip. “Maybe you should keep it locked.” 

His murky gaze turned on you. “Maybe. But perhaps this is also a sign to be more careful. It might be best for you to limit your visits to office hours.” 

Limit…?

You tensed in your chair. “Exams are coming up. I thought it’d be nice to spend more time together.” 

“It would be. Just not here—not as often, at least.” 

Something dormant coiled deep inside you, eager for the chance to strike. “Are you ashamed of me?” Your voice raised a half-step. 

“No. But I also don’t want to get caught.” 

When green eyes challenged yours, you excused yourself and headed home through wind-chilled tears. He apologized the next day, and you tried to move on. 

The pain back then was nothing compared to this. 

You’d messaged him once the storm had stopped. And the morning after, and the night and morning after until you couldn’t keep count anymore. Tossing and turning at 2 a.m. one night, you even sent him an email pretending to have a question about your final grade. 

Not once did you receive a response. 

You rang in the new year surrounded by blankets and closed blinds. 

You felt small. You felt unchecked. You felt like you might pick up an old habit. 

Utterly alone, you drifted away until mid-January. Classes were starting back up, and you trudged across campus for only one reason: maybe you’d get a glimpse of him. 

Bile rose in your throat when you did. 

His impressive figure, familiar but not, sat on a bench outside the student center. Beside him was a woman around his age, doubled over in laughter. 

When he caught your gaze, he looked back toward her. 

Unshed tears mixed with the frigid air and stung your eyes until they shut. 

You couldn’t hide away in his office anymore—you weren’t welcome there anymore. The library would have to do. 

As you cried in your hands on the very top floor, you were thankful the start-of-semester traffic was light. 

“You’re very bright,” he’d told you once. 

As his lips moved, you wondered what they’d feel like against yours. “Thanks,” you mumbled, feeling heat rise to your face, “but I don’t think so. I just work really hard.” 

“That’s true. But the sun doesn’t shine from hard work alone. It has innate qualities as well—ones that make it the brightest star in our sky.” 

Your cheeks had hurt from how much you smiled at him that day. 

But as your nails bit into the skin of your wrists, you’d never felt so dim. 

“We just received our largest wine shipment of the year. Would you all like to sample tonight?” the sommelier asked, her all-black suit seeming to absorb all the light in the restaurant. 

Curious eyes shifted to you. “I won’t be drinking,” Zayne refused with a shake of his head. “You?” 

“Me either. Thank you, though.” You gave the woman a shy smile, and she nodded her departure.

He gazed at you intently. “We’ve never discussed this before, but I don’t handle alcohol well.”

“I don’t handle it at all.” You shrugged. “Never have. It scares me.” 

It was fleeting, but you could see the relief flicker across his face. “I’m glad this isn’t a deal-breaker.”

“It’d be pretty hypocritical of me to bed my professor then decide him refusing to drink was my deal-breaker. I lo—like everything about you. So you’re good. Unless you disappear on me one day,” you finished with a nervous laugh. 

Or at least, you thought you did. But stumbling through the streets like this, it was hard to recall the specifics.

You’d left the bar sometime after midnight, you guessed. You hadn’t thought to check your phone. When you left the library, you weren’t thinking much of anything, other than it hurts so much. 

A shivering stray dog, lip curled and ears flat, passed you, and you almost thought to provoke it further. Maybe it’d be better at getting the job done than you had been.

You’d been walking for…a while. Much longer than the 10-minute trip back to your car. Unfamiliar shops surrounded you on all sides. Streetlights became fewer and fewer. You thought you heard low voices laughing at you, but you couldn’t pinpoint where. 

You wouldn’t blame them. You must have looked silly right now, lurching around in disheveled clothes in the dead of night. 

Teeth chattering, you wrapped your flimsy jacket tighter around you. 

Maybe you should’ve been embarrassed. Self-conscious. At least the slightest bit interested in self-preservation.

But all you could feel was the buzz in your brain, getting louder and louder and louder. 

At least…you thought it was your brain? Brains weren’t supposed to buzz, were they? 

Brains don't buzz—bees do, silly. 

Let's call Zayne. Zayne would know. 

He was the reason you got into this mess, anyway. 

His number still sat at the top of your history. There was no one to take his place. 

One ring. Two more. A crackle, static. 

“Hello?”

You chuckled, raspy and untamed, into the speaker. “Can’t believe you actually picked up.”

“You never call without asking first. Is something the matter?”

You snorted, and a cackle bubbled out of you. The breath became mist in the crisp winter air. “You talk old.” 

“…I beg your pardon?” 

“You talk old. Like you’re old. I used to think it was cute. Used to…”

His sigh was audible over the late night traffic. “Is something wrong, then?”

“There we go,” you cheered sardonically. “Finally speaking my language. A lot’s wrong! It’s so dark out here I can barely see where I’m going.” Frustrated, you stopped your pacing and stood outside a dingy storefront. 

“You’re not answering me. Why did you call? Are you alright?”

“No. I called because my head hwurts.” Your words began to slur. “And ’s your fault…so you need to tell me what’s wrong with it. What’s wrong with me.” 

A beat of silence.

“…Are you drunk?” Something like betrayal crept into his voice. And in that one moment, it felt good to hurt him back. 

“How couldn’t I be?” Your own voice wobbled in angry desolation. A sickening heat emanated from the chain you couldn’t bring yourself to retire. “When you got me this bracelet, I was so happy,” you hiccuped. “You made me happy. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten a gift. And now…di’you get her one, too? Did you fuck her? Have you fucked already? If you have, you might as well tell me now while there are still cars in the street.” 

A gray-haired woman hobbled by, looking at you like you were the strange one. You weren’t. It was him, it was all him, it was—

“I’m coming to get you. Share your location with me.”

You snapped back to the present. “No. No, I don’t need you to. I don't want you to. I parked…somewhere…around here, and I’ll keep going ‘til I find it. I don’t need you,” you huffed, staggering over the sloping sidewalk. 

“You’re endangering yourself. Don’t—”

“I’ll drive back on my own. Not like you care, anyway. I shouldn’t have called.”

A shuddering exhale came over the line. 

“Send me your location. Now.”

His tone was glacial, almost sobering. He’d never used it with you, not even on that first day in his office. Your steps faltered. 

“Now,” he repeated. 

For a moment, your right mind made its return from vacation. “…Fine.”

“Go to a well-lit area and wait for me there.” 

***

Twenty minutes later, a sleek black Audi screeched to a halt in front of you. The door was thrust open and closed with a foreboding slam, but you couldn’t be bothered to notice.

He came.

He stormed to your side with wild eyes and tousled hair, as if he’d run his fingers through it the whole way here. Wobbling on your feet, you reached out to fix it, but his firm hand clamped around your outstretched arm. 

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Then get in the car.” 

Get in the car. All this because of him, and all he had was get in the car. 

Scowling, you whipped away from him and started back down the sidewalk, shuffling past the streetlight you’d only stood under because you thought he cared. 

You didn’t make it two steps before strong arms wrapped around your legs, swinging you up and hauling you over an achingly familiar body. 

Immediately, you beat on his back, your fists thudding against lean muscles. “Put me down! You think you can just—put me down!”

Wordlessly, he tightened his grip and forced his way back to his waiting car, depositing you with what ceremony he could into the passenger’s seat. “Put your seatbelt on. I won’t tell you twice.” 

You woke with a foreign headache in a familiar bed. 

You never thought you’d be here again.

Blackout curtains blocked the windows, but something in you knew it was morning. Pills and a full glass of water, no accompanying note, waited for you on Zayne’s gray nightstand. 

You closed your eyes in a grimace the second you sat up. You could feel your brain bouncing around like a pinball.

You’d taken more than enough pills in your lifetime, but you’d always hated swallowing them. The water helped. The glass was empty in less than a minute. 

Slipping out of bed, you tried to put the muddled pieces of yesterday together. Seeing Zayne. The library. The bar. Seeing Zayne again, both of you much angrier the second time. 

You winced. 

Padding down the stairs, you scanned the house on high alert, looking out for any signs of a confrontation you weren’t ready to finish. 

When you reached the bottom still in one piece, you almost darted out the front door. But the nagging voice in the back of your throbbing mind couldn’t end things like this.

You found him in the kitchen, sipping tea and grimly flipping through a stack of papers. 

Your voice caught in your throat, coming out a cracked whisper. “Good morning.”

Hazel eyes…stayed on the documents in his hand.

You shuffled forward. “I wanted to thank you. For last night. You didn’t have to do that.”

His jaw ticked. 

“And I wanted to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called, I just…wasn’t thinking straight,” you mumbled. “I’ll get going now.”

Just as you turned, an incredulous scoff resounded. 

“Yesterday evening, I went home from an on-campus meeting with my married colleague, only to be woken up at one in the morning to rescue my spiraling former student.” Cold fury laced his voice.

Married colleague. Of course she was. 

Your mouth filled with bitterness, reminiscent of last night’s drinks. You shifted on your feet. “How was I supposed to know? What was I supposed to think?”

“You were supposed to think that who I speak with no longer concerns you. And then you were supposed to go on about your night, just as I would have.”

Recoiling at his frankness, you took a step back. “Zayne, I’m sorry—”

“You’re sorry,” he interrupted, swiping a hand down his tired face. “You keep saying that. But are you merely sorry for calling, or for anything else that happened last night? Do you have any recollection of what you said to me?” he continued, tone sharp and scathing.  

Silent and scrambling for memories, you stood before him. 

“I offered to come get you the moment I realized you were drunk and alone. And you refused me. You were adamant that you didn’t want or need me. And when I asked again, you said you would rather drive yourself home than accept my help. That I wouldn’t care if something happened to you on the way.” He was advancing on you now, his much larger shadow engulfing yours on the adjacent wall. 

“I was upset, Zayne. I am still upset, I have a right to be upset. You…you just left me, like it didn’t even matter, like I was never anything—”

“I tried to put your future first, and you threatened me with your life.” 

The words brought your frantic gestures to an abrupt halt. With just one sentence, he’d knocked the air out of you. And when he rolled his sleeves up, you knew he wasn’t done.

“I told you I got these when I pulled a woman from a wreck,” he started, twisting his arms to show the raised scars. “Would you like to guess what happened to her that night?”

Suddenly feeling small, you shook your head. 

“She was hit by a drunk driver.”

You vaguely remembered the way your heart soared when his car pulled up last night. Now, it plummeted to your feet. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, your pounding head drooping all on its own. “I just wanted you to come.” 

“You got your wish. Congratulations.” 

“Zayne—”

“I thought many things of you the last several months,” he seethed, sharp eyes boring into you as if seeing you for the first time. “But I never took you for a child.” 

A whimper escaped before you could stop it. You reached out for him, but he had already pulled back. 

“Your things are by the door.” 

The holiday lights at the ice skating rink were overstaying their welcome. 

Alternating intermittently, they painted the ice in blues and reds, projecting dancing patterns of snowflakes under the frenzied feet of happy skaters. 

Couples and families glided by, their raucous laughter and shrieks of excitement echoing in the chilly air. They lost their balance, at times, but they always had someone to catch them before they toppled to the ground.

For a tranquil, transient period, so unrecoverable now that it seemed like another life, you’d had that, too. 

But tonight, from your place in the stands, their unbridled joy felt like salt in the wound. 

“I’d like to take you somewhere.” 

You knew him well enough by now to hear the breathy nervousness in his voice. You squinted at him, playfully quizzical, from the passenger’s seat. “‘Somewhere’ as in your office? Or is the ever-careful Dr. Li actually proposing we go out in…public?” you gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your heart. 

He tapped two fingers on the steering wheel and shook his head, trying to suppress the smile threatening his composure. “It would be the latter. Unless you’re eager to stare at the same four walls and stacks of textbooks again, in which case I’m happy to oblige.”

Warm anticipation bloomed in your chest, and you beamed, draping your hand over his thigh. “Nope! Public is good. Public is great.” 

***

“Please, please, please don’t let go,” you begged, wobbling in your skates like a newborn foal. 

On the ice beside you, Zayne wasn’t doing too much better. His stronger legs kept him upright, at least, but he rarely moved more than a foot before freezing in place. 

His hand fell from your wrist to the small of your back, protectively tucking you into his side. “Why don’t we try it like this for a while? A few forward strokes might make us comfortable.”

You nodded resolutely.

And barely made it one before your legs slipped out from under you, sending you crashing into already outstretched arms. 

“…Why don’t we take a break,” you mumbled into his coat, clinging to him like your life depended on it. 

Laughing quietly, he tightened his grip and nuzzled your hair. “That works for me. The question is…how to make it back to the stands in one piece.” 

***

After 15 minutes and a collision with a maliciously uncooperative sheet of ice, you finally returned to the bleachers, sweating and giggling from the adventure. 

Cheeks flushed bright red, Zayne ushered you onto a bench at the top before turning to you. His eyes sparkled with mirth and uncharacteristic innocence. “It was much more eventful than my office,” he joked. 

“Not always,” you sang mischievously, and he cleared his throat as his blush deepened. “I have been wondering, though,” you continued, looking out into the sea of much more successful skaters, “you…are usually good at everything, Zayne. Why did you choose this tonight?”

His answer was immediate, as if it’d been sitting on the tip of his tongue. “You alleviate the pressure I feel to be good at everything. And you make me bolder, for better or worse,” he chuckled. “The years of my life that I missed due to my studies…I rediscover them when I’m with you.” 

You closed your eyes to try to stop them from watering and leaned in to kiss his cheek. Then, you lowered your head onto his shoulder. 

“My parents brought me here once,” he continued. “It was a happy memory. Perhaps I also wanted to extend it with you.”

Unable to suppress it, you tensed against him. “Are you close with them?”

“Fairly. We go out for dinner twice a month.” Caution crept into his tone. “And you?”

Somber notes shifted the atmosphere. 

“My parents don’t like me very much. Haven’t since I was in middle school. I think they got tired of paying to keep me alive,” you tried to joke, but it understandably fell flat. 

Grunting softly, Zayne tightened his arm around your waist. 

“I felt like an intruder in the house I was raised in. Always just there, but never welcome,” you mumbled, fiddling with one of his coat buttons. “It’s why I tried so hard to get here. I had to get out, but I knew they wouldn’t give me any more than they already had. So I did it myself.” 

Zayne had begun rubbing circles on your back. “How do you feel when you think about them?” 

“I used to feel guilty. And confused. Like it was my fault, like I wasn’t worth the energy. It only made things—me—worse, for a while. But then, once I found something to distract me, to keep me going…I just accepted it.” Rubbing at your sleeves, you sighed. “That’s only for them, though. I still get…sensitive when people leave. Decide to stop trying.” 

Pulling you close, he placed a gentle kiss on your hair. “I’ll always try for you.” 

Wet snow stained the streets outside. 

It'd been two weeks since he’d turned you away. Two weeks of skipping classes to sit here, staring, watching, but never doing. Two weeks of happy memories fading into forgotten dreams. 

You always looked through the windows when it got too much. That, and fiddled with the tennis bracelet it seemed like a curse to remove. If you did, it would all be too final. And you didn’t know when, if ever, you’d be able to accept that.

You felt silly, sometimes, being unable to let him go. Like a naive movie character, desperate and dramatic, that you would have ridiculed not even a year ago. But back then, all alone, you didn’t know how damning it could be to care for someone. To wake up in the morning, wondering what they’d do that day. How they’d make you mean something. 

You’d come to accept that Zayne’s interest meant worth to you. You hadn’t become reacquainted with worthlessness. 

You scratched and clawed at its advancing jaws, fighting with every breath to keep its venom from immobilizing you once more. To stay on the path you carved for yourself, undeterred by his hatred and your relapsing brain. 

But every day, you strayed farther and farther. 

Cold air swept behind and then beside you. You didn’t trust yourself to look. 

“I trust this isn’t a new hobby of yours.” 

Dry humor. You didn’t encourage it.

He tried again. “I didn’t think you’d ever come back here after your meet-and-greet with the ice.” 

This time, the jab was too hard to resist. “And I didn't think you'd remember where our first date was.” 

In the corner of your eye, he grimaced. “That’s hardly fair.”

“Maybe. But it’s honest. Since we’re being that, now.” Bracing your hands on your thighs, you stood up to leave. Before you could start down the stairs, he caught your arm. 

“I didn’t mean to say it so harshly.”

“But you still meant to say it.” 

His Adam’s apple bobbed in the silence. 

“Why are you even here, Zayne?”

He pulled you down with gentle strength. With a scowl, you obliged, putting distance between your estranged bodies. 

“I come here to think sometimes,” he murmured. “It helps to be surrounded by pleasant memories.” 

“It’s nice that that’s still what they are for you.”

He sighed and turned to face you fully. Dark circles outlined dull green eyes, but satisfaction took the place of concern. He had them, too. 

“Somehow, call it instinct, I was hoping I’d find you here. I wanted to apologize for that night.” The sound of a scraping skate was a welcome distraction from his intent stare. 

“When I tried to do that, you didn’t take it very well.”

His lips tugged downward. “I know. And I regret that, especially when you were vulnerable. But when you almost hung up, I just…I saw another version of that accident. But instead of that woman, it was you in the car. Because of me.”

Swallowing thickly, you fiddled with your fingers. Unfortunately, you’d long gotten used to the chain on your wrist, and it caught his gaze before you remembered to conceal it. His face softened. 

“I was very worried about you that night,” he whispered, hesitantly tracing the crystal snowflakes. “And as someone who’d never had anyone to worry for, I veered out of line.” 

You drew your knees up to your chest, placing the soles of your boots in the space between you. “You think I’m immature.” 

“I think you’re young. And I think I’d forgotten that, because you make me feel young, too.” 

“Except when you’re rescuing your former student.”

He winced. “Except then.”

“It isn’t just that night, you know,” you whispered, slotting your chin between raised knees. “You left. You knew what it would do to me, you knew I couldn’t handle it—and you left anyway.”

“I had your best interests at heart.”

“How do you think that turned out.” A statement, not a question.

Inching forward with a heavy sigh, he gently lowered your knees and took your hand. You let him. 

“It’d tear both of us apart if you lost everything because of me. You don’t deserve for that to happen. Not when you’re so close to your hard work paying off.” He rubbed soothing circles into your palm. “I care for you. Deeply. You’ve shown me so many things, given me so many firsts. But I won’t be the reason your goals become fantasies.”

His free hand lifted to cup your cheek, and you nuzzled it instinctively. 

“What happened that night…in the future, you must not do that again. You must not jeopardize your life again.” 

You stared, quiet. 

“Do you understand me?” 

You nodded. 

“May I kiss you?”

You nodded again. 

His lips were as warm and soft as the very first time. He captured yours tenderly, timidly, as if his touch were molten. 

You threaded trembling fingers in his hair, and Zayne pulled back. 

Your flinch was pronounced. Your heart was teetering. You were sure your eyes were glassy. 

Before you could speak or move or run, he surged forward once again. He spoke to you between urgent kisses. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It’s alright.” 

Glistening lips slid against yours, branding your mouth with their rising heat. He was firmer with you now. You liked it. It let you know he was still here. 

By the time you separated, the snow had stopped. Remnants of evening sunlight warmed the forest in his eyes. 

Things got better after the ice rink. 

You returned to your classes, apologizing for your absences and begging for extensions on missed assignments. All but one of your professors agreed. But you’d figure it out. Get back on track.

You had to, if Zayne’s encouragement was anything to go by. 

You got the briefest of texts and calls from him. Asking how you were doing, how classes were going, if he could share any resources with you. As if you really were just a former student. 

But every time, despite the apprehension and longing burning in your gut, you answered him. Returned his questions. Kept him talking for as long as he’d entertain you. Because the barest bit of him made all the difference in your day. 

It wasn’t the same—wasn’t anywhere close. But it gave you the will, the motivation, the purpose, to hold out a little longer. 

He’d said that he cared for you. That everything, even the worst of it, had been in your best interest. To give you a chance to grow without him. 

And it filled you with the most dangerous feeling, the most treacherous hope, that he’d come back to you if you could prove you could. 

You felt like life was a little more in your grasp. Like if he was okay with you, maybe you would be, too. 

Even the late winter cold wasn’t as bitter when you were in his orbit. 

You’d been walking lately. Something your doctors had always suggested, but you’d never taken them up on. It all came back to that night, incidentally. You remembered how freeing it’d been to choose your own direction, even when your brain wasn’t yours and your reins were held tight by an invisible hand. 

You’d just returned from an evening stroll around your neighborhood, freshly showered and in your nightclothes, when a curt knock sounded on your apartment door. 

Only one person you knew knocked like that. Only one person would be visiting you at all. 

Sure enough, that deceitfully detached expression greeted you when you opened the door, and you felt your stomach do a somersault. 

For everything you’d been through, for everything you’d done together, Zayne had never been to your apartment before. He always said it’d be crossing a line you could never fall back from—as if he hadn’t already crossed your lines and curves in all their entirety. 

What did it mean that he was here now? Did he miss you as much as you missed him? Need you as much as you needed him? Did he want to talk, or do something more? 

And how long would he stay? 

Stay. Stay. The word sprung you into action. 

“Um, hi,” you squeaked, voice startled and a little too loud. “Sorry, I just got back from a walk. I guess I should’ve put on something nicer.” 

“There was no need. I didn’t exactly give you notice.” His lips curled in an almost-smile. 

You swallowed. “Can I get you anything? A drink? It’s not much, but I have tea, and I think I have some leftover macarons, too. But they were out of the flavor you like,” you added quickly. “So maybe you don’t want them?” 

Zayne, usually amused by your nervous ramblings, only observed you quietly, his face a mask of stone. 

You knew that look. You’d seen it once before. 

Wordlessly, you stepped aside. 

He towered over your tiny space. 

You wrung your hands as your gaze dropped to the floor. As if by some miracle, you’d dissuade him from speaking, and the storm cloud he’d brought with him would pass over you harmlessly. The delicate chain on your wrist burned in warning. 

“I’ve been granted a transfer to another campus.”

His storm cloud doused you in ice water. In perfect contrast to the scalding metal against your skin. 

“I wanted to tell you in person. The university press is dropping the story tomorrow morning,” he continued quietly. “When I made the request, I listed the reason as a desire to explore new research opportunities. So you have nothing to worry about.” 

The ringing in your ears drowned out the tail end of his words. Your whole body pulsed with the need to escape it. 

Your brain spun with questions. Your heart ached, knowing he’d never fully answer them. 

“When did…” you tried to ask, voice failing to reach more than a whisper. “When did you make the request?”

“After I carried you to my bed that night. I signed the papers the morning after.”

“That was over a month ago. I…I thought we’d gotten better since then, I thought we were okay now. If it was all the way before…” You paused, trying to force the oxygen back into your lungs. “Do you at least regret it? Can you reverse it?”

The downward twitch of his lips betrayed only a hint of pity. He shook his head. “I don’t. And even if I could, I wouldn’t.” 

The whimper escaped before you could stop it, and your eyes stung as if pricked by thousands of needles. He took one hesitant step forward, but you could barely see it through your blurred vision. 

You shook your head, frantic, desperate, and pressed your hands to your mouth. “Why do you keep doing this to me? What’s wrong with me to make you keep—you kissed me. You kissed me and you told me you cared and I believed you, when you knew you would leave again.” Your voice was a garbled cry. “You made me promise when you knew you would leave again.” 

He was in front of you now, no more than a foot away. Troubled eyes roved over your figure, but flexing hands stayed at his sides. “I thought it would help you. That it might give you some peace, if I could offer you the last of myself.” 

You shook your head, stronger now, as if wishing this version of him away. “You can’t do this to me again—you can’t. I thought things were better—they were better, you made them better.” You grasped at words and memories, searching for something, anything, that might make him stay. Even if guilt was the only reason, it was reason enough. “You know what happened the last time.” 

You heard him approaching before you felt a cautious hand on your shoulder. “I understand that I hurt you—more than I ever had the right to. But when you risked yourself that night, I understood something else. Your safety and future are my highest priority. Those are uncertain as long as I’m near you.” 

His words held a nauseating finality, and you felt your lifeline slip out of your hands. 

A deep breath gave you the chance to respond. “So is that it, then? You come here to warn me and tell me goodbye, and then what? You just walk out, forget everything? If that’s a power you can learn, teach me one more thing before you go.” 

His hand shifted as he flinched. He swallowed. “I didn’t make this decision lightly. Nor have I ever overstated my affection for you. I could never forget you,” he murmured. Suddenly, he flushed soft pink. “But I wasn’t planning on leaving this way. Unless you’d like for me to.” 

You had no more energy to navigate the labyrinth of him. “What do you mean?” 

He looked to his feet. “I said that I wanted to offer you what I could of myself. I feel as though I owe it to you, to make your last experience with me a pleasurable one.” 

The implication made your heart stop. 

Was that how he saw himself? Was that what he thought of you? That he’d maxed his tab with the ways he’d hurt you, and now you’d charge him with interest? 

Was everything always so transactional?

Shame seared your insides. But even worse was the disgust that settled on you like a second skin—not at Zayne, but at yourself.

Because you knew your answer. 

You could never turn down a chance to be close to him. 

Your constricted throat opened enough for one single, damning word to escape.

“Okay.”

***

He’d been so gentle at the ice rink. Maybe that was the kind of restraint he showed when he was trying to keep a secret. 

But now, his lips claimed yours as if trying to atone for one. 

They were soft, slightly chapped from the dry air, and moving against you with the greed of a nation nearing famine. He suckled your bottom lip with an eager pull and a swipe of his tongue, letting it bounce briefly away before capturing it again. Each time you parted, he redoubled his efforts, meeting every corner of your lips with the hot suction of his mouth until they, too, were angry at him. 

You were no less urgent than he was. Where he pressed down, you surged up, trying to meld your mouth with his so he could see how well you fit together. You licked into him to savor his taste, sweet and floral, and caught his exploring tongue with yours when it got in your way. He surrendered immediately, let you invade him as you pleased, while he raked his fingers through your hair. 

As he hovered above you, frame almost too large for your full bed, he bent his legs to make himself smaller. Always compensating, always adjusting—in only the way he thought best. 

Sliding between your torsos, your hand stopped its journey at the center of his slacks, petting and cupping to make him come to life. His body obeyed when you left his lips to scatter hot, open-mouthed kisses on the side of his neck, biting down to threaten his quickening pulse. 

He grunted and bucked his thickening bulge while your lips soothed the sting, only to renew it again and again, trailing transient marks over transient skin. But he accepted his punishment with pleasure. 

His neck was adorned with purpling bruises that looked like they belonged there. Long past his departure, he’d think of you when he saw himself. A fitting curse, given the reverse was your normal. 

When you unlatched yourself to catch your breath, he took advantage of his newfound freedom, placating you with a brief peck before traveling his hand down your waist, squeezing at your hip and slipping underneath your shirt. He splayed his warm palm over your belly, rubbing up and down with unearned possession, and you mewled at the friction of his skin on yours. Diving forward to swallow the sound, he moved his hand up to cup your tender breast, completely bare under your oversized sweatshirt. 

A heavy breath escaped him at the contact, and before you knew it, he’d tugged off the fabric and returned his hands to the refuge of your chest. 

“I love these,” he’d whispered the first time he’d seen them, palming your rounded flesh with something like awe in his voice. “You’re absolutely breathtaking.” 

His eyes now held the same infatuation, and you could see the shared memory swirling within. 

Your chest heaved in mutinous anticipation, and the steady swells of your breasts drew him in like a lure. He bowed his head with the urgency of the night, and the hot lash of his tongue against your pebbled nipple made you anchor your fingers in his raven hair. What he couldn’t take in his mouth, he fondled with the same fervor, pinching and twisting your opposite peak with deliciously torturous movements. 

As his mouth opened and closed and switched from one to the other, he rolled his hips into the bed with barely bridled desperation. Each brush of his thigh made your core pulse with desire, and you matched his thrusts instinctually, slotting your clothed heat against his, quietly communicating your need. 

He released you with clear reluctance, pressing a kiss to the valley of your chest before obliging dutifully. You could almost feel his heartbeat in his hands as they inched back down your waist, lower and lower, until they brushed the waistband of your cotton panties. 

Breathing heavily, he hovered his fingers over the hem, the heavy weight of greedy hands replaced by a feather-light touch. 

He paused, eyes suddenly clouded with what you could only hope was guilt. “Are you sure?”

You weren’t sure of anything anymore. 

Faded lines on your forearms twisted as you moved. Wordlessly, you guided his hand down and under. 

You shared a gasp as two fingers traced your slick folds, and another when they pressed into your quivering heat. 

“I’m scared,” you confessed, clinging to him as you entrusted someone with your naked body for the first time. Arousal seeped out of you, coating the tops of your thighs, but you weren’t sure how the length of him would fit inside you without pain.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. “We’ll make sure you’re ready.”

Your belly clenched instinctively as his fingers pumped and curled inside you. As if they’d memorized your deepest parts, as if they belonged there. He spread and shut them, pushing and prodding your flexing walls, and your crooning moans filled the heated air. 

When your legs began to shake, he quickened his pace, twisting and bending his fingers like his pleasure was tied to yours. At the same time, he rubbed his thumb against your twitching bud, circling around and pressing down. The joint sensations had you unraveling around him, panting as your hips bucked against his continued pumps. 

He pulled his hand away once you began to mewl and watched his fingers glisten under the lamplight. “I never got the chance to do this,” he murmured. Casting a dazed glance at your trembling form, he slowly, sinfully, sucked his stained digits into his mouth. He moaned just as his eyes fluttered closed, and his cheeks swelled with gentle, savoring swirls of his tongue. 

A throb in your core sent your remaining release pooling onto the sheets. A pang rattled your heart, knowing someone so perfect wasn’t willing to wait for you.

Simmering with grief and outrage, you yanked his hand out of his mouth and stuffed it in yours, wanting to know everything he knew. To feel everything he felt. 

His eyes widened with shock and immediately narrowed. Looming over you, he ripped his fingers from your mouth and replaced them with his lips, your clashing tongues exchanging your mixed taste. 

As he lowered himself on top of you, you slid your hands down his torso and fiddled wildly with his belt, your mind muddled from his searing kiss. 

Taking your lower lip between his teeth, he released it with a nip of admonishment and sat up over you, his knees placed on either side of your hips. His chest trembled with ragged breaths, and the collar of his sweater had sagged to reveal your marks tattooing his skin. He’d be beautiful, but beautiful things didn’t betray. 

His thighs flexed around you as he swiftly pulled his sweater off, his biceps rippling with the movement. Next came his belt, which he discarded on the carpet with a gentle thud. 

Slowly, deliberately, he eased off the bed, keeping dilated eyes on you throughout. 

You couldn’t keep his gaze. 

The first time, you’d avoided his careful, intent stare out of shyness. Now, it was shame that burned behind your eyelids.  

Fabric fell to the floor. Crinkling foil faded into silent concentration. The mattress dipped. 

“Do you want to continu—”

“Do it.” The words were muffled—your throat was closing up again. You gritted your teeth. “Do it.” 

“We can stop here if—”

You reached out wildly and caught his arm, forcing him flush against you. “Make me remember.” 

When his first stroke brushed your furthest depths, stars exploded across your vision. 

He pressed into you as if trying to leave an imprint, steady and powerful and pulsing with need. You wrapped your legs around him through shaky breaths, bringing him closer, relishing the feel of his hips against yours. 

Your breaths mingled as you forced yourself to look into his eyes, not quite sure what you were searching for, but bristling at what you found: composure. Control. Dominance. The traits you’d never had, but admired in him. 

The ones that let him leave you. 

Grunting in frustration—at him, at yourself, at the world you never asked to be in—you pushed at his chest, shifting your momentum to roll him onto his back. You clenched your core as you mounted him, refusing to let his twitching tip fall from your warmth. 

He let you take him with wobbly bounces, cooing up at you while you sneered down at him. “Take what you need from me. Whatever you need.” 

With every shaky rise and fall, every clench of your core on his swollen length, you tried to. But when you looked at him, calm and encouraging and so terribly not yours, teardrops clouded your vision. One by one, they splashed onto his red-tinged skin. 

Your movements slowed. You collapsed onto him, cradling his head in your hands, and sobbed into his chest. 

The raised lines of his scars branded your skin as he wrapped his arms around you, held you close, and took over from underneath. He raised his hips with slow, lasting thrusts, your tightening walls still responding to him despite it all. 

You were too focused on his heavy heartbeat to notice the way you clamped around him, trying to drain him for all he had. And when his hips stuttered and he spilled into something so cruelly not you, you grew too numb to care. 

Tears darkened the marks on his neck as he held you, turning reddish purple to indigo. 

The proof that you’d known him was the last thing you saw that night. His gentle whisper in your ear was the last thing you heard.

“You’ll be better off this way.” 

When you woke, the bed was cold.

"And you didn't tell anyone while this was going on?"

Your cheeks, sunken and hollow, lifted slightly as you answered. "No one to tell."

A muffled cough. Another approach. “It’s been…a while since we’ve seen you here. We hoped it would stop once you moved out of your parents’ house. Why did you try again?” 

“I thought he would come.” 

Silence. 

Your eyes settled on the far wall of the sparsely furnished room. 

"Well, it’s…remarkable that you're still on track to graduate on time—despite the circumstances, of course. You’ll make a wonderful nurse.” 

"He wanted me to."

Your gown fluttered in the late spring wind. 

You barely noticed. Your heart was heavy. 

A brilliant stage stood before you, balloons and streamers lining the wooden steps. 

To your left, rows and rows of filled seats. 

The girls behind you fretted over their faces, hoping their caps hadn’t smudged their makeup. 

You hadn’t looked in the mirror before you left. You’d been running late, and you weren’t sure you wanted to see what’d become of you, anyway. 

It was fine. You were alone here. 

A part of you thought he’d be here. That if you wished hard enough, if you tried hard enough, if you thought hard enough, he’d feel you. See you. Come back. 

But jet black hair and hazel eyes were missing in the crowd. 

Zayne had cradled your heart in his scarred hands and laid it to rest. 

He’d hoped you would make it here, and you’d give him that, at least. 

But it was what you’d do later, surrounded by the soft embrace of the bed he’d once taken you in, that made you feel at ease. 

You felt the chain around your wrist and smiled wistfully. Pharaohs were buried with their treasures, after all. 

The procession moved forward. Every step was a memory discarded by its co-creator.

A first kiss in a quiet room. Stairs creaking under your weight. 

Scars that looked like yours. Stinging behind your eyes. 

Teardrops splashing on heated skin. Your name, clear and monotone. 

An unwilling return to a hospital bed. Subdued, polite applause. 

It feels like fate that I met you.

The bestowal of a scroll, a brisk handshake. A tight, transactional smile. 

“Congratulations.” 

[rikas-musings]

PROJECT SHATTERCORE ☣︎

DIRECTORY

bruce wayne x reader, jason todd x reader, dick grayson x reader, damian wayne x reader, tim drake x reader

SYNOPSIS: you were taken young, too young to ever have known anything other than needles and pain. stuck inside a lab that was bright and loud, they enhanced every neural frequency within you, transforming you into more than you could have ever been. after years of experiments, someone finally comes to save you. he’s tall, dark, and terrifying. but he offers you safety in a new home. you feel like an outsider in the gloomy mansion, but you understand why they behave as though you’re not there. it’s probably your fault, but over time, things begin to change, and the people in your home are starting to act as if they want you here. is this desire something normal?

WARNINGS: 18+ only, DEAD DOVE; DO NOT EAT, SEXUAL ASSAULT DESCRIPTION :(( (please do not read if this will trigger you!!!! this part is not sexualized despite the dd;dne tag), allusions to memories of sa, lots of angst, child endangerment, self-hatred, hurt and little comfort

PLAYLIST FOR THE CHAPTER: ♫ i love you like an alcoholic - the taxpayers, not strong enough - boy genius, listen to this for ultimate immersion

A/N : sorry for the wait, i've been working a lot more lately, and life has not been fun... but i love writing, so the encouragement this series has given me really fuels me

CHAPTER TWO: NOT STRONG ENOUGH

It was your fifteenth birthday. At least if you remember correctly. Mind muddled after all the years of nervous system damage. You were almost sure your memory was intact. You still flinched at the ghost of a touch. But the memories of how things only worsened made you tremble. Your body curls inwards like a caterpillar trying to make a cocoon out of itself.

Was today supposed to be special? Or was it supposed to sound like shrill shrieks in the rooms just on the other side of the wall? You weren’t sure, and you didn’t want to know. You felt your pulse point, relaxed as it could be—digits settled on the cool skin. You twitched at every recurring screech with the sensitivity of a landmine. 

You don’t remember this place looking as empty as it did, clinical lights beating down in the room, and the hallways— they didn’t seem to whisper secrets that only the adults seemed to understand.

You chewed on your nail, heart pacing as you wondered why. Maybe Dr. Sun would know; he seemed omniscient here, a god among men. So you uncurled yourself and padded down to the hallway, the bulbs faded and constant as always. There were two notable individuals today—Dr. Sun and—

Him.

His name sounded like a curse to you, like something that could unspool your entire existence in a short breath. You shuddered at the mere notion of seeing him, but you wanted an answer; there was only one direction to go. You tugged the soft fabric of your sleeves down your cold limbs, and you silently thanked the nurse who had provided you with a warm hoodie. As you navigated the maze that was the hallways, you reached the office. You let out a breath before your hand reached out, stilling inches away from the door. You wanted to knock, you really did, but you felt a sick feeling take over instead. Unsettling your stomach in turn. 

Your other hand instinctively cradles the nape of your neck in a sort of comfort. The scab that’s forming a reminder—a sharp, quiet reminder of what you are.

“Hi there, bunny.”

You hear it before you see it. That velveteen voice—sickly sweet and cloying. The nickname alone lodges into your skull like a piece of old gum. A familiar reminder of what you are. 

It’s heavy. Inevitable.

“Still so twitchy when I come close…” He murmurs, and you don’t respond, you can’t. 

Your hands are where he can see them. Clockwork, routine.

So you freeze, still like a tree in an unwavering storm.

You don’t want to think about how he looks now. His blonde hair was pulled back, roots darkened with his natural colour. Those unnerving hazel eyes, the kind that used to ignite pure desperation in your childhood. He looks the same age as Dr. Sun.

You never liked that.

So when his digits curl onto yours, you don’t flinch, at least not much. He leads you into another darkened hallway, just close enough to feel familiar. You feel numb, the kind of feeling that gnaws at your insides until even your organs forget how to function.

He digs his head into your shoulder, taking a breath, your eyebrows knit together as you stiffen. Turning your head to the left, up and away, you screw your eyes shut. His hands shift from friendly to unfriendly, faster than you can blink. He hovers near your auricle, whispering until you nearly feel your legs buckle.

You feel yourself breaking all over again.

His digits grip your chin and force you to meet his eyes, and you falter; you can’t help it. Your heart thumps against your sternum, his other hand pressed to your waist. The anxiety claws its way out of the back of your throat as he stares at you while miasma fills the air around you. 

This is what you shaped to be: a receptacle of sorrow. To swallow all the hurt, the terror, so the others can be proud. 

Then it happens, you crack—your eyes tremble in alarm, a blaring signal of your distress. A familiar reminder of what you are. 

“Oh, bunny, the look on your face…” His words ooze out of his mouth like rot, every word a spreading infection. He watches the slight vibration of your irises and leans in, closing the distance, as your heart sinks to your stomach.

All you can think is that at least he didn’t start roughly this time.

As his hands grope and prod and he pulls his lips back from yours, you feel a flicker of relief, but dread drowns your inside at the familiar pattern of what comes next. Then—

Footsteps, inching closer.

You silently pray it’s who you hope it is. Because he pulls away, leaving a ghost of his presence over you. As well as the trauma he just inflicted on you. 

You stiffen, because if you let anyone see what happened here, you don’t know what would follow, and he rewards your silence with a sick promise of being gentler the next time, and that’s all the control you’re permitted.

He leans against the wall, casual, a lopsided grin etches itself onto his face. How quickly he can change from a wolf to something almost human. 

Almost.

Finally, the person comes into your line of sight, and you nearly collapse from the relief. 

Dr. Sun.

He offers you a small smile. Making eye contact with him, giving a curt nod. You shuffle yourself over to Dr. Sun’s side, and your body relaxes a bit. Limbs heavy with the weight of what you just experienced, and have held for the past ten years. 

You and the Doctor leave silently, heading into his office. A retreat that feels welcome in your mind. Your irises land on the ground as you trudge onwards, waiting to be told to enter his office, or whatever room he permitted you in today.

His hand on your back nearly makes you flinch.

Nearly.

But you don’t—because his touch, the quiet claim of his, holds a semblance of safety. A stark contrast to all the hands that have ever laid themselves onto you.

You dissociate until you're in safety from it all, the touches, the silence, the voices, everything that plagues your mind. The dizzying buzz of the hallways and your brain, the constant twitch in your fingers, the sallow skin of your body. 

You feel like the embodiment of a disease. 

“Now, little one, I know you’re curious why it’s so empty in here, I don’t want you to worry. You are the strongest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. Something special—something they couldn't understand.” His voice is a murmur, something almost soft.

Strength? No, there wasn’t any of that left. 

But you can’t help but listen to him anyway, his fingers clasped around your digits—almost comforting, less clinical than others, but still far distant.

His eyes flicker down to your hand, placed on your pulse point as if to steady yourself. He lets out a breath, and his brows furrow in the way you’ve seen time and time again. 

He looks… frustrated.

You shakily place your fingers on his shoulders, as if to ground him to where you are, even if he’s not as far gone as you are.

He isn’t sure what to say next, and you remain completely still, your trembling hand still tethered to him. You want to speak, to query, to discuss what this means, what’s going to happen to you. And finally—

What’s your purpose?

But the words fester in your esophagus, throat tightening at the fear of what his answer might reveal itself to be.

His warmed irises locked onto you.

“Remember,” He murmurs, “all of this was for something; this pain, you’ve borne it so well. Look at you—extraordinary.” His digits caress your cheek reverently, and you so wish to lean into them, to surrender, to rest.

Because if Dr. Sun says so, 

Maybe it’s true.

After a few words from Dr. Sun, he sends you back to your room, and you can’t help but feel the weight of the world fracturing your spine. Like it’s engulfing your entire form. 

That’s what it feels like today. You don’t know if you've ever remembered your birthday feeling any other way. 

You remember being taught that the world was against progress. That humans had very well squandered their many chances of altering their fate. 

But buried beneath those were also memories of laughing at a storybook that spoke of magic and light, like there was some sliver of goodness left here. Like you could be part of it. But it felt so far away, never close enough to touch, let alone dream about.

You lay on your bed, sheets ruffled beneath your form. You feel the speakers crackle, the static vibrating the air. Then they are silent again, which catches your attention. Your nerves feel off, something or someone is coming—but who? This place felt disconcertingly empty.

You hear a gunshot, and you feel every hair on your body sharpen like a porcupine. Like a feral cat, you jump in fear, your body dropping to the floor with fluid precision. Your heart hums against your ribcage, each beat reverberating through your auricles. You crawl across the cold floor to hear the commotion going on outside. You press your ear flush to the door, swallowing dryly. You hear crashing and the sounds of things breaking; it sounds like a warzone. 

Is there a raid happening? The police—you hope it’s not them. 

Is someone here for you?

You shake the sickening thought outside your head, scoffing at the fact that you could think so selfishly.

You’re highly doubtful of that.

Your stomach sinks, the pit beginning to form. 

Maybe this is it. Maybe you weren’t anything special at all. 

Dr. Sun was wrong.

Picking at your cuticles, you begin to breathe with a tremor, your heartbeat picking up its frantic pace again. It feels like your auricles are ringing again—it hurts, the screeching familiar pain wrecking your body from the inside out. 

Your nails find their way into your scalp, digging into it as the pressure builds. It feels like you’re going to explode. 

A blood-curdling scream tears from your throat, a haunting echo reverberating through the building. You yank at your hair, your spit and snot running down your face. Your head tilts back at the familiar screeching of tinnitus in your ears, and everything is spinning in a nauseating whirl.

You have never wanted to die more than right now.

Bruce is halfway through knocking out a security guard when he senses something thrumming in the air. This godforsaken building had more problems than he had hoped for.

Suddenly, the lights flicker, and he taps his comms to try and reach Tim.

“Tim, something's off here.”

“Br–” Tim's voice fractures into static, and the line suddenly cuts off entirely. Bruce’s eyes narrow as the lights shut off.

Did they shut down the electricity to cover their tracks? Or was it an EMP?

He doesn't have nearly enough time to deliberate. A screech rips into the silence. It's rough, pained. Hostages? Civilians? He had to be prepared for anything here, steeling himself. He shoves an elbow into the beaten security guard's ribs to keep him down. There would be no slip-ups tonight. A year of searching has led him here; he finally has intel on this place. 

The Doctor.

His project.

Enough to set Tim’s radar off—now here he was, stepping into a sepulchral building with not much to go on. He moves rapidly in the direction of the scream, his cape flowing behind him, casting a dark shadow of his presence on the sterile floors. He slips into what looks like an office. The scream is closer now, humming like static, but something catches his eye—a file long forgotten on a metal table, something almost insignificant. This place reeks of a hasty evacuation. He can almost hear the hurried steps echoing in the halls like a ghost.

He snatches the file with his gloved hands swiftly, making haste to open it. He sees a name and his eyebrows furrow, tension suddenly pulsating sharply in his head. A name was scrawled at the top of the medical file. Why does that name look familiar?

(Y/N) Dalia.

Why on heaven’s earth does it haunt his memory in ways he cannot comprehend?

He feels an odd sense of panic at the scream. Suddenly, it pounds into his head, a raw ache scratching his throat. 

Who is screaming? He needs to help them—right now.

There’s no more time to waste.

He tucks the file somewhere to read later and makes his way to another room, urgency clawing at his chest.  What he finds makes his heart sink.

A teenager sits on the ground, screaming, sobbing; they look like they’ve not slept in days, their body hunched over on the ground, trembling in fear. He realizes this must be a hostage, and he approaches them like a wounded creature.

Something inside him knows that this is (Y/N) Dalia.

He needs to help you now.

Your eyes look up at him, pupils blown and veins mapped across the whites. Tear streaks stain your cheeks, your form shaking with raw panic. He steels himself once more, but this isn’t the time to be too emotional; he has to get you out of here and figure out where the Doctor and his project are—quickly. 

Communications are still fried; he has to get you to Gordon—right now.

Yet he finds himself drawn to you, echoes of something lost in his memory, stuck in the back of his skull like gum. So he offers you a hand, digits uncurled, palm raised, like an unspoken prayer.

You look up at him and shake fervently, before your fingers curl onto his hand, grip iron tight—like you’re terrified he might vanish into thin air.

He exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

You want to believe he's here to save you—the Batman, whispers from nurses, and a small tale from Dr. Sun, you'd heard of him all right. A caped vigilante who fought crime and evil in the gloom that was Gotham City.

You wonder why he never saved you. Why did he never save Mama?

But you hold onto him, something about him feels right, familiar. You want to release all the tension coiled in your body and relax, just this once. You feel the slight buzz of his nervous system through his suit, trying to memorize it as you feel yourself lose consciousness in his arms.

You wake to the comfort of a blanket, warmer than you think you deserve. Eyelids peeling up, the crust from tears and exhaustion making them itch as you blink away the fog. As your pupils dilate, focusing on the scene before you, you see the compound that you’ve spent your entire life in ahead of you in its gloom, and you’re perched inside what you think is an ambulance. Peering around you lock eyes with an older gentleman, he has a tan coat on, and his face is kind, but worn with fatigue. Bags decorate his under-eyes like sombre ornaments. He itches at his mustache before making eye contact with you, and you freeze under his gaze like a deer in headlights.

He softens, making his way over to you, a slow pace.

“Hi Kiddo, (Y/N), right? I’m Jim Gordon. I work for the GCPD. You’re safe now, I promise.” His voice comes out kind, but you feel an anxiety swirl around in your stomach at the mention of the police. 

You awkwardly curl into yourself and look up at him through your eyelashes, trying to protect what little autonomy you have left.

“Hi…” Is all you manage to get out, your throat closing up in fear.

“I know you must be really scared and confused right now, “he says gently, voice gruff but warm. “But we have someone who will take you in, he’s a good man, his name is Bruce Wayne,” trying to offer a sense of comfort amidst the stench of desperation in the air.

The name sounds familiar—achingly so, the kind of familiar that reminds you of your Mama. The thought of it makes you wanna cry again. Tears pricking the corners of your eyes. You shake the thought out of your head fervently. 

As sheltered as your life was, you were vaguely familiar with the billionaire—a few news articles you’d snuck into your room in the dead of night, providing a quick snapshot of the man.

While lost in thought, you hear the tires of a car trail against the gravelly road, approaching where the ambulance is parked. You watch as a sleek black SUV halts. It looks clean, professional and nothing like what you are used to. The doors click open as a man elegantly exits before making his way over to you.

He’s dressed in a crisp, black suit, almost like a butler, his hair is white, soft wrinkles envelop a face so warm it makes your chest tighten up. Your digits pick at your cuticles as you look up at him. He gives you a curt bow before introducing himself.

“My name is Alfred Pennyworth, I work for Master Bruce,” he starts, his voice coloured with a gentle British accent. His tone shifts to something more sympathetic. “My apologies, Master Bruce wasn’t able to meet you here himself; he’s been caught up with some work.” You don’t miss the slight grimace that flickers on his face, but it’s quick, fleeting, and you don’t have the energy to read into it.

The ride to the mansion is silent, but not for you; you hear the buzzing in your ears, and it eats away at your sanity little by little. Maybe Alfred catches onto it, or senses your discomfort, because he begins to speak. 

“I’ve prepared a small room for you to stay in; however, I’m still working on clearing out the main room. My apologies for the delay, I had little notice.” He hums, a slight smile graces his features, and you wish you could smile back at him.

“No need to apologize, I’m grateful to even be here.” Your voice is small, scared to appear too loud, to take up more space than you already do. You wet your lips with your tongue as you peer outside the window of the car. It’s gloomy, as Gotham is most days, but you swear you see a sliver of sun peek through the trees lining the grounds. 

Your eyes widen like saucers at the sight ahead. The mansion is massive—no, huge doesn’t even begin to describe it. It was magnificent, gothic architecture towering over, it was haunting but breathtaking.

Your jaw slackens ever so slightly. There was no way this was your new home.

You swallow the lump in your throat, despite things having seemed to look up, you feel your stomach coil in on itself. 

You think of Dr. Sun, of his words.

“You are something they could never understand.”

The memory binds itself to the sick feeling in your stomach. As the car parks in front of the monumental building ahead, there’s a tremor in your hands that doesn’t seem to stop.

When you step out of the car, you inhale deeply, but the air is thick in your lungs.

Alfred takes your hand into his, careful and gentle. You startle at first, but your digits clasp onto his gently in turn as you let him lead you into the looming building, a silent comfort hanging in between you two, cutting through the miasmic air of the mansion. 

You weave through the vast and empty hallways of the mansion, and he leads you into what looks like a study. He lets go of your hand and steps forward in front of you. You go to peek around quietly, and that’s when you see him.

Bruce Wayne.

His gaze is hardened onto something strewn on his desk, but he feels your eyes on him. he quickly looks up, meeting your gaze head-on. Your resolve shatters, and you duck behind Alfred quickly.

“Master Bruce, here is Young Master (Y/N) Dalia.” Alfred steps away, the only thing separating you from Bruce’s tenebrous presence.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” He says, voice low and rough around the edges. He studies your face for a long pause before offering a gentle smile. It looks practiced, something like a crack in his otherwise stone-like facade.

“It’s good to meet you as well, Mr. Wayne.” You manage to get out, fingers playing with the hem of your sweater. 

“There’s no need to be so formal, after all… he is adopting you,” Alfred interjects matter-of-factly, eyes locked onto Bruce.

Bruce winces at the sound of the sentence. To have it said so plainly feels wrong; things were never said outright, not in this place at least.

Your heart thuds against your ribcage. 

Why would someone like him do this?

What does he know about you?

You feel younger than you are, body curled in on itself like a cat, all of you on display before this billionaire. Claiming to take you in—things like this didn’t just happen.

But you wondered, would it be like when you were with Mama?

Would someone ever look at you the way she did?

TAGLIST: @alishii @lalana1703 @purple-obsidian @ghosty-the-grim-fairy @shadowsingers-redhood @staarflowerr @nininehaaa @hai-there-how-are-you @cynniee @lovebug-apple @nervousalpacalady @nisarelle @lilyalone @cxcilla @cupid73 @swag13r @ninabinna @welpthisisboring @hana-no-seiiki @iminlovewithjasontodd @alisteraille

[leighsartworks216]

hi again leigh!! I really enjoyed your rainy day prompt! this time I was wondering if I could request a birthday comfort fic with Sylus please? Smth like reader/MC doesn't really go out of her way to celebrate her birthday since she thinks it's not worth it (me tbh) but Sylus proves her wrong? Another hurt/comfort fic, basically. It's my birthday on the 13th haha

Feel free to ignore this request if it's too much, just let me know <3 thank you so much in advance!!!

Greedy

Sylus x gn!Reader

IM SO SO SO SORRY THIS TOOK THIS LONG TO WRITE. AN ACTUAL MONTH OVERDUE OMFG

Anywayyyy I hope this was worth the wait 😭

Warnings: hurt/comfort, fluff, birthday, self-worth issues, kissing, food, teasing, established relationship

Word Count: 2,166

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“Going to bed already, kitten?”

You blink at him, mid yawn and stretch. Arms reaching overhead, your shirt lifts up to reveal a little bit of tummy. His eyes catch it immediately. Flick down a couple more times until your arms flop down by your side. “Yeah, I have work tomorrow.”

Sylus quirks a brow up at you. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you laugh. “Why?”

“Well, I was under the impression that tomorrow was your birthday.”

Your heart spikes. You shrug, playing nonchalant, glancing away to scratch your cheek. “Yeah, it is.”

“But you're not taking the day off?”

You shrug again. “It’s not that big a deal.”

He scoffs, crossing his arms. “If I’d said that on my own birthday-”

“That’s different.” He shoots you a look, demanding for you to elaborate just how his own birthday is more important than yours. You huff. You feel antsy under his stare.

You always hate when this comes up. When a friend gushes over you, wondering just how you’ll celebrate your big day. And the way their entire attitude changes when you say you aren’t doing anything, and that you don’t want to do anything. Like you not wanting to celebrate is a burden on all of them.

As a kid, it wasn’t much different. Yeah, you wanted to have those big parties and events like the other kids. Your friends’ parties that brought you to fun pizza palaces and trampoline parks. Or at-home celebrations with games and pool parties. But something about it always felt… wrong. Like those places and games were made for them, but not for you. You didn’t deserve to have parties like they did. Didn’t earn the right to celebrate another year of life.

You cross your arms in turn. “I just don’t want to make a big thing out of it, okay?”

He stares at you a moment longer. Reads your body language, all tense and closed off, as easy as an array of Mephisto’s code. You think he’ll give you that look - the look they all give you. Keep arguing about how it should be a big thing because you’ve survived another year around the sun. Bring up that if you were going to make such a fuss about his birthday, shouldn’t he make a fuss about yours? Throw out suggestions and ideas for “fun” things you could do. And look like a kicked puppy when you reject him.

But he doesn’t. He just gives a nod, uncrosses his arms, and stands up. “Alright,” he says.

You squint up at him suspiciously. “Alright?”

“On one condition.”

You groan. “What.”

He smiles. “I make you dinner.”

“... What?”

“After work, come back to the base,” he elaborates. “I’ll make us dinner and we can do or watch whatever you want for the rest of the night.”

Your mind is already racing, thinking up all the ways this can turn sour. You have images of Luke and Kieran jumping out at you with party poppers and cone hats. A giant 7 tier cake. A pile of presents that reaches the ceiling. If there’s two things you know about Sylus: 1. He doesn’t do things by halves, and; 2. There is no such thing as too much.

“Just us? No Luke or Kieran?”

He shakes his head. His bangs swish over his eyes. “Not even Mephisto.”

“And just dinner?”

He quirks a brow, but he nods. “Just dinner.”

You stare up at him, searching for any budding scheme he could be coming up with. But you know he wouldn’t lie to you. It wouldn’t be like your 15-year-old surprise party that your friends threw, despite telling them all repeatedly that you didn’t want a party. You almost cringe just remembering it. “Really?”

He scoffs. You’d think it was out of annoyance if it weren’t for the amused grin creeping along his lips. “Really. You have my word.”

Your shoulders finally relax, arms drop back down to your side. He bends down and scoops you up, carrying you with one arm. You scramble to hold on. He carries you off to bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you - you rest your head on his shoulder, like that’s exactly where you belong.

“Now let’s get you to bed,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you to be exhausted at work tomorrow, would we?”

-

All day, you’ve dodged well wishes and “Why are you here? You should be celebrating!”s and the awkward staredown while you read store-bought cards. Of course your boss sent out a mass email letting everyone know it was your birthday; she did it for every one of her employees. And of course everyone went all out to make sure you knew it was your “special day”. Your only saving grace is that you weren’t forced to sit and stare at your coworkers as they sing you Happy Birthday and watch you “make a wish” on a candle.

During your breaks, you use the Birthday Discount emails you get sent and Sylus’ black card to buy clothes, games, craft supplies - anything and everything you could. It’s not like he minded, especially when he’s usually begging you to use his card no matter how small or large the price tag is.

By the time you’re on your way back to the N109 Zone for Sylus’ supposed dinner-date, you’ve uttered about a million prayers hoping he truly doesn’t have anything else up his sleeves.

You wander through the base toward the kitchen, scanning every room you pass for any sign of Luke and Kieran, banners, party poppers, and presents. You love those kids, but if you see them tonight, you might just explode on them.

Strangely enough, you manage to reach the kitchen without any glimpse of the twins. And the kitchen is lacking in decorations and monstrously sized cakes, too. Instead, all you find is Sylus with an apron tied in a little bow at the small of his back, an array of messily-iced cupcakes, and an absolutely divine fragrance. He glances over his shoulder when he sees you.

“How was work today, sweetie?” he greets casually, before turning his attention to the food sizzling in the pan on the stove.

You frown at his back. “It was…” You sigh. He glances at you again as you step past the cupcakes on the island and come to his side. Up close, the aroma of a home cooked meal hits all your senses, making your mouth water and stomach grumble. “A lot.”

He hums. You poke his side playfully and tug on the strap of the apron. “Since when have you had this?”

“I bought it today,” he admits, flicking your forehead in retaliation. “I didn’t want to mess up my clothes while I cooked for you. Why? Is it not to your tastes?”

“Just thought you’d get one in black. Or one that says ‘kiss the cook’ on it, or something.”

He chuckles. “I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”

You wrap your arms around his, holding onto him. He doesn’t stop you. He even transfers his utensil to his other hand so he can continue to cook without disturbing you. You can’t help looking around again. You look at the cupcakes all lined up on the counter. At the entrances to the kitchen. Through the doorway leading to the dining room. He lightly nudges you.

“Something on your mind?”

“No,” you answer too quickly. “Just, wondering where Luke and Kieran are.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “I thought you didn’t want them here tonight,” he teases. “They’re restocking my safe houses tonight. Once they’ve finished, I’ve told them they can do whatever they want. Most likely, they’ll run off to an arcade.”

You nod, trying to play it cool. “And Mephisto?”

“Keeping an eye on the twins, to make sure they actually finish their jobs before they play games.”

So… it really is just you and him here tonight?

“Go sit down,” Sylus says, breaking you from your thoughts. “This is almost finished.”

-

Dinner is better than you expected. Sylus always said that he could only cook so long as he had a recipe to follow, but every bite tastes like it was professionally crafted by a master chef. You savor each flavor. Try to chew slower so you can really relish the care he put into it. By the end, you’re genuinely scraping your plate for every last morsel.

He doesn’t judge you for it either, even when you look up at him all embarrassed. No, he just smiles. One of those soft smiles that makes him seem harmless, that brightens his eyes. He would be preening if he were a bird, so proud of himself for making something you enjoy so much.

“There’s cupcakes, too,” he reminds you after a sip of wine.

You smile wryly at him. “I thought you said just dinner.”

He chuckles, but shrugs. “Then I’ll throw them out.”

“Hmm, I better have a taste before you do. Just to make sure.”

He watches you get up and go over to the array of cupcakes. The frosting is messy, but with an intent to look nice. Or, at least, look edible. You pick one up and glance his way as you peel off the paper wrapping. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, waiting for your reaction as casually as he can. You sink your teeth into the soft cake and-

“Oh my god,” you moan around the bite. A dab of icing gets on your nose, but you can hardly care when it tastes this good. It practically melts on your tongue. You look up at him again, wide-eyed, as though searching for any hint that he knew it would be as delicious as this. “Sy, you should become a baker.”

He stands from his seat with another chuckle, plucking his wine glass from the table to carry with him as he joins you at the kitchen island. You take another bite. “Is it that good?”

You nod, licking your lips of crumbs and icing as you peel away more of the paper and hold it out for him to try. He eyes the cupcake for a moment. Then he takes your wrist and guides it away, bending down to your height, leaning in so his face is inches from yours. You gulp down the bite, trying to remember how to breathe when he’s looking at you like that.

His eyes flicker down to your lips multiple times as he leans in closer. Sharing your air, breathing in the sweetness of the dessert. And then-

Lick.

His tongue swipes up the icing from the tip of your nose and he’s standing at his full height, touching his lip. “Mm, yeah. It’s sweet.”

You groan. “Bastard.”

“What? Were you expecting something else?” he asks, though the teasing lilt in his voice betrays the honesty of the question.

“You know what you did.” You glare at him and turn away, taking another big bite of your sweet treat. “No more cupcake for you.”

His arms wrap around your waist and pull you back into his chest. He rests his chin on your shoulder. Nuzzles his nose against your cheek, where he can feel you fighting not to smile as wide as you want to. “That’s alright. I’ve got something sweeter.” He kisses your cheek. Along your jaw. Down your neck. Kisses you slow and delicate, closing his eyes like he’s savoring the taste of your skin, even after your long day. He hums, a sound that rumbles in his chest and vibrates against your back. “Happy birthday, sweetie.”

You swallow. The cake turns sour in your mouth. “I’m sorry for all the trouble,” you murmur.

He pulls away slightly to look at you, a frown of his face to match yours. “Sorry?” he asks. “Why are you sorry?”

“Well, ‘cause you made me dinner and cupcakes and everything.”

He huffs an astonished, confused laugh. “That’s hardly any trouble. I would cook dinner and bake cupcakes for you every night if I got to see you smile like you did tonight.”

The thought twists your stomach. He flicks your forehead before the thoughts can spiral.

He says your name sternly. “If you think you’re a burden because I want to take care of you, you’re wrong.”

You turn around in his arms and rest your back against the counter, the last couple bites of your cupcake held between you. “I just… It’s a lot of effort just for me.”

“And you’re worth every second of it.” He kisses your forehead. “For one day, let yourself deserve everything.”

“With you, I gotta get used to every day…”

He grins. “Eventually. We can start small for now.” He grabs hold of your wrist again and lifts the cupcake to his lips. He takes a generous bite and licks the icing from his lips. “One day, you’ll be as greedy as me.”

---

Tag List:

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[jungkoode]

OUT OF LINE | 02

˗ˏˋ where promises go to die ˎˊ˗

"Grief doesn't rot like lilies—it evolves. Sometimes into walls that keep everyone out, sometimes into bridges you never expected to build. Madrid is teaching you the difference."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 8.5k

content: grief processing, mother's death aftermath, ferret therapy, university friendship dynamics, barcelona nostalgia, jungkook brotherly comfort, provocative physio session, inappropriate medical sounds, taehyung being insufferable on purpose, whatsapp group chat chaos, nike dinner setup, family obligation pressure, madrid vs barcelona culture clash

—author's note

Hello monsters, gremlins, goblins, and yes—you, the one under the table hoarding the peanut cookies like they're State Secrets. You've been reported to the Kiki Nation High Tribunal. Formal charges include: cookie hoarding, suspicious crunching noises, and bribing witnesses with chocolate chip alternatives. Justice will be served. Possibly with milk.

Now, AS FOR THIS CHAPTER. AHAHAAHA. Okay. So.

Right out the gate we start with That Scene. You'll know when you see it. Some of you may be tempted to go "Kiki why did you put your entire kikussy into poetic and ambiguous language???" and to that I say: THANK YOU FOR ASKING, MR. INVISIBLE. You see—my girl Y/N is grieving. And not in the cinematic way, but in that awful, quiet, dissonant way. The kind where everything looks almost normal, sounds almost right, but you're not in it. That suspended, floaty, untethered state where you're just... drifting. I wrote this opening with the intent to evoke, not explain. Because I don't think grief—real grief—ever makes clean narrative sense. It's messy. It loops. It aches. It dissociates. So her inner monologue reflects that.

BUT. I didn't want it to be bleak. So I slipped in a little light: female friendship. You guys know how much I value it. Sofia Chen = my babygirl already. Her screen time may be short but her impact is earthquaking. Also: brace yourselves for the physio intern. I'm not spoiling anything but AAAAA. The little scream I let out when writing him was medically concerning. Just know you're gonna love him. I do. I really do.

Then there's that Taehyung scene. The physio session. Yeah. That one.

Okay so—Coke Zero? TRACK IT. It is not a throwaway. Put it in your mental detective wall with the red string. That detail's doing work.

Now let's talk about what's really happening in that scene: you've got a man weaponizing his body as a final line of defense. He can't stand the thought of being unimpressive—of someone not reacting to him. So what does he do? He performs. Gets obscene. Pushes boundaries. Pokes at discomfort. He's like: if you don't like my mind, my attitude, my words—then at least flinch for my abs. Validate me with your silence, if nothing else. And she doesn't. And it bothers him. He's fishing. And if that doesn't tell you everything about the man's psyche—Listen. I said what I said.

Also. Can we collectively scream about how every private university is just a glorified capitalist PR firm?? I wanted to reflect that weird, fake "we're all a happy family :)" collaboration tone between institutions. The smiley emoji energy that reeks of Excel spreadsheets and nepotism. If you know, you know.

Finally: THE GROUP CHAT SCENE. My ✨ magnum opus ✨ Marco is literally an idiot and possibly irredeemable but I hate how funny he is. It's the banter. The banter is what gets him laid. Leo = my Shayla. I want to protect him so bad. Who knows if I will. Point is—I loved being able to start showing more team names and dynamics. There's something really special about letting a cast feel lived in. You're only seeing glimpses—but those glimpses are building a very specific emotional architecture for what's to come.

ANYWAY. That's enough from me. Enjoy the chapter. Scream in the tags. Track the Coke Zero. And for the love of Jungkook's tattoos, STOP HIDING THE PEANUT COOKIES. I SEE YOU.

– Kiki ♡

— read on

read author intro + tws (must)

lineverse guide

between the lines (jk’s story by @writesvani)

read on wattpad

read on ao3

Kiki Nation’s discussion thread for this chapter

Where do promises go when left unattended?

You wonder if they rot, like lilies left too long in water. Or if they just fade, the way the scent of your mother's perfume used to linger in the hallway—now gone, replaced by the sterile tang of Madrid tap water and overpriced detergent.

It's a question you've long buried, somewhere between the unpacked boxes in your Madrid bedroom and the ache that still sits heavy when you think of your dad's tired eyes.

Or maybe it's bigger than that—your whole damn life, a scrapbook of sweet nothings you swore you'd keep. Staying in Barcelona. Holding tight to Mom's hand in memory. Rooting for a team that felt more like family when yours got ripped in half.

Death didn't just knock that day; it kicked the door down, left the air thick with something sour, like rotting lilies.

Mom used to fill the house with them.

White ones from the market on Sundays, yellow ones she'd steal from the neighbor's garden when she thought no one was looking.

Now you can't walk past a flower shop without your throat closing up, without that familiar knot threatening to crawl up and spill everything you've been swallowing down.

University isn't the escape you hoped for. Not the endless readings on joint mechanics, not the sterile newness of a city that still feels like a borrowed coat, and definitely not the present, which drags like a bad hangover.

You're two weeks into this Madrid experiment, and every day is a reminder of what's gone.

But then, somehow, there are people. Small, unexpected pockets of something lighter that make it easier.

You just never expected easiness to have a name like Sofia Chen.

You're slouched in a lecture hall at UEM, campus filled with the kind of international crowd that makes you feel both invisible and exposed. End of September, semester just kicking off, and the air's got that crisp edge that doesn't match the heat still clinging to the streets outside.

Sofia's next to you, scribbling in her notebook with a focus that's almost annoying. Almost. Meanwhile you—well, you're scrolling through your phone, thumb flicking over a screen that's stubbornly empty of anything worth reading.

No messages from Dani.

Not that you expected any.

You told yourself the distance—geographical, emotional, whatever—would be the perfect excuse to untangle the mess of feelings you've carried for him since you were sixteen. Unreciprocated, unspoken, and now, unnecessary.

Doesn't stop the sting, though. Expected hurt still hurts.

Your fingers drift to Jungkook's chat instead. A few unread messages, probably memes or some random check-in. He's the only thing that feels like home lately, a tether to Barcelona that hasn't snapped yet.

You don't open it. Not here. Not with Sofia's voice cutting through your haze.

"I have never seen anyone our age swallow down those in twos like you do," she mumbles, not looking up from her notes when her pen scratches against the paper, somehow grounding.

You know she's talking about the pikotas in your hand, the sour-sweet candies you've been popping absentmindedly.

Two at a time, always. A habit from forever ago, when Mom would slip them into your pocket before school.

You don't miss a beat, tossing another pair into your mouth. "Just say you have horrible taste."

She snorts, finally glancing over. Her dark hair falls in a neat curtain over one shoulder, and her eyes crinkle just enough to show she's not actually judging.

"I'm half Chinese. Taste is like, our whole point."

You roll your eyes, but there's a smirk tugging at your lips.

Sofia's got a way of sneaking past your usual walls, not with force but with this quiet, persistent ease.

You met her two weeks ago, first day of classes, when the semester started and you were still figuring out how to navigate the sleek, expensive campus. Because it's just the kind of place that screams privilege—private, international, one of the most expensive universities in Spain, all courses in English to cater to the global mix of students who can afford it.

You were sitting alone in the back of a lecture hall, trying to blend into the polished wood and glass, when she plopped down next to you. No hesitation, just a quick "Mind if I sit?" and a grin that didn't wait for your answer.

She clocked your last name on your notebook, matched it to the buzz about your dad being Real Madrid's new physio, and didn't make a big deal of it. Just nodded like it was trivia, not gossip.

You appreciated that more than you let on.

Since then, she's been a constant. Study sessions in the campus library, coffee runs at the overpriced café downstairs, late-night texts about assignments. She's Madrid-born, Chinese-Spanish, a sports psychology major with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue when she wants. She knows about your dad's job, knows you're fresh off the boat from Barcelona, and hasn't pushed for details.

That's why you don't mind her sitting here, filling the silence with her quiet banter while you chew through candy and memories.

Madrid's like that. Too much of everything—light, noise, space—and none of it fits right.

Not like Barcelona did, with its narrower streets and warmer shadows.

Still, at UEM, you're just another face in a sea of ambitious twenty-somethings, most of whom couldn't care less about football. Real Madrid, Barcelona—it's not their world. They're chasing MBAs, tech startups, international law degrees.

That, however, does not mean they don't know who Kim Taehyung is.

"Hey, speaking of taste—or lack thereof—have you seen the news this weekend? That whole scandal with Real Madrid's golden boy? Taehyung?"

Fuck Sofia for ruining your peace. You take all the good things you said about her back.

Of course she'd bring it up. Not because she's obsessed with football—most people here aren't—but because Taehyung's mess is everywhere. A superstar, a celebrity, the kind of hot that has women tripping over themselves and brands clawing for a piece of him.

His whole 'can't keep it in his pants' routine isn't even a flaw to most; it's charm, a marketable quirk that somehow makes him more desirable.

You've seen the headlines (who hasn't?), the grainy party pics, the lipstick smear on his neck that's got half of Madrid's press losing their minds.

Nike's 'concerned,' apparently.

You doubt he cares.

You shrug, keeping your face blank. "Yeah, I saw. Not exactly news when it's him."

Sofia raises a brow, catching the edge in your tone.

She doesn't know about your first run-in with him, the way he loomed at the training ground like he owned the air itself, expecting you to melt under his gaze; and you… Didn't.

Just stared back, flat and unimpressed, until he looked almost confused.

Which was honestly refreshing. He needs to get humbled.

But Sofia doesn't need that story, not yet. You're not sure why it even sticks in your head. It's not like he matters.

"Fair," she says, tapping her pen against her chin. "Still, it's wild. Guy's got the world at his feet, and he's out there acting like a frat boy on spring break. My psych prof would have a field day with his impulse control—or lack of it."

You huff a small laugh, more out of habit than amusement. "Probably. But it's not like anyone's surprised. That's just… him."

Her eyes narrow a fraction, like she's filing that comment away for later. You don't like how she does that, reads the unsaid stuff in your pauses. Makes you feel seen in ways you're not ready for.

You pop another pikota, let the sour bite ground you.

The lecture hall's still noisy, a guy two rows down arguing with his friend in rapid-fire German, a girl across the aisle snapping a selfie with her overpriced latte.

Normal. Disconnected from the football bubble you've been dragged into.

You wish you could stay in this pocket of mundane forever, where no one cares about football or your dad's job or the way some prick keeps jostling his dick around like it's a birthday party and his junk is a gift.

Your phone buzzes on the desk, screen lighting up with Jungkook's name.

A distraction. A lifeline.

A… video of a ferret stealing an entire sock drawer, dragging socks one by one to build a nest?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜

You snort—actually snort—loud enough that Sofia looks up from her notebook with raised eyebrows.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚞𝚋𝚎'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚊𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝙷𝙰𝙷𝙰𝙷𝙰𝙷𝙰

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚝𝚠?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚏𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝙻𝙼𝙰𝙾𝙾𝙾

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚌 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚒'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 🤔

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜

You pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He's talking about you, obviously. Those stupid chocolate croissants from the Barcelona training facility café that you'd get genuinely upset about when they sold out.

It feels like a lifetime ago—back when your biggest worry was missing breakfast pastries, not navigating the social minefield of Madrid's elite football culture.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

You swallow thickly, staring at your screen for a couple seconds.

Because Jungkook's always been good at checking in without making it feel like an interrogation. He knows you well enough to understand that direct questions about your emotional state will get deflected, but asking about Madrid in general? That's safe territory.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚊𝚍'𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗?

You chew the inside of your cheek, watching Sofia highlight something in yellow marker.

How do you explain that Madrid feels like wearing clothes that don't fit? That every day feels like you're playing a role you never auditioned for? That you miss the easy warmth of Barcelona so much it physically hurts sometimes?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚘𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚒

Sofia waves at your phone like Jungkook can see her, which makes you roll your eyes.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝙷𝙸 𝚂𝙾𝙵𝙸𝙰

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚒 𝙰𝙼 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚛

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒'𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒'𝚜 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚒

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚢

Your heart does that stupid flutter thing it always does when Dani gets mentioned.

Even now, even with Carla, even with the distance and the time and the rational knowledge that your teenage crush was exactly that—teenage and over.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚊𝚍'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚒s

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚝𝚘𝚘

No, he didn't.

It's easier to pretend he didn't.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜, 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚎'𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎?

You know exactly what you're asking.

He knows too, judging by the way the writing dots disappear two times before his next reply.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚊𝚑

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗…?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎? 👀

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 🙄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒'𝚖 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞

The homesickness comes and crashes like a tidal wave.

It never quite goes away, the ache for the people who knew you before Madrid, before everything got complicated.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚒𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚞𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚐𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚘

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚓𝚔

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚠𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢

Family.

Something warm settles in your chest.

Not the grief, not the homesickness, but something warmer.

A reminder that distance doesn't erase the connections that matter.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: ❤️

You set your phone down, a sigh escaping your lips.

Madrid's still foreign, and two weeks in, and you're still mourning. Not just Mom, though that's a wound that never scabs over. It's Barcelona too. The team, the culture, the way Camp Nou felt like a second home. The way Dani smiled without agenda, the way Jungkook teased like a brother.

You're in Madrid by accident, by necessity, and every white jersey you see feels like a betrayal.

But then there's Sofia, a small, stubborn reminder that not everything here has to hurt.

You chew another candy, slower this time. Let the sourness linger.

Promises might wither when left alone, but maybe, just maybe, some things grow in their place.

You're not ready to name it. Not ready to trust it.

But for now, sitting here with Sofia's quiet scribbling as your backdrop, it's enough to keep you from sinking.

Traffic in Madrid is apparently a personal vendetta against punctuality.

Your dad's running twenty minutes late because some jackass decided the M-40 was the perfect place for a fender bender, which means you're here. Setting up his station. Organizing equipment you could identify with your eyes closed because you've been watching him work since you could walk.

The physio room's too clean, too sterile, too Real Madrid.

The Barcelona facility had character—scuff marks on the walls, that one massage table with the slightly wobbly leg that everyone avoided, the persistent smell of Bengay that had seeped into the paint over fifteen years.

This place looks like it was designed by people who've never actually treated an injury.

You're sorting through resistance bands when Namjoon appears in the doorway, looking like he's lost a fight with his textbooks. Again.

"Your dad said you might be here," he says, adjusting his glasses. "Traffic's insane out there."

Right. Namjoon.

You met him exactly nine days ago when he wandered into the wrong lecture hall and ended up sitting through your Sports Medicine seminar. Turned out he was supposed to be in another class but was too polite to leave once he realized his mistake. Also turned out he's doing his practicum here, shadowing the medical staff twice a week.

Small world. Smaller when your dad's the new guy everyone wants to impress.

"He's stuck near Cuatro Caminos," you say, testing the tension on an elastic band. "Should be here soon."

"Need help with anything?"

You gesture at the perfectly organized equipment. "It's just busy work. Dad's paranoid about first impressions."

Namjoon nods like he understands the pressure of being the new guy. Which he probably does, considering he transferred here from Seoul and still looks slightly shell-shocked by Spanish bureaucracy.

"I'll be in the film room if you need anything," he says. "Marco's apparently having issues with his hip flexor and wants to review some footage."

Of course Marco has issues. Guy probably pulled something showing off for whatever Instagram model he's currently terrorizing.

Namjoon disappears, leaving you alone with the antiseptic smell and the growing certainty that helping your dad was a mistake.

You should be back at UEM, pretending to study while Sofia explains the philosophical implications of biochemical reactions.

Instead, you're here. Instead, you're in enemy territory. Organizing equipment for people who think Barcelona is a quaint regional hobby.

The door opens again.

"Thought I saw the physio's…" The voice trails off.

You know that voice. Heard it exactly one week ago, asking if you knew his name like that was supposed to matter.

You don't look up. Keep sorting through the massage oils like they require your complete attention.

"…Daughter," Taehyung finishes, giving the Coke Zero in his hand one last sip. "Interesting."

"Riveting," you say to the bottles of arnica gel. "There's a Nobel Prize in it somewhere."

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you've said something amusing instead of dismissive. Then, leaves the can on the furniture near the door.

You look up.

Grave mistake.

He's shirtless again because of course he is. Apparently shirts are optional in his world, a suggestion rather than a requirement. Fresh scratch marks across his back, angry red lines that tell a very obvious story about his weekend activities.

Classy.

"Something wrong with your scapula?" you ask, because that's why people come here—medical issues.

Not to parade around half-naked making small talk with staff daughters.

"How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess."

He moves closer, traces of whatever shampoo he uses lingering in the air. It reminds you of lemons… And something else that's probably pheromones or whatever evolutionary bullshit makes objectively terrible men attractive to people with functioning ovaries.

"Your dad around?"

"Running late." You cap the massage oil, set it back in its designated spot. "You can wait."

"Or you could take a look."

You blink. "I'm not a physiotherapist."

"You know what you're doing." He's already settling onto the massage table, lying face down like the decision's been made. "Study the same stuff as your dad, should be the same no?"

"It's really not."

"How?"

Because studying and actually doing the work with your own hands is essentially different.

Because med students are not doctors.

And physio students aren't either.

But explaining that to Kim Taehyung would mean talking to a toddler. And you have better things to do than waste breath on a manchild.

"Because."

"Compelling argument."

You could leave. Should leave. Let him wait for your dad like a normal person.

But maybe it's the way he's so entitled, and acts like so. Maybe it's the need to put him in his place—especially when you don't even know where yours is.

So, you wash your hands.

"Where's the pain?"

"Right side. Under the shoulder blade. Been bothering me since Saturday."

Saturday. When he was making headlines for all the wrong reasons. When those scratch marks were being carved into his back by whatever random woman decided he was worth the trouble.

You approach the table, professional, detached. Just like you've seen Dad do a hundred million times before.

You place your hands on his back, feeling for tension, knots, the specific kind of tightness that comes from overcompensation.

His skin is warm. Firm.

The scratch marks are raised under your fingers, evidence of Saturday night's adventures literally written across his shoulders.

"Here?" You press against the scapula, finding the knot immediately.

"Mmm." The sound is low, almost a purr. "Yeah, right there."

You ignore the way he says it. Focus on the muscle. The problem. The solution.

"Probably compensation," you say, working your thumbs in small circles. "You favor your right side when you tackle. Puts extra stress on the stabilizing muscles."

"Hmmm." Another noise, drawn out and definitely unnecessary. "That feels… really good."

Your hands pause. "Are you making those sounds on purpose?"

"What sounds?"

But he's grinning into the table. You can hear it in his voice.

"The porn sounds."

"I don't know what you mean."

You resume working, digging deeper into the knot. He needs to learn that his little games don't work on everyone.

"Ah," he breathes when you hit a particularly tight spot. "Oh, fuck, that's—"

"Can you not?"

"Not what?"

"Sound like you're getting jerked off."

He turns his head, looking at you over his shoulder with that smirk that probably gets him everything he wants.

"Is that what it sounds like?"

"It sounds like you're doing it on purpose."

"Maybe I am."

"Well, don't."

He simply glances at you, smirk plastered all over his face.

You work in silence for a few minutes, focusing on the actual muscle tension instead of the idiot attached to it. The knot's stubborn, layers of compensation built up over weeks of training and whatever he does in his spare time that leaves scratch marks.

"Your weekend activities aren't helping," you say, pressing harder than strictly necessary.

"Mmhm." Another deliberate sound. "My weekend activities are very… thorough."

"I mean the scratches. They're affecting your posture."

"Ah." Like you've just told him something profound instead of basic anatomy. "The scratches."

"Unless you're wrestling with cats, you might want to tell your… companions… to be more careful."

He laughs, and you feel it vibrate through his back under your hands.

"I'll pass along the feedback."

The muscle finally starts to give, tension releasing under sustained pressure. You move your hands to the surrounding area, checking for related knots, secondary compensation patterns.

"Oh," he breathes when you hit another tight spot. "Yeah, that's… mmm."

"Jesus Christ."

"What?"

"Do you have to narrate everything?"

"I'm appreciative." His voice is muffled by the table but you can still hear the amusement. "Sue me for having good manners."

"This isn't appreciation. This you auditioning for a porno."

"Can't it be both?"

You press your elbow into the knot. Hard.

He chokes on whatever smart-ass comment he was about to make.

"Better," you say flatly.

"Fuck, okay, point taken."

The thing about Taehyung is that he's predictable. He pushes until he finds resistance, then pushes harder to see what happens.

Classic spoiled rich boy behavior—no understanding of boundaries because no one's ever enforced any.

You've met his type before. Barcelona had them too, though they usually had the decency to pretend they weren't entitled assholes.

"Turn around."

He does, and now you're face to face with his chest. Which is. Well. It's a chest. Perfectly sculpted, golden skin, the kind of definition that suggests both excellent genetics and obsessive gym habits.

You've seen better.

(That's a lie, but you're committed to it.)

"The problem's in your back," you say, positioning your hands on his shoulders from the front. "You're compensating with your anterior muscles."

"My what now?"

"Front muscles. Keep up."

He grins at that, like you've just confirmed some theory he's been testing.

"So you're saying I've been working too hard?"

"I'm saying you've been working wrong."

Your hands find the tight spots along his clavicle, pressing into the muscle tissue with more force than strictly necessary.

Indeed, he makes another sound—something between a gasp and a moan—and you seriously consider just walking out.

"That's definitely gonna leave marks," he says, looking down at where your thumbs are digging into his skin.

"Good. Maybe you'll remember proper form."

"Oh, I'll remember this."

The way he says it makes your skin crawl.

Not because it's gross—which it is—but because it sounds like he genuinely means it.

Which is worse, somehow.

You finish the treatment in relative silence, mostly because you've perfected the art of selective hearing. He tries a few more times to get a reaction, but you're done giving attention to his stupidities.

"Ice it for twenty minutes when you get home," you say, stepping back and washing your hands again. "Anti-inflammatories if the pain persists."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

You're already moving toward the sink, washing your hands again because touching him feels like it requires immediate sanitization.

"Your dad teach you anything else?"

"How to bill insurance companies."

He laughs. Again. Like you're actually funny instead of just sarcastic.

"Useful skill."

You dry your hands, not letting him out of your periphery because it feels dangerous, somehow. He's sitting behind you on the table. Shirtless. Fixed.

Still there.

Can he leave?

"Was there something else?"

"Just curious."

"About what?"

"You."

You muster all the oxygen in the room one breath. Inhale deeply. Exhale slowly.

"There's nothing to be curious about."

"I doubt that."

You turn around. He's still sitting on the table, legs dangling like a kid at the doctor's office. Except kids don't usually look like they've been sculpted by people with advanced degrees in human anatomy.

"I'm the physio's daughter. That's it. That's the whole story."

"The physio's daughter who transfers from Barcelona and acts like Real Madrid personally wronged her family."

"I don't act like anything."

"You act like we killed your dog."

"You didn't kill my dog."

"But you hate us anyway."

The worst thing is—he doesn't ask it like a question, just states it like it's a fact. Like he knows more than you're letting on.

"I don't hate anyone."

"Liar."

He doesn't know you enough to accuse you like that, especially when it's imbued in such friendly tone, like he's commenting on your coffee order instead of calling out your entire emotional state.

"I don't know you well enough to hate you."

"But you know enough to disapprove."

"I disapprove of a lot of things."

"Such as?"

"People who think the world revolves around them."

He grins. "Guilty."

"People who can't take a hint."

"Also guilty."

"People who make everything about sex."

"Depends on your definition of everything."

You stare at him. He stares back, completely unashamed. Like this is normal conversation instead of him basically admitting to being exactly the kind of person you despise.

"You're unbelievable."

"Thanks."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I know."

He slides off, and it's always like this—moving like he's never doubted his welcome anywhere. Casually arrogant, lazily confident.

He's standing now, fingers tapping against the table in that absurd manner of people trying to look sexy.

Whether it works, you're not gonna comment.

But your dad's equipment suddenly feels very small, the space between you measured in inches instead of feet.

"I should go," he says, but doesn't move.

"Yes. You should."

He reaches for his shirt, hanging on a nearby chair. But instead of putting it on, he steps closer. Close enough that you can see the exact color of his eyes, the way his hair falls across his forehead, the small scar near his left eyebrow that probably has a story you don't want to know.

His hand moves, casual and way too quick, slipping into the pocket of your hoodie before you can react.

"Think I'll be borrowing one of these."

He pulls out a pikota, examining it like it's a rare artifact instead of candy you buy at any corner store.

"Those are mine."

"I know." He pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Sour. Interesting choice."

"Give it back."

"Can't. Already eaten."

"The rest of them."

"Finders keepers."

He's still standing too close, looking down at you with that smirk that suggests he knows exactly how inappropriate this is and doesn't care.

"Besides," he says, finally stepping back, "now I know what to call you."

"My name is—"

"Gominola."

Your brows knit in disbelief. There's just no way—no way—that Real Madrid's number two, Kim Taehyung, the arrogant prick standing in front of you, had the audacity to cut you off mid-name… only to nickname you Gominola.

"That's not my name."

"It is now."

He pulls on his shirt, covering the scratch marks and the evidence of whatever he does when he's not being a professional athlete.

"See you around, Gominola."

He's gone before you can respond—so you settle for cursing him inwardly, instead of outwardly.

But not quite gone.

Because the Coke Zero can is still sitting there on the counter like a monument to his casual disrespect for other people's spaces. Empty. Sweating condensation onto the pristine surface of your dad's equipment station.

Of course.

"Your trash," you call out, voice flat.

He pauses in the doorway, glances back at the can like he's seeing it for the first time.

"That's what you're here for, no?"

The audacity. The absolute fucking audacity.

"I'm not your maid."

"Hmmm… No?" He shrugs, casual as breathing. "Organizing equipment, cleaning up after people. Very maid-adjacent activities."

You stare at him. He stares back.

Neither of you moves.

Your eyebrow twitches—just once, a microscopic flicker of irritation that you can't quite suppress. It's involuntary. Reflexive. The kind of tell that gives away more than you'd like.

But he catches it. Of course he does.

"I like that," he says, leaning against the doorframe like he's settling in for a show. "That little frown you get. Right there." He gestures vaguely at your face. "Makes you look real cute when you're pissed off."

Cute.

He called you cute.

Like you're some pet that's learned a new trick. Like your irritation exists for his entertainment.

"Fascinating. I'll add that to the list of things I don't care about."

"Long list?"

"You'd be surprised."

He grins so bright, for a second you wonder if you just complimented his mother instead of basically telling him to fuck off.

"You know what? Keep the can." He straightens up, preparing to leave for real this time. "Consider it a memento."

"Of what?"

"Today. This conversation. The first time you touched me."

Your skin crawls inwards. Because the way he says it? It's not only sexual—though it definitely is—but it also sounds like he's already planning the sequel.

"It was a medical procedure."

"If you say so, Gomi."

And then he's actually gone, leaving you alone with his trash, his stupid nickname, and the lingering scent of lemons that somehow makes the entire room feel smaller.

You grab the can. Toss it in the bin with more force than strictly necessary.

The metal clangs against the sides, echoing in the silence.

Your eyebrow's still twitching.

Cute. Right.

You make a mental note to practice better facial control.

The last thing you need is Kim Taehyung thinking he has any effect on you whatsoever.

The thing about expensive universities is that they love attaching corporate logos to everything.

Like slapping a Nike swoosh on your degree somehow makes the crushing student debt more palatable. Or maybe it's the other way around—Nike gets to pretend they care about education while really just hunting for the next generation of athletes to exploit.

Either way, you're sitting in a lecture hall that's way too big listening to Professor García explain why this is such an 'incredible opportunity.'

"Nike has graciously agreed to sponsor a networking event for our Sports Science students," he says, gesturing at a PowerPoint slide that's probably older than some of the freshman. "This is exactly the kind of industry connection that makes UEM graduates so sought after."

You chew a pikota. Slowly. Let the sour-sweet dissolve on your tongue while Sofia scribbles notes like this is information worth remembering.

Corporate networking events.

Your favorite.

Right up there with root canals and Real Madrid training sessions.

"The event will be held next Friday at seven PM," he continues, clicking to the next slide. "Cocktail attire. Representatives from Nike's European division will be there, along with several prominent figures from Madrid's sports community."

Sofia elbows you. "This could be huge for internships."

"Thrilling," you say, not looking up from your notebook where you're not taking notes. Just doodling. Tiny ferrets stealing socks from faceless businessmen in suits.

"I'm serious. Nike sponsors half the football world. Imagine the connections."

The problem with Sofia is that she still believes in the system. Still thinks that networking and handshakes and business cards will somehow lead to meaningful careers instead of just more meetings with people who think they're important.

You've seen the system. Lived adjacent to it your entire life.

It's mostly bullshit wrapped in expensive suits.

"Plus," Sofia adds, leaning closer, "it's not like you have anything else going on Friday night."

What you hate about Sofia is that she is, often, not wrong.

And this time, she isn't either.

Your social calendar consists of studying, texting Jungkook, and watching your ferrets commit small crimes against your furniture.

Hardly the stuff of legends.

"Representatives from Madrid's sports community," you repeat, finally looking up. "That's vague."

"Probably Real Madrid players," says the guy sitting in front of you. Miguel something. Rich kid with a trust fund and opinions about everything. "My dad knows someone at Nike. Says they've got some big partnership thing happening."

Of course they do.

Because apparently there's no corner of your life that Real Madrid can't invade.

Not university. Not home. Not even corporate networking events that should theoretically have nothing to do with football.

"You okay?" Sofia asks, probably noticing the way your jaw's gone tight.

"Fine."

But you're not fine. You're calculating the odds that you can skip this thing without Professor García noticing. Or caring.

Except that would mean explaining to Sofia why you're suddenly allergic to networking events. Which would mean explaining about the move from Barcelona. Which would mean explaining things you don't have words for yet.

So instead you nod. Smile. Pretend like the thought of spending an evening making small talk with Real Madrid players doesn't make you want to crawl under your desk and stay there.

"Great," García says, apparently wrapping up his sales pitch. "I'll email you the details. Remember, this is optional but highly recommended. Nike doesn't offer these opportunities often."

The lecture moves on to muscle fiber types and you try to focus. Really. But your brain keeps drifting back to Friday night.

To cocktail attire and corporate representatives and the growing certainty that your life in Madrid is about to get exponentially more complicated.

Sofia's still taking notes. Dutiful, organized, probably already planning her outfit.

You draw another ferret. This one's stealing a Nike swoosh.

Seems appropriate.

Home feels different now that your dad’s working for Real Madrid.

Not worse, exactly; just… Heavier. Like the walls are holding their breath, waiting for something to go wrong.

You can hear him in the kitchen, moving around with the kind of agitation that means he’s either cooking something complicated or thinking through a problem. 

You have lived with him enough to know it’s usually both.

"¿Qué tal la universidad?" (How was university?) your dad calls out when he hears you drop your bag by the door.

"Educativa," (Educational) you say, which is technically true.

You did learn that Nike has tentacles that reach into every corner of Spanish academic life.

"Bien. Ven aquí un momento." (Good. Come here for a minute.)

The kitchen smells like garlic and something that might be steaks if your dad’s feeling ambitious. He’s standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan that’s definitely too big for two people.

Force of habit. 

He’s been cooking for crowds since your mom died, like muscle memory doesn’t understand that the crowd is gone.

"Tenemos que hablar sobre el viernes," (We need to talk about Friday) he says without looking up.

Friday. The Nike thing. Of course he knows about it. Probably got an email from someone at the university, or maybe Nike reached out directly. Corporate synergy and all that.

"Ya sé lo del evento de networking," (I already know about the networking event) you say, leaning against the counter. "El profesor García hizo el gran anuncio hoy." (Professor Garcia made the big announcement today.)

"No es eso—" (That's not—) He stops stirring what you now recognize as the veggies side dish. Looks at you. "¿Qué evento de networking?" (What networking event?)

Oh.

Oh, this is worse.

"Nike está patrocinando algo en la UEM. Viernes por la noche. Estudiantes de ciencias del deporte." (Nike's sponsoring something at UEM. Friday night. Sports science students.) You watch his expression change from confusion to something that looks suspiciously like resignation. "¿Por qué?" (Why?)

He sets down the wooden spoon. Runs a hand through his hair in that way that means he’s about to deliver news you won’t like.

"El Real Madrid tiene una cena programada con representantes de Nike. Viernes por la noche a las nueve, pero tenemos que estar allí a las siete y media." (Real Madrid has a dinner scheduled with Nike representatives. Friday night at nine, but we have to be there by seven-thirty.) He pauses. "Las familias del personal están invitadas." (Staff families are invited.)

The pieces click together immediately.

You want to throw something.

"Es el mismo evento." (It's the same event.)

"Eso parece." (Appears so.)

"Así que las 'figuras prominentes de la comunidad deportiva madrileña' son—" (So the 'prominent figures from Madrid's sports community' are—)

"El equipo. Sí." (The team. Yes.)

You stare at him. He stares back, apologetic but not apologetic enough to fix this.

"No puedo ir," (I can't go) you say finally.

"Sí, puedes." (Yes, you can.)

"No iré." (I won't go.)

"Sí, irás." (Yes, you will.)

It’s not a conversation. It’s a statement of fact, delivered in the tone he uses when discussing treatment plans with stubborn patients. 

Final and absolutely non-negotiable.

"Papá—" (Dad—)

"Esto es importante." (This is important.) He turns back to the stove, but his shoulders are tense. "Mi puesto aquí sigue siendo nuevo. Aún me están evaluando. Estos eventos importan." (My position here is still new. Still being evaluated. These events matter.)

Right. 

Because everything comes back to that—his job, his reputation, the delicate political balance of being the former Barcelona physiotherapist who now works for Real Madrid.

You’re not just his daughter at these things. You’re evidence. Proof that the transition is working, that the family has successfully integrated into Madrid’s football culture.

No pressure.

"¿Cuántos jugadores?" (How many players?) you ask, because you need to know the scope of the disaster you're walking into.

"La mayoría del primer equipo. Entrenadores. Algunos miembros de la junta." (Most of the first team. Coaches. Some board members.) He glances at you. "Es un gran evento para Nike. Anuncio de nueva asociación." (It's a big deal for Nike. New partnership announcement.)

"¿Y tengo que estar allí porque...?" (And I have to be there because...?)

"Porque eres parte de esta familia. Y esta familia se apoya mutuamente." (Because you're part of this family. And this family supports each other.)

The guilt trip is subtle but effective. Because he’s right. You are part of this family. 

The only family either of you has left.

And if supporting him means suffering through dinner with Real Madrid players while maintaining the fiction that you’re happy to be there, then that’s what you’ll do.

Even if it kills you.

Even if one of those players is as arrogant as Kim Taehyung.

"Vale," (Fine) you say. "Pero no voy a fingir ser fan del Madrid." (But I'm not pretending to be a Madrid fan.)

"No te estoy pidiendo que lo hagas." (I'm not asking you to.)

"Y no voy a hacer conversación sobre lo genial que es el equipo." (And I'm not making small talk about how great the team is.)

"Entendido." (Understood.)

"Y si alguien pregunta sobre el Barcelona—" (And if anyone asks about Barcelona—)

"Les dices la verdad. Que lo echas de menos pero te estás adaptando." (You tell them the truth. That you miss it but you're adjusting.) He turns off the heat, faces you completely. "Esto no tiene que ser una tortura. Solo... sé tú misma. Sé educada." (This doesn't have to be torture. Just... be yourself. Be polite.)

Be yourself. Right.

Because your ‘self’ is exactly who you want to be around a table full of people who represent everything you’ve been raised to view with suspicion.

Everyone keeps saying that like it’s simple advice instead of the most complicated thing in the world.

Your ‘self’ is a Barcelona girl in Madrid territory. A physio’s daughter who knows too much about football politics and not enough about corporate networking. Someone who misses her mom and protects her dad and has strong opinions about ferret care.

None of which feels particularly useful for surviving dinner with Real Madrid.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe being yourself is exactly what will get you through this.

Even if ‘yourself’ includes the part that finds Kim Taehyung insufferable.

Especially that part.

"¿Qué me pongo?" (What should I wear?) you ask, because if you're doing this, you might as well do it right.

"Algo bonito, elegante." (Something nice, elegant.) He pauses. "Tu madre tenía un vestido negro. Aún está en el armario de arriba." (Your mother had a black dress. Still in the closet upstairs.)

The mention of Mom never stops the dull ache from forming and stirring in your chest. 

Like lillies in full bloom. 

"Ya me las arreglaré," (I'll figure something out) you say, because the thought of wearing her clothes to a Real Madrid event feels like blasphemy.

He nods. Goes back to stirring.

You grab a pikota from the jar on the counter, unwrap it, let the sourness ground you while you process the fact that your Friday night just became infinitely more complicated.

"¿Al menos me dirás quién va a estar allí?" (Will you at least tell me who's going to be there?) you ask. "Para poder prepararme para el sabor específico de pesadilla que va a ser esto." (So I can prepare for the specific flavor of nightmare this is going to be?)

He rattles off names. Players you recognize from sports coverage and social media. Coaches you’ve seen on the sidelines. Board members you don’t know and don’t care about.

“Taehyung?” you ask when he doesn’t mention him specifically.

"Probablemente. ¿Por qué?" (Probably. Why?)

Because he called you Gominola and stole your candy and made sounds during a medical procedure like he was auditioning for porn. 

Because he thinks you’re cute when you’re angry and left his trash for you to clean up.

Because something about him makes you want to claw his eyes off and you’re not sure you’ll hold yourself back if you have to be in his space for three hours. 

"Solo preguntaba," (Just wondering) you say.

Your dad gives you a glance that’s accompanied by a small frown, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead…

"Estará bien," (It'll be fine) he says, turning back to the meal. "Unas pocas horas. Buena comida. Luego se acabó." (A few hours. Good food. Then it's over.)

Right. A few hours.

In a room full of Real Madrid players.

Including Taehyung.

Who will probably find new and creative ways to be insufferable while you try to maintain your dignity and support your father’s career.

What could go wrong?

You eat another pikota. This one tastes like impending doom.

"Voy a estudiar," (I'm going to study) you announce, pushing off from the counter.

"La cena está en una hora." (Dinner's in an hour.)

"Bajaré." (I'll be down.)

You head upstairs, leaving him with his meat and his optimism.

Up there, the room feels smaller than usual, like the walls are closing in with the weight of Friday night’s obligations.

Just as if your room represents exactly how you’re feeling.

Hari and Nube are there, watching you from their cage, probably sensing your mood through whatever weird telepathic connection you’ve developed with them.

“Esto es una mierda,” (This is shit) you tell them.

Nube chitches in what sounds like agreement. Hari just steals another sock.

Smart ferret. Some problems are best solved through theft and chaos.

You flop onto your bed, staring at the ceiling while your brain runs through worst-case scenarios.

Taehyung will be there. Obviously. Because the universe has a sense of humor and no mercy.

He’ll probably make more inappropriate comments about your appearance or your attitude or your apparent cuteness when angry. He’ll probably find new ways to invade your personal space while maintaining plausible deniability. He’ll definitely do that thing where he acts like everything is a game and everything is fair and square. 

Everything is his prize if he so much wishes for it to be.

And you’ll have to sit there. Smile. Be polite.

Support your father’s career while maintaining your sanity.

Should be simple.

Should be.

Your phone buzzes. Not Jungkook this time—something different. A WhatsApp notification for a group you don’t recognize.

𝐍𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐃𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 - 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐝

47 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑝．

You stare at the screen. Scroll through the participant list. Every name you recognize from training sessions, plus dozens you don’t. Players, coaches, staff, board members. The entire Real Madrid ecosystem crammed into one group chat.

And somewhere in that list—Kim Taehyung.

Of course.

"¡Papá!" (Dad!) you call downstairs.

"¿Sí?" (Yeah?)

"¿Por qué estoy en un grupo de WhatsApp con toda la organización del Real Madrid?" (Why am I in a WhatsApp group with the entire Real Madrid organization?)

Pause. The sound of a wooden spoon being set down.

"Cena de Nike el viernes," (Nike dinner Friday) he says, like this explains everything. "Todos los asistentes necesitan estar al tanto. Vienes, así que estás en el chat." (Everyone attending needs to be in the loop. You're coming, so you're in the chat.)

Right. Because your life wasn’t complicated enough.

You scroll through the chat history. Pure chaos. Forty-seven people trying to coordinate one dinner, and it’s exactly as much of a disaster as you’d expect.

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝟽:𝟹𝟶

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙽𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙲𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚛…?

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚕

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙵𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢.

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊?

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚗𝚘

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚛𝚜  

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊, 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚘?

The typing dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚘 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚘?

Your stomach drops. There it is. The question that’s not really a question.

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 👍

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚘?

You stare at that message. Blink in silence like that’ll somehow transcribe your response into existence.

God, why are they all annoying? 

The typing dots appear under your name. Everyone can see them. Forty-six people watching you not respond.

You delete whatever you were going to type.

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚜𝚘 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎?

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚈𝙴𝚂 𝙻𝙴𝙾

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊’𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 💀💀💀

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙴𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷

The chat goes quiet for exactly thirty seconds. Then:

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎?

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 𝟷𝟿:𝟷𝟻.

Your dad appears in the doorway, probably wondering why you’ve gone quiet.

"¿Todo bien?" (Everything okay?)

"Solo leyendo el chat grupal." (Just reading the group chat.) You hold up your phone. "Es como ver un documental sobre machos alfa en su hábitat natural." (It's like watching a nature documentary about alpha males in their natural habitat.)

"¿Tan malo?" (That bad?)

"Marco acaba de decirle a Leo que su novia va a dejarlo durante los aperitivos." (Marco just told Leo his girlfriend's going to dump him during appetizers.)

He winces. "Marco es... directo." (Marco's... direct.)

"Marco es un sociópata." (Marco's a sociopath.)

"Es joven." (He's young.)

Young. Everyone keeps using that word like it explains away basic human decency.

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙾𝚔 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐

The responses flood in. Names, plus-ones, family members. A parade of people who belong in this world, who wear cocktail attire to corporate dinners without feeling like they’re playing dress-up.

You watch the numbers climb. Forty-seven becomes sixty-two becomes seventy-eight.

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚃𝚊𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎?

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚏𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚘

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚖𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝? 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙺𝙴𝙴𝙿 𝙸𝚃 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙵𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕

The lie is so obvious it’s almost insulting. You’ve seen the headlines, the Instagram stories, the lipstick marks that make sports blogs. 

Taehyung’s focus is definitely not on football.

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 - 𝙻𝚎𝚘 + 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝙵 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙻𝚎𝚘

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚘 𝙸’𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: ✅ - 𝚇𝚊𝚟𝚒 + 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚊

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝙳𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚘 + 𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚊

The list grows. Couples, families, people who fit together like puzzle pieces in this Madrid ecosystem.

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 - 𝙹𝚎𝚜𝚞́𝚜 + 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛.

There it is. Your attendance, reduced to a line item in someone else’s confirmation.

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 ❤️

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟽𝟾 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚁𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚜’ 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚋𝚘𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚘 👎

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚘’𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠  

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚒 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛

𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐞𝐥: 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍

𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚛. 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙱𝙾𝚃𝙷 𝙾𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝚃𝙾𝙿

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚅𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝 𝟷𝟾:𝟺𝟻

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐢́𝐚𝐬: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙻𝚈

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚊𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚊𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚌

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙰𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 not

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘?

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚝𝚜

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙾

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍

𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞: 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 𝐕: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙽𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛.

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚛?

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙻𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚖

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐’𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚞𝚗

𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐞𝐥: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞́: 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜

𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚́𝐬: 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚝 

𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚́𝐬: 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸’𝚖 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐚́𝐬: 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎

𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞: 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨���𝐜𝐡): 𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 ��𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚢?

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐏𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐨: 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚘?

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚗𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐢́𝐚𝐬: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝚜𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚂𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚍𝚘 𝙸 𝚝𝚒𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢 

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐???

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊

𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙾𝚔 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚙

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜:

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝟷𝟾:𝟺𝟻 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙲𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚢

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙸’𝚖 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢.

"Cena en diez minutos," (Dinner in ten) your dad says.

"Sí. Ya voy." (Yeah. Coming.)

You’re about to pocket your phone when one more message appears.

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝

Three words. Could mean anything. Could mean nothing.

But they feel like both a warning and an oath.

You’re not sure which would be worse.

The pikotas in your pocket suddenly feel insufficient armor for whatever Friday night’s going to bring.

Seventy-eight people. One dinner. Two many Real Madrid pricks whose entire personality orbits around their egos.

What could go wrong?

Your dad calls up the stairs. Dinner’s ready.

You pocket your phone, take one last look at the ferrets.

“Deseadme suerte,” (Wish me luck) you tell them.

Nube chitches. Hari steals another sock.

Some things never change—even when everything else does.

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[wholoveseggs]

Remnants {Part Two}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Part Two

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!reader} Elijah let you go and is trying to move on. But when you look at him like a stranger… he knows something is terribly wrong.

5k words - Warnings: no smut, memory loss (rude), violence, compulsion, Elijah pining at Olympic levels, a classic elijah & klaus brawl, awkward dinner reunions && a suspicious gift...

The fire had long since burned down to embers, casting a soft orange glow over Elijah’s study. The only sound was the faint clink of glass as he poured himself another inch of bourbon. He didn’t drink it.

The envelope was already on his desk, pale gray and unmarked.  Just like the others.

He stared at it for a long moment, then slid a finger under the flap and opened it with the precision of someone defusing a bomb.

A single photograph slid out. It was of him, through a window, kissing you, your eyes closed, his fingers in your hair, a soft, private smile on his lips.

He turned the photo over, the words scrawled in dark red ink mocking him: Every heart but mine is temporary.

Elijah stared at the picture for a long moment, then tossed back the contents of his glass, the liquor burning his throat. The clock chimed in the hall. He closed his eyes, breathing deep, trying to clear his head.

Two months. Two months since you left. Two months without you. Two months of knowing that he had done the right thing.

And yet, he was here. Alone.

Whoever was sending these photos was escalating, watching him from the shadows. Waiting for an opportunity to strike, but also... taunting him.

Under different circumstances, he could admire the slow, deliberate torture. He was no stranger to this sort of game, but this was the first time he wasn't the one calling the shots.

It wasn't just letters, but strange gifts. A single wilted rose. A dead pigeon. A piece of fabric covered in pig’s blood.

He hadn't been sleeping, and barely eating. He missed you, more than he had ever imagined possible. More than that, he was worried about you. You had grown reckless and wild, partying with your new group of friends nearly every night.

But he supposed everyone grieves differently. And if this was the way you wanted to cope with his absence, then he had to accept that.

A sharp knock at the door pulled Elijah from his thoughts. He turned as Klaus strolled in, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Evening, brother," Klaus greeted, smirking lightly. "Still playing the city’s most eligible bachelor, I see."

"What do you want, Niklaus?"

Klaus leaned against the edge of Elijah's desk, eyeing him appraisingly.

"More letters?" he asked, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've always had a special way with the ladies, brother. Especially the crazy ones."

Elijah hummed in agreement, though the words were like a knife to the gut. "I’ve also begun to suspect our stalker is a woman."

"Do you think Y/N is involved?"

Elijah scoffed. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. And she's safe, that's all that matters," Elijah said, trying to ignore the twinge in his chest at the mention of you.

"Hmm," Klaus replied, picking up the photograph from the desk. "And how is that working out for you, Elijah? Tell me, are you happier now?"

"Why do you care?"

Klaus's expression didn't change. "I'll send some of Marcel’s men to look after her. You know, just in case."

"There's no need. I will handle watching her myself."

"Do you think that's a wise decision, considering the state of mind you're currently in?"

"If the situation changes, I'll inform you. Thank you for stopping by, but as you can see, I have a great deal of work to do."

Klaus glanced down at the empty glass and bottle of bourbon. He picked the latter up, inspecting the label. "Right. Best be getting back to that then."

Elijah took the bottle out of Klaus's hand and set it back down. "I'll call if I need you."

"Will you?"

Klaus held his gaze for a moment. Elijah was surprised to find no trace of mockery or judgment. If anything, there was a glimmer of something almost like sympathy in his younger brother's eyes. Or perhaps it was guilt. Elijah didn't like the look of it either way.

"Goodnight, Niklaus."

"Goodnight, Elijah."

Elijah watched his brother leave, closing the door quietly behind him. He turned his attention back to the photographs scattered on the desk, and the cold, hollow ache in his chest.

His fingers lingered on the edge of the newest photo, tracing the curve of your face.

He should burn them all.

But he didn’t.

The restaurant buzzed with Friday night energy. Clinking glasses, candlelight flickering against exposed brick, the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table. Your group had claimed the best corner in the place, half-empty wine bottles and shared plates spread across the table like a still-life painting.

Tasha was retelling a tinder horror story from last weekend. Something about a man who used a sword collection as an icebreaker...when Liv suddenly went still.

"Okay, wait," she said, leaning forward and gripping your wrist. "Do not look right away, but there is an absolute god who just walked in."

Adam gasped. "Where? Who?"

Liv smirked. "Dark suit. Hair like a villain in a Regency drama. Ten o’clock. You’re welcome."

You turned, wine glass halfway to your mouth.

And froze.

He stood just inside the door, speaking to the host. Sleek in a perfectly tailored suit, posture effortless but composed. There was something about him that drew the eye. Not loud. Not showy. Just... inevitable.

You didn’t know why your breath caught.

But it did. 

He hadn’t noticed you yet. But you felt the moment he did, like a jolt of electricity under your skin.

"Oh," you said, blinking. "I actually know him."

That got everyone’s attention.

"You what?" Liv asked, sitting up straighter.

"Yeah," you said, setting your glass down. "That’s Elijah. He’s, like… an old acquaintance."

"Acquaintance?" Adam echoed. "Girl, he looks like he invented the concept of brooding. Where’d you meet him?"

You paused. The question hit oddly.

"I-I don’t remember, actually," you admitted with a small, confused laugh. "We’ve just sort of… crossed paths a few times, I guess. I'm friends with his younger brothers."

You didn’t notice the stillness that passed over him when you said it. Didn’t see the subtle way his fingers curled into a fist at his side.

Across the table, Liv watched you closely. But her voice stayed playful. "Well, I would certainly cross his path any day of the week."

"Liv!" Adam laughed, nearly choking on his drink.

She grinned wickedly.

Tasha nudged your arm. "You should go say hi. Invite him over!"

Your mouth went dry. "I don't know..."

"Oh my god I think he's coming over," Mike hissed, nudging you hard. "Act casual!"

"You're the opposite of subtle," Liv shot back.

You turned around. And saw him walking toward you. You straightened instinctively, adjusting your features into something polite. Light. Casual.

"Elijah," you said, when he reached the table. "Hi."

He smiled politely in return, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Hello, Y/N. It's been a while."

"It has," you said, searching his face. "How've you been?"

His gaze flicked to the rest of your group, watching eagerly. "Fine," he answered, returning his attention to you. "And you? How have things been going?"

"I've been great," you told him, smiling wide. "Just living life, you know?"

"I can see that," Elijah said, voice soft but unreadable.

The silence that followed was immediate and heavy. Your friends shifted in their seats, glancing between the two of you like they’d walked into the middle of a conversation they weren’t supposed to hear.

You cleared your throat and gestured to the table. "These are my friends- Tasha, Adam, Mike… and Liv."

"We were just saying how handsome you are," Tasha blurted, then immediately covered her face. "Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that out loud."

"Are you single? Cause we could totally set you up," Mike offered.

"Mike, stop!" Adam hissed. "Sorry about him."

"Do you like men? Women? Both?" Liv asked.

Elijah shifted slightly, a small, awkward smile on his face. You didn't know him well, but enough to tell he was deeply uncomfortable.

"Uh," he started, clearly not wanting to answer the questions. "I'm afraid I must decline. I'm... otherwise involved."

You tilted your head. "Oh. I didn’t realize."

Something flickered in his eyes. Gone before you could place it.

"Come sit with us!" Adam invited, shuffling down the booth to make room. "Please. We insist."

"I'm not sure-"

"We can't have you sitting alone on a Friday night," Mike said. "Especially not with a face like that. Come on, take a seat. Have a drink with us."

"Come on," Tasha urged. "Just stay for one drink. Or at least dessert. We’re fun, I swear."

Elijah glanced at you. "Perhaps another time. I wouldn't want to intrude."

"Oh my god, you would be the opposite of intruding," Mike said, nearly knocking over a glass in his excitement. "We’re actually all going to a party tonight after this. You should come."

Tasha leaned in. "Do you have any friends as genetically blessed as you? Bring them."

You laughed. "His little brothers love a good party… They’re… quite chaotic,"

"So?" Adam pressed. "You in?"

Elijah hesitated. His eyes lingered on your face. "If you’ll be there," he said, voice gentle, "then yes. I’d like that."

You blinked, surprised at how serious he sounded. "I… yeah. I’ll be there."

He offered a slight nod to the group. "Then I suppose I’ll see you all later tonight."

And with that, he stepped back, gave you one last long look, and slipped out into the night.

As soon as the door swung shut behind him, your table erupted.

"Holy shit," Adam hissed. "That man is obsessed with you."

"Seriously," Tasha agreed. "Did you see his face when said you would be there? And how he kept staring at you? You have to tell us everything. All of it. Start from the beginning. Right now. No lies. You two definitely hooked up before. Spill. Everything. Now."

You stared at them, trying to figure out what they meant. "Guys, stop. We're just old friends. I'm actually closer with his younger brothers..."

They didn't seem convinced.

"Yeah, okay," Mike drawled. "Whatever you say, girl."

"What's wrong?" Liv asked. "Why aren't you excited? He is literally the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Did something bad happen between you?"

"I-I don't know," you said, suddenly feeling lost. You searched your memory for a reason, an explanation. "I think he's just a bit.. closed off. Distant."

Liv scoffed. "Not tonight he wasn't. Did you see the way he was looking at you?"

"Like he wanted to eat her," Tasha giggled.

"If you don't jump his bones tonight, I will," Liv declared, and Adam laughed.

"Don't encourage her," Mike sighed, rolling his eyes at Adam.

You forced a laugh and picked up your wine glass, pretending you couldn’t feel the weight of Liv’s gaze.

Around you, the group kept teasing, spinning stories, nudging you to tell your secrets.

But your chest felt hollow.

Like something had been scooped out of you.

And you had no idea what it was.

"NIKLAUS."

Elijah’s voice echoed through the compound, bouncing off the stone walls. He appeared in the doorway, shoulders squared, jaw set, and fury carved into every line of his face.

"Yes, brother?" Klaus called, not bothering to hide his amusement. He lounged in one of the armchairs with a glass of blood in hand, swirling the liquid lazily.

Elijah stormed into the courtyard. "What did you do to her?"

Klaus arched a brow. "You’ll have to narrow that down. I’ve done quite a lot of things to quite a lot of people."

Elijah didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. "I went to check in on Y/N and she seemed… different. Cold."

"Well, that tends to happen when you break someone's heart, doesn't it?" Klaus mused, sipping from his glass.

"She has no recollection of me," Elijah snapped, anger rising. "She introduced me as an acquaintance, Klaus. An acquaintance."

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Klaus’s eyes glinted, "to have someone you love look at you like a stranger?"

"That's enough, Niklaus," Elijah said, tone low and dangerous.

Klaus ignored the warning. "But I really don't see what that has to do with me."

"You’ve been watching her," Elijah snapped. "Circling her life. Offering to protect her. Playing the concerned brother when you rarely bother with anyone who isn’t part of your game."

Klaus tilted his head, still calm. "She's your ex. Your very tragic, very human ex. History says that's when things start to get… messy."

Elijah stepped closer, eyes dark. "She looked through me. Like none of it happened. Like we were strangers. So tell me. What did you do?"

Klaus hummed thoughtfully. "She did ask me to, if I recall. Begged, in fact. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it."

"What?" Elijah's voice softened, gutted. The fury was still there, but beneath it, something fractured.

"You can't really blame her, can you?" Klaus countered, rising to his feet. He looked Elijah in the eye, tone deceptively calm. "After all, the love of her life dumped her out of fear. What else could she do but run away and try to forget?"

"I did it for her," Elijah whispered, his voice breaking at the edges. "To protect her. To keep her safe."

"I know, brother. You're the hero, right? She's the damsel in distress."

"Stop."

"The tragic maiden. The princess who needs saving... and you are what? The beast who loves her from afar?"

Elijah surged forward, hands fisting the front of Klaus's shirt, and threw him across the courtyard with supernatural force.

"ENOUGH!" he roared, voice raw and cracking with emotion.

Klaus landed hard, laughing breathlessly as he wiped blood from his mouth. "It's always so much fun when you're madly in love, isn't it, Elijah?"

"You are a child," Elijah snarled. "A spoiled, self-centered, jealous child."

"I didn't compel her," Klaus snapped back, standing. "We both know that's more your style… Although I would say it would be fair, considering what you did to Aurora all those years ago…"

Elijah’s jaw clenched. One heartbeat later, he was across the space, hand at Klaus’s throat, lifting him clean off the ground.

Klaus's smirk faltered. Just a fraction. Just enough to show he’d gone too far.

"Seriously," he rasped, struggling against Elijah's grip. "I didn’t compel her."

Elijah didn’t let go. His voice dropped to a near-growl. "Someone did."

"Am I interrupting something deliciously violent?" Kol drawled, stepping through the gate with a brown paper package in his hand.

Elijah didn’t turn. Just tightened his grip.

Kol whistled. "Alright then." He dropped the package onto a nearby table with a casual flick of his wrist. "Found this nailed to the front gate. Thought it might be another love letter."

Elijah finally dropped Klaus, who stumbled back, glaring, watching as Elijah crossed the room to the table without a word.

"It seems you already have another lady lined up," Klaus muttered, fixing his collar. "Why mourn Y/N when your mystery suitor clearly puts in the effort?"

Elijah shot him a look, then turned back to the package, studying it.

"Do you smell it?" Kol asked, nodding to the brown paper. 

"Blood," Elijah confirmed, his brows knitting together. "Human."

Klaus joined them, curious despite himself.

Elijah tore open the package and pulled out a large wooden box. It was beautifully crafted, the wood intricately carved and polished. A piece of parchment was tied around the front with a red ribbon.

'I'll send you hers next'

The words were written in blood. Elijah felt his stomach drop, his throat closing. He slowly opened the box.

There, wrapped in a white linen cloth, was a human heart, with little bows and flowers tucked in and around arteries and veins. Like some sort of twisted bouquet.

"Well," Klaus said, his expression unreadable. "This is a first."

Elijah was strangely quiet, studying the macabre offering intently. "She's escalating."

"Clearly," Klaus snorted. "Whoever she is, she's not subtle."

Elijah looked up. "Y/N is in danger."

"Oh, I would say so, yes," Klaus said dryly.

"I think this is the most effort I've ever seen a girl put into courting you, Elijah," Kol mused, picking up the heart. "I guess she doesn't know how easy you are,"

"Y/N is attending a party tonight. Her friends invited me. I should go keep an eye on her," Elijah said, turning and heading for the stairs.

Then Kol clapped his hands. "Excellent. I do love a social event with a high probability of bloodshed."

"You're not going with me, Kol," Elijah warned.

"Of course not," he scoffed, smirking. "I'm going to follow you and make sure it's a party worth attending."

"Kol," Elijah sighed.

"Nik?" Kol asked, turning to his other brother.

Klaus smirked. "I suppose I'll have to come as well. Someone has to keep an eye on Kol, and you'll be too busy wooing Y/N to watch his back."

Elijah shot his brothers a dark glare. "No. This is a personal matter. Stay out of it."

"Oh, please," Kol groaned. "This is the most exciting thing to happen in months. If this lunatic is going after Y/N, I'll have to protect her. We all know I'm her favorite."

Elijah turned and began to stalk toward the stairs. "Fine," he bit out, barely able to contain his frustration. "Come if you must, but stay out of my way. Both of you."

The music thumped beneath your feet, bass vibrating through the soles of your shoes. The rooftop bar was packed, all glittering dresses and lazy smiles and summer heat clinging to bare shoulders. You leaned against the railing with your drink, laughing as Mike reenacted a particularly interesting encounter.

"He insisted that I was his soulmate," he said, gesturing emphatically. "He even sent me a song he wrote about us! And it was terrible."

"How'd you respond?" Tasha asked, sipping her cocktail.

"I sent him a nude," he shrugged. "I just kind of panicked...I didn't know how else to react."

The group laughed. But you were distracted, your eyes drifting, searching the crowd for something. Then Liv caught your gaze, and you quickly looked away.

"What about you?" She asked. "Any crazy dates?"

You paused. And frowned. You were sure you had a few stories, but for some reason you couldn't think of them.

"Nothing recent," you admitted. "I think the last good one was...um..."

You trailed off, thinking. But it was like reaching for a cloud. Just out of reach.

Tasha frowned. "Is everything okay?"

You nodded. "Yeah. I think the heat's getting to me."

Liv watched you closely. "What about that Elijah guy? What was your story there?"

"He's just the brother of my friends," you told her, the words feeling odd in your mouth.

"Is he coming tonight? Bringing his brothers?" Mike pressed. "Please say yes. I want to see if they are just as hot."

"I haven't heard back from him," you said, checking your phone. But you realized you didn't have his number... But you swore you did. You remembered calling him, hearing his voice on the other end. But what did you talk about?

Liv hummed thoughtfully. "Do you have feelings for him?"

You blinked, startled by the question.

"Of course not," you said, trying to laugh it off.

But it didn't sound right. It sounded forced.

"Oh my god, you do!" Adam said, pointing. "You're totally in love with him. That's why you've been acting weird."

You shook your head. "No, guys, seriously. I.. I barely know him."

Adam raised an eyebrow. "So why are you blushing?"

You were?

"Guys, stop," Mike said. "She's embarrassed."

Liv smiled, sipping her drink. "Well, if you don't want him, maybe I'll go after him."

Your stomach clenched. You looked up so fast your neck twinged, but she wasn’t even looking at you. Just texting like she hadn’t said anything at all.

"Maybe you should," you managed, voice tight.

Liv hummed, her gaze flickering to yours. "Maybe I will."

The buzz of the crowd faded, just a little. Like someone had turned the volume down on the night. You looked away, downing your drink and setting it on a nearby table.

"I need a refill," you said, excusing yourself. "Anyone else?"

You stepped inside, the hum of music and laughter muffled by the thick rooftop doors. For a moment, you just stood there, eyes on the floor, breath coming in shallow waves. You weren’t sure why it had felt like a fight. But something about it had.

"I'm losing it," you muttered, pressing a hand to your face.

You barely knew Elijah, had barely given him a second thought before seeing him at dinner. You didn't know why your friends were getting into your head. You were overreacting. Sure he was nice to look at, but love? You knew nothing about him. 

Other than his favorite record and that he always smelled like pine and cinnamon and fresh laundry. Or the way he could make you laugh just by arching an eyebrow or the way he said your name.

You froze, your brain catching up. How... Did you know that?

You rubbed your eyes. Your head hurt. You were confused. And your thoughts were suddenly jumbled. Like they were in a different language.

You reached the bar and ordered another drink. You had just gotten your glass when you felt a cool breeze brush over the back of your neck.

You turned. And found him.

Elijah.

Standing right behind you.

He watched you with those dark, intense eyes, and you couldn't help but feel that the rest of the world was slipping away.

"Hi," you said, a little breathless.

He gave you a small smile. "Hello."

You tried to clear your head, but everything seemed a bit fuzzy.

"I didn't think you'd come," you said, hoping the dim lighting would hide your blush.

"I wasn't planning on it," he said, eyes tracing over your face. "But I changed my mind."

You shifted slightly, unable to stop the way your heart jumped in your chest. "I'm glad. I didn't know if we would see each other again."

His brows drew together. "Why?"

You laughed awkwardly. "I mean we don't really know each other… I guess I thought you had forgotten me."

Something in his expression changed. A subtle shift. Like the calm before a storm.

"Impossible," he murmured.

You swallowed hard, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. "I.. my friends were just talking about you," you managed, trying to fill the silence.

"All good things, I hope."

"Mike is pretty desperate to meet your brothers. Apparently, he wants to make sure they're just as attractive as you."

"And what do you think?"

"About?"

"Do you think they are just as handsome?"

You looked him up and down, then bit your lip, smiling. "Honestly? No."

His eyes crinkled at the edges, amused. "Good."

You felt warm. Your cheeks were hot, and your head was spinning.

"So," you said, fiddling with your hands. "Do you have any plans for tonight?"

"I was thinking about buying you a drink," he said, and gestured to the bartender. "If that's alright."

The bartender slid a new drink your way, and as you reached for it, Elijah’s hand lightly brushed yours. His fingers lingered, not enough to be obvious, but enough to make your breath catch.

"Sorry," he said, a soft apology.

"It's okay," you told him, and found yourself wanting to touch him again. To feel the warmth of his skin.

He watched you carefully, a knowing look in his eyes, his hand still resting on the counter.

"Tell me something," he said, voice low.

"Like what?" You asked, confused.

"Anything," he replied. "I like hearing you speak."

You searched for words, but it was hard when all you could think about was the way he was looking at you. Like he knew every secret thing you held close and loved you anyway.

"I..." You trailed off, swallowing hard. "I… I should probably get back to the others," you murmured, suddenly unsure.

"Of course," he said gently. "I wouldn't want to keep you."

You took a step back. Then another. His eyes never left your face.

"Do you want to come sit with us?" You offered.

"If you'll have me."

"Of course," you replied, smiling despite yourself.

He offered his arm, and you took it, and together, the two of you made your way back to the rooftop, weaving through the crowd.

Adam was trying to teach Tasha a dance move while Mike filmed it. Liv sat perched on the arm of a bench, swirling her drink.

You saw her gaze slide to Elijah and a slow, knowing smile spread across her lips.

"Oh, there's my girl," she purred, holding up her drink. "I see you found Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome."

You laughed nervously. "Yes, well, he was looking for me."

"Come dance with us," Adam said, pulling Elijah away from you.

"Oh no," Elijah protested. "I don't really-"

"Too bad," Adam grinned, dragging him to the middle of the rooftop.

Mike followed, still filming, and Tasha laughed, shrugging. "Might as well join them," she told you.

And before you could react, she was pulling you onto the makeshift dance floor. You found yourself laughing, dancing in the middle of the crowd, letting the music and the alcohol carry you away.

Elijah was beside you, moving gracefully to the music, but his expression was oddly serious.

"Hey," you teased. "You're supposed to be having fun."

He gave you a smile. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’m exactly where I want to be," he said.

You weren’t a great dancer. Elijah clearly was. And he didn’t crowd you or pull you close. But there was heat building between your bodies, something slow and dangerous that made your skin prickle. You didn’t understand it. But you didn’t want it to stop, either.

And then Liv was there.

She slid in with a laugh, a blur of dark lipstick and glittering earrings. "Is this a private dance or can anyone join?"

Before you could answer, she had already pressed in on Elijah’s other side, placing a hand on his arm.

"Elijah, right?" she asked, wide-eyed and smiling. "You and I didn’t get a proper introduction earlier. I’m Liv."

Elijah nodded, polite. "A pleasure."

"You dance beautifully," she said, fingers trailing down his sleeve. "Very… commanding."

Something sharp flared in your chest. But Elijah didn’t take the bait. "That's a very kind thing to say. Thank you."

Liv wasn’t used to being turned down. She frowned slightly, her gaze darkening.

"Do you want to dance with me?" she purred. "Just the two of us?"

She was beautiful. And clearly interested. But Elijah looked to you, almost apologetic, and shook his head.

"I'm actually enjoying myself here."

"With her?" Liv asked, voice turning icy.

You laughed nervously. "Liv…"

But she wasn’t done. She moved closer to him, her voice dipping low. "I’ve heard a lot about you, you know... And I can see the appeal."

He stepped back, just enough to make the distance obvious.

"I’m flattered," he said carefully. "But my heart is spoken for, I'm afraid."

Liv blinked. Once. Twice.

"Oh," she said, her smile freezing in place. "Of course."

The music throbbed louder. The lights flashed. But Liv didn’t move.

Her gaze turned to you, slow and icy. And all you could see was hatred.

You opened your mouth to ask her what was the matter, but then-

"Y/N!" Kol’s voice cut through the music. "I see you found our brother."

You turned. Kol was striding toward you, Klaus beside him, both of them looking amused and faintly wary.

Liv turned toward them, every muscle in her body coiled tight. You had no idea what was happening. But you felt it, like a storm about to break. The loud music, the dancing bodies, the bright lights...everything suddenly felt too loud. Too much.

Liv lunged.

Her fingers curled around your wrist and she drove you backward into the crowd. People screamed. Someone dropped a drink. The music screeched to a halt.

"Elijah!" you shouted, but your voice was lost in the chaos.

The moment you hit the ground, Liv was on top of you.

"I loved him first," she hissed, eyes glowing unnaturally bright. "He’s mine."

You couldn’t breathe. You tried to push her off, but she was stronger than anyone had a right to be.

"You aren't supposed to love him anymore… I made sure if that," she spat, one hand tightening around your throat. "You don’t deserve him."

Somewhere beyond her, you saw a blur of movement and everyone on the rooftop. Your friends, the dancers, even the bartenders were swarming Klaus and Kol as if some invisible thread had tugged them all at once. Elijah was trying to get through the crowd, his voice rising above the screams, calling your name.

You saw Mike try to punch him, glassy-eyed and robotic, and Elijah simply caught his wrist and shoved him aside with ease.

He saw you, then. Liv, still pinning you down, her mouth twisting in a horrible sneer.

"Y/N!"

Liv raised her hand again, this time with a flash of metal... A knife. But she never got the chance to use it.

Kol tackled her sideways, knocking her clean off of you. They rolled across the floor in a blur of rabid fury. You scrambled backward, coughing, vision spinning.

"Y/N-" Elijah was there in an instant, dropping to his knees beside you.

You felt dizzy, trying to catch your breath. "What’s happening?"

You looked back just in time to see Klaus hurl Adam across a table with a snarl. Tasha swung a broken bottle toward Kol, who dodged easily, eyes still scanning the room for Liv. Who had vanished into the crowd.

"She ran," Kol snapped. "Slippery little-"

Elijah turned to you, brushing your hair back, his touch gentle despite the chaos around you. "I’m getting you out of here."

"I-I don’t understand..." You barely got the words out before he swept you into his arms, moving faster than you thought possible.

The world blurred.

Behind you, your friends screamed and fought like rabid beasts. Glass shattered. Somewhere, someone was crying.

And then everything went quiet.

[orellazalonia]

Hi! You're writing is great! I keep coming across it in the tags and reading some. What really has caught my eye is “Worth Fighting For”. And you're under no pressure for this, but I am wondering if you plan on making a part 2 for it

Again, no pressure or anything. Its your decision. I don't wanna impose. I'm a writer so I understand shit takes time or having writers block, or simply that it doesn't need anything more. Whatever you decide will be perfect. It is truly a good as a one-shot.

I just really enjoyed it and am wondering

Hello there! I’m glad you’ve been enjoying some of my work, that makes me so happy to hear! Most of the time, I’m usually able to create additional parts to my work but only do so if someone requests it. If not, it’s something I only do if I really loved it or it was too long and I had to break it into smaller parts lol. So, don’t worry! Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy. Happy reading!!!

All of the Time

Summary: You start to build a quiet friendship with Steve, finding comfort in someone who understands your struggles, but when you fall and face cruel laughter, your confidence shatters and you pull away. Meanwhile, Bucky’s fierce protectiveness boils over, leading to a vulnerable moment where he promises to stand by you, as someone who loves every part of you. (Possessive!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.4k+

Main Masterlist | Worth Fighting For (Original Fic)

It started with small things, simple moments that stitched themselves into the quiet rhythm of your days.

Bucky still walked you everywhere. Always showed up early and stayed later than he needed to. But lately, Steve Rogers had started appearing too.

At first, it was by coincidence. A passing nod on the street. A shy smile when you visited the corner store. But Steve was thoughtful in ways that surprised you, gentler than most and always listening. You found yourself drawn to him in a different way than Bucky: calm, understanding, like he recognized something in you without asking questions.

One afternoon, when Bucky got pulled into something across town, Steve offered to walk you home. You were hesitant at first, but he didn’t press, just waited while you adjusted your grip on the crutch and fell into pace beside you.

You both talked about things you usually didn’t discuss with Bucky, like your legs and his lungs. Like the way people looked at you when they thought you weren’t watching, the unsolicited advice, or the way strangers treated you like a sad story instead of a person.

“I get it,” He said, voice low and dry. “They all think I’m fragile, too. Like if I breathe too hard, I’ll fall over.”

You laughed, and he smiled. “They don’t know the half of it.”

It was easy, talking to Steve. And you knew it the second you saw Bucky waiting outside your building, arms crossed and jaw tight, watching the two of you approach like he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or furious.

Steve caught it too. “He’s gonna scowl me to death, isn’t he?”

“Probably,” You muttered, amused. “You’re the one who stole his job.”

“I didn’t know I was being recruited.”

“You weren’t,” Bucky said before either of you could reach the door.

You raised a brow. “Bucky.”

He looked at you, then at Steve. “Appreciate you stepping in,” He said flatly. “Won’t be necessary again.”

Steve just gave you a little shrug, like well, you warned me, and offered a quick goodbye before turning down the street.

You turned back to Bucky. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“He doesn’t know how to pace with you.”

“Neither did you once.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just held the door open with a tight jaw and followed you up the steps, his hand hovering behind your back like it might catch you if you slipped even though you didn’t.

You thought the tension would fade over time, but it didn’t.

It built slowly, like steam behind a radiator. Bucky brought you more things now: fresh rolls, a knit scarf he swore he didn’t buy but you knew he did, and little things that made you feel warm and heavy with affection.

But something in him had twisted tighter since that day. He stood closer, watched more, and didn’t laugh as easily when you talked about walking alone.

So, one morning, you did.

You hadn’t meant to leave without him. You just needed to prove it to yourself, that you could still do this. That your legs might tremble, but they still moved. That you didn’t need anyone.

The air was brisk as you stepped out, crutch steady under one arm, purse swung across your chest. You took the quieter route, the one that curved behind the main square.

You didn’t even hear them at first, the boys your age loitering by the steps of the butcher’s shop. Laughing and smoking. One of them was the same kid Bucky shoved into a lamppost last month. Of course.

“Hey, it’s the hobble girl!” Someone barked as you passed.

You kept going.

“Where’s your guard dog, sweetheart? Don’t think you’ll make it far without him.”

You didn’t look back. You didn’t give them a reaction, but your foot caught the edge of a broken curb. Just slightly. The crutch hit an uneven crack in the concrete and your knee twisted, causing you to fall.

You didn’t cry out, didn’t scream. But the shock knocked the air out of you and scraped your palms bloody against the sidewalk. You lay there for a breathless moment, too stunned to move.

And then came the sound.

Laughter.

From behind you, from above.

You tried to get up. The brace dug into your shin as you twisted, slipping against your own balance. You were halfway to your knees when someone appeared beside you, not Bucky.

“Easy,” Steve said gently, already crouched. “I got you.”

His hands were steady, warm under your arms, and he didn’t pull you up right away. He just helped you sit, giving you space to let you breathe.

“I’m fine,” You muttered, heart pounding in your ears.

“I know,” He said. “You just don’t have to be alone while you are.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, and your eyes burned.

Then–

“WHAT THE HELL IS SO FUNNY?”

The voice tore through the square like a lightning crack.

You whipped around just in time to see Bucky storming across the sidewalk, eyes blazing, and fists already clenched. The group scattered in a heartbeat, but Bucky was faster. He caught the mouthy one by the collar and slammed him against the wall hard enough that a window rattled.

“I told you once,” He growled. “Now I’m telling you twice, if I so much as hear her name in your mouth again, you’ll be drinking through a straw for a month.”

“Buck–“ Steve called out.

“I mean it,” Bucky snarled, shaking the kid like a ragdoll before dropping him onto the concrete.

By the time he turned back, his hands were shaking. But his voice, when he knelt beside you, was quiet.

“Hey,” He said, brushing your hair out of your face. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer.

He touched your scraped palm gently. “You’re bleeding.”

You looked at him finally. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m broken.”

“I don’t,” He stated, voice hoarse. “I look at you like someone I’d kill for. That’s different.”

You blinked, stunned.

Steve stood nearby, silent but present. He didn’t say a word, just nodded once and stepped away, letting you and Bucky have a moment.

Bucky helped you to your feet with slow, careful hands as he tucked your crutch into place like it was something sacred. When you leaned into him subconsciously, his arms went around you in a way that made all the tension in your body fade.

He spoke softly, “You don’t have to be strong all the time, sweetheart. You’re allowed to fall, just let me be the one who helps you up.”

But no matter how sweet words Bucky tried to tell you or how he and Steve both tried to lighten the mood on the way back home, you didn’t sleep that night.

The fall kept looping in your mind over and over. The sound of laughter, the stares, the sting of your knees hitting concrete. You could still feel the scrape on your palms, raw under the bandages. Still feel Steve’s arms helping you sit up, still hear Bucky’s voice when he screamed.

But worse than all of it, worse than the pain or the crowd, was the way they looked at you.

Both of them. Steve, with concern. Bucky, with fury. Both looking at you like you were fragile.

And you hated it.

So, you canceled plans the next morning, told Bucky you weren’t feeling well when he knocked, and left the curtain drawn even when you heard him waiting outside longer than usual.

You knew he meant well, but you couldn’t take the weight in his voice. Couldn’t stand how fast he moved when he thought you needed help. How many people he was willing to fight just because they looked at you wrong.

You didn’t want to be something he protected. You wanted to be something he wanted.

And by the second day, you stopped answering the door entirely.

Across town, Bucky was cracking.

He paced the alley behind the corner bar like a caged dog, jaw clenched, knuckles already bruised from the wall he’d punched earlier.

“You’re gonna get yourself arrested,” Steve muttered from the edge of a crate, arms crossed as he watched Bucky burn through another lap.

“She won’t even look at me, Steve.”

“She’s embarrassed.”

“She shouldn’t be.”

“She’s scared.”

Bucky stopped. “Of me?”

Steve met his eyes. “Of what you’ll do or of how angry you get.”

Bucky’s fists curled. “What am I supposed to do? Let them laugh? Let her think falling makes her less than–”

“No. You’re supposed to show her that she’s still her. Still the same girl you wanted to walk home three weeks ago. Still the one who doesn’t need to be hidden behind your fists.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a rough whisper. “She thinks she’s a burden.”

“She isn’t.”

“I know that,” Bucky snapped. “But if she won’t let me show her, if she keeps pulling away… I don’t know how to make her believe it.”

Steve stepped forward, quieter now. “Then stop yelling it with your fists, Buck. And start whispering it where it matters.”

That night, you found him sitting on the fire escape outside your bedroom window.

He wasn’t moving. Just leaning back on the cold metal, head tilted toward the sky like it could give him an answer. His hands were scraped, bruised, wrapped in a torn bandage that looked like he’d done it in a rush.

He didn’t look at you right away.

You opened the window quietly. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” He said simply.

You swallowed.

He still didn’t look over. “Steve says I’m doing too much… that I’m pushing you away.”

You sat on the windowsill carefully, still quiet.

He exhaled slowly. “I don’t know how to do this, sweetheart. I see you hurt, and I lose it. I see you scared or embarrassed, and something in me just–snaps. I know it’s too much sometimes. I just…”

He finally turned, eyes tired.

“I don’t want you to ever think I’m here because I feel sorry for you.”

You looked down. “I don’t… think that.”

“I want you to know that when I look at you, I don’t see weakness. I don’t see your crutch. I see you. All of you. And I–” He broke off, jaw tight. “I like you so much it’s ruining me.”

You blinked, chest twisting.

“I don’t care that you fall or that you limp. Or that some days you don’t want to talk. I care that you think those things make you hard to love.”

A silence stretched between you.

Finally, you reached out, gently tracing the fresh bruise on his hand.

“Who was it this time?” You asked.

His smile was small. “Doesn’t matter. He won’t say another word.”

“Bucky–”

He caught your hand in his, kissing your knuckles softly.

“I’m trying,” He whispered. “I’ll stop throwing punches if it helps, but I won’t stop showing up. I won’t stop being yours.”

You pressed your forehead to his, heart thudding.

“I don’t want you to stop showing up,” You said. “I just want to believe that I’m not dragging you down.”

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” He murmured, brushing your hair back with fingers too gentle for someone who fought like he did. “You’re the only reason I’m still standing some days.”

Then, with a small smile: “Besides, you don’t even weigh enough to drag me down, doll.”

You laughed, and the tension finally broke.

He pulled you into his lap right there on the fire escape, blanket wrapped around both of you, his arms warm and firm around your waist.

And for the first time since the fall, you didn’t feel like a burden. You just felt like his.

You didn’t fall again that week.

Bucky never said it out loud, but you knew he noticed. He started walking half a step ahead of you instead of beside you, close enough to catch you if needed, but far enough to let you breathe.

He didn’t ask if you were alright anymore. He just knew you were. And maybe more importantly, you knew you were too.

One quiet afternoon, he showed up at your door holding something behind his back.

You squinted. “What is it?”

“No peeking.” He grinned, backing up as you stepped out. “I have a surprise.”

“Bucky.”

“Trust me.”

You did. So you let him inside and waited with your back turned, listening to him set up something. When he finally gave the okay, you turned to find the surprise was music.

More specifically, his old record player set up in the tiny living room of your apartment, now spinning. The radio crackled softly as a slow jazz melody filled the air, warm and golden like molasses.

You stared at him, blinking. “Is this a setup?”

He didn’t deny it.

“I thought maybe you’d let me have one dance,” He said, offering his hand, eyes teasing. “I mean, I did get beat up for you. It’s the least you could do.”

You snorted. “You didn’t get beat up. You beat them up.”

“Still counts.”

You glanced down at your brace, hesitant. “I’m not exactly graceful, Bucky.”

His voice lowered. “Doesn’t matter, you’re mine and I’m yours. That’s all I need.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped closer. “Let me show you.”

And he did.

You didn’t dance, not really. It was more like swaying in slow circles, his arms firm around your waist, one hand curled gently around yours. He moved slow and patient, guiding you like he could feel every bit of hesitation in your body and answered each one with a touch, a smile, or a whisper in your ear: “You’re doing perfect, doll.”

You were laughing by the second song. Spinning awkwardly as he dipped you in the most dramatic fashion, nearly knocking over a chair in the process.

“Okay, that one was your fault,” You huffed, holding onto him as you regained your balance.

He didn’t let go. Just leaned his forehead against yours and whispered, “I like you like this.”

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

“Laughing, moving, being… you.” He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You never needed to walk perfectly. You just needed someone to see you.”

You leaned into his chest. “You’re really good at that, you know.”

“Good,” He said, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Later into the night when you were wrapped in his arms, half-asleep in the hush of your room, he whispered, “I used to think I needed someone perfect, flashy and put together; but I was wrong.”

You stirred, smiling sleepily. “Oh yeah? What do you need now?”

He kissed the side of your neck and said simply, “You.”

And you knew then, without a single doubt, you had never once been a burden to him.

You’d been the center of his world all along.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Almost, Always | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Chapter Three

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

A story of almosts, maybes, and finallys. You and Sebastian Sallow have loved each other for years, just never at the right time.

Words: ~3,300

Series Tags: Modern AU, Post-Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian Sallow, Cursebreaker!MC, Modern Magical AU, Female Reader Insert, Mid-Size / Plus-Size Female Protagonist, Friends to Lovers, Long-Term Mutual Pining, Slow Burn Romance, Missed Timing, Second Chances, Grief and Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Body Image Issues, Fluff, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending

Content Warnings: Sexual Assault, Trauma, Abortion (Non-Descriptive), Strong Emotional Themes

Chapter Track: Falling Away With You, Muse

Special thanks to @sunnyrealist for beta-ing the plot of this story and @dreamy-gal-30 for beta-ing the chapter drafts! I could not do this without you!

You, Age 20

The air in the tomb was dry, thick with the scent of dust and sand. You moved carefully, wandlight bobbing in rhythm with your slow steps. The humidity of the upper ruins had given way to a creeping cold down here.

Your hand hovered steady over the crumbling reliefs etched into the stone walls. The carvings were Minoan-inspired, but the language beneath them had Akkadian roots, a hybridization you were still working to decode. Whoever built this place had borrowed heavily from multiple magical traditions.

You crouched beside a mosaic set into the floor, blue and gold tile caked in sand, and reached for the leather-bound notebook tucked into your satchel. You jotted a note in the margin.

Section Four. Tile pattern repeats, likely a curse trigger. Possible pressure plate?

“Curse architecture built to last forever,” your supervisor had told you during orientation. “Layered wards. Traps that reset. Think like a sadist and you’ll live longer.”

Her voice echoed in your mind as you stepped around the mosaic with practiced precision, heart hammering against your ribs. It wasn’t quite fear anymore, but the pulse of adrenaline. After two years of fieldwork, you’d learned how to live with it. The constant knowledge that one wrong move could be the last.

You moved deeper into the tomb, passing beneath a narrow archway etched with faded script and the half-preserved image of a woman holding a wand in one hand and scales in the other. A judge, perhaps.

The tunnel beyond was more intact than you’d anticipated. A ribcage of stone columns held up the vaulted ceiling, dust drifting in lazy sheets through the shaft of your wandlight. You passed through, slowly, eyes scanning every groove, every gap between the bricks.

Then, just ahead, your light caught on something.

A glint. Thin. Metallic.

You stopped cold.

A tripwire.

You lowered yourself to the floor, boots scraping lightly against the worn stone, and leaned in to inspect it. The wire was anchored with old solder, but someone had reinforced it recently with magically bonded copper. Local work. Likely black market.

You swore under your breath.

This wasn’t just a historical site anymore. Someone else had been here. Possibly still was.

You muttered a revelio and watched as lines of warding magic bloomed across the thread, illuminating the web of spells it triggered: paralysis hex, concussive burst, maybe worse. A layer cake of consequences.

You straightened slowly, pulse hammering behind your ribs. One step back. Then another.

Your boot hit something that clicked.

Too late.

The floor beneath you shifted with a deep, mechanical groan as stone slabs slid into new positions.

You turned, but the passage you’d come through was already sealing itself shut, dust spilling down like rain as the wall slammed into place with a deafening thud.

Shit.

You pivoted and sprinted forward, wand raised, just as the ceiling behind you began to crack apart. A barrage of darts shot from the walls, fast and precise. You threw yourself into a side alcove, cast Protego on instinct, and felt the force of them ping off your shield like hail on glass.

You couldn’t go back. Couldn't stay put.

And the tomb knew it.

Stone groaned again—grinding gears embedded deep in the walls, waking for the first time in who knew how long. Dust and mortar showered you from the ceiling. Somewhere ahead, you heard another snap of metal. A door unlocking if you were lucky. A trap springing if you were realistic.

"Lumos maxima!"

Your light flared, catching a small stairwell at the far end of the chamber, half-buried under collapsed debris. A way out. Maybe.

You ran.

Your legs burned, boots slipping on gravel and bone-dry sand. The stairs curved in a tight spiral, barely wide enough for one person, and halfway up you caught the glitter of another tripwire.

You jumped over it mid-stride, heart in your throat, and didn’t slow down until you burst through a narrow stone doorway that led outside, lightheaded and sweating.

A wall of dust and dry heat chased you out, screaming through the gap like a living thing.

You stumbled forward and hit the ground hard, knees first, then palms—sand digging into your skin, biting into the cuts already torn open on your hands. The wind caught in your ears. A deafening whoosh of air and grit and crumbling stone.

Then nothing. Just the sound of your own breath, ragged and loud in the stillness.

You made it.

The tomb’s exit, half-swallowed by the desert, sunburnt and ancient, gaped behind you like the mouth of something that hadn’t eaten in centuries and was very nearly satisfied.

You collapsed onto your back with a long, shaking exhale, blinking up at the sky. Bright, cloudless blue stretched above you, so sharp it made your eyes water. You tasted sand in your teeth and blood on your lip. You’d skinned your elbow, bruised your ribs, and lost a whole page of notes somewhere down in the stairwell.

But you were alive.

“Fuck me,” you muttered to no one. “That was close.”

A shadow passed overhead, a vulture, maybe. Or just a cloud you’d imagined. You didn’t move right away. Just lay there in the heat and let your heartbeat slow down and the adrenaline fade, leaving behind the telltale throb in your joints and the ache in your legs.

You should have been shaken. Maybe you were. But this? This part? You loved it.

The adrenaline, the puzzles, the split-second decisions. The heart-pounding rush of surviving something that absolutely should have killed you. It was the same thrill that made you want to be an Auror. The same rush you’d chased back at school, shoulder to shoulder with Sebastian, racing headlong into chaos with only instinct, trust, and a half-baked plan between you and disaster.

He lived for moments like that. And you did too.

But then there was the paperwork. The endless artifact cataloguing. The diplomatic briefings with tight-lipped supervisors who’d never set foot inside a collapsing tomb. The long nights cross-referencing dead languages in bad lighting.

And that was the part about cursebreaking that you hated. The part that made you wonder, sometimes, why you hadn’t just become an Auror after all. Why you hadn’t gone with Sebastian. Why you’d said yes to a job that so often felt like a waiting room between moments of clarity.

But at least out here, you weren’t torturing yourself trying to pretend you didn’t still love him.

You sat there for a minute longer, hand reaching instinctively for your satchel. Your fingers brushed the cracked leather of your notebook, but you passed over it. Instead, you pulled out your phone. Thumb swiped the screen. No signal.

Of course.

You stared at it anyway, breath still shaky. You always wanted to talk to him first after you made it out of something like this. He’d understand the thrill of it, the madness. It was the kind of story he’d eat up with a crooked grin and a thousand questions.

But he wasn’t here to tell.

You locked the screen and let the phone fall into your lap. For a second, you thought about lying back again and just letting the sun bake the exhaustion out of your bones, but basecamp would be expecting you soon, and someone would sound an alert if you didn’t check in by dusk.

So you stood, slow and stiff, brushing sand from your trousers and tugging your gear into place. The tomb was silent now. The trap had reset. The dust was already beginning to settle over the stones like it had never been disturbed.

And wasn’t that just the way of things?

You turned toward the horizon and began the walk back, sand crunching under your boots and the phantom sound of Sebastian’s voice echoing somewhere in your chest.

Camp was a half hour away, maybe more with the heat and the weight of fatigue pulling at your limbs. The sun was sinking low now, casting everything in gold and rust, and the wind had picked up just enough to sting your cheeks with dry grit.

You kept walking.

You passed the jagged rocks that marked the ridge, then the weathered outcrop where the local team had set up signal beacons weeks ago, now half-buried in sand.

The first torches were being lit when you finally reached camp, their flickering light casting long shadows across the canvas tents and makeshift pathways. The air smelled faintly of roasted meat, soot, and dust.

A few heads turned as you passed—nods, quick once-overs, someone offering a tired, “You good?”

You nodded. “Fine. Just a collapse. North tunnel. Nothing major.”

Nobody pressed. You were all used to bruises and near-misses by now.

Inside your tent, you peeled off your gear piece by piece, hands stiff and sore. Your shirt clung to your back, damp with sweat and dust, and your trousers were streaked with sandstone grit and dried blood from a shallow cut on your thigh you hadn’t even registered until now.

You sat down hard on your cot and exhaled.

The tent was dim, lit only by the spill of golden light through the canvas flap and the soft glow of a lantern swinging from a hook. Your mirror hung crooked above the footlocker, scratched and warped at the edges from too many field packs and transport jostles.

You caught your reflection and paused.

Not the same girl who left Hogwarts. The sharp lines of adolescence had blurred into womanhood. Your hips were fuller now, your arms softer, your face a little rounder in the cheeks.

You leaned forward slightly, tugged your shirt away from your skin, angled your body in the mirror like that might make a difference.

It didn’t.

You tried not to care. You tried not to hear the voice in your head whispering he never felt that way about you back then, and there’s certainly no chance now.

You rubbed at your face, trying to shake the thought loose, and failing.

Sebastian had never once commented on your body, but you’d seen the pattern in the girls he’d snogged back at school. The Samantha Dales of the world, slim and polished and perfect. Girls who looked effortless in skirts and who never seemed to worry about how they took up space. Girls who didn’t stumble over their words or laugh too loud or tug self-consciously at the hems of their jumpers.

You didn’t resent them. You just… weren’t them.

Getting to your feet, you grabbed your towel from where it was slung over the corner of your trunk and turned toward the showers, muscles aching with every step. All you wanted was to rinse off the tomb dust, scrub the dried blood from your leg, and stand under the water until your thoughts quieted down.

You ducked out into the main pathway, feet dragging a little in your worn boots, when a familiar voice called your name.

“Hey—hold up a second.”

You turned to find your supervisor, an older Cursebreaker named Chandra, striding toward you with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a half-eaten fig in the other.

“North tunnel, right?” she asked, glancing you over. “Heard it collapsed.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just some bruises.”

“Lucky,” she said. “Most people don’t walk out of a Type III trigger room with just bruises. Good instincts.”

You didn’t really know what to say to that, so you offered a tired shrug.

Chandra glanced at her clipboard. “Listen, I’ve got an opening.”

You blinked. “What kind of opening?”

“Rotation slot. Five days. Could be six, depending on weather. We’ve got a newer team flying in to take over Site 8 temporarily. You’re due for a break anyway. Figured I’d offer it before putting it to the rest of the team.”

Your first instinct was yes. God, yes. Five days of clean sheets and warm meals that didn’t come out of a tin. Of falling asleep without worrying about tripwires or heatstroke. You hadn’t been home in two years. You could visit Ominis. You could see Anne. You could see him.

But your stomach twisted at the thought. The idea of standing in front of Sebastian after all this time, looking different than he remembered… it made your throat close.

You forced a smile. “Thanks. But I should stay. Too much going on here. Better if I don’t fall behind.”

Chandra studied you for a beat too long but didn’t argue. Just nodded and scribbled something on her clipboard.

“Your call,” she said. “Just don’t wait until your limbs start falling off to take your next break.”

You gave a polite laugh. She wandered off.

You stood there for a second, towel in hand, wondering why you always did this. Why you always said no to the things you wanted most.

Then you turned and made your way toward the showers, telling yourself it was fine. It wasn’t the right time. You’d go take a break next time.

Maybe.

The showers were barely lukewarm, sputtering out in weak spurts that never quite rinsed away the grit. You stood under the stream for your allotted ten minutes, watching the water turn brown at your feet before swirling down the drain. It stung a little as it passed over the cut on your thigh.

The mirror above the rusted tap was no less unforgiving than the one in your tent. You didn’t linger. Just tied your damp hair back, toweled off with the speed of someone used to racing the clock, and redressed in a fresh shirt and your loosest trousers.

Dinner was the same it had been all week—some variation of lentils and rice, bulk-cooked in a blackened cauldron and ladled onto plates with mechanical efficiency. You took your usual seat under the canvas awning near the back, where the air was a bit cooler and the din of conversation faded into low background hum.

You ate slowly, forcing each bite down like routine. It wasn’t the food that bothered you. It was the ache behind your ribs, the tight coil of something unresolved that had been winding tighter for what felt like an eternity.

You told yourself it was just the exhaustion. The long days. The endless dust and bureaucracy and heatstroke headaches.

But you knew the truth.

You missed him.

After dinner, you walked up the ridge alone. No one stopped your or asked where you were going. They knew your routines by now. Knew you had people elsewhere. That you were always looking for a signal.

You reached the top, boots crunching against dry rock and sand, and pulled out your phone.

Two bars.

It was a goddamn miracle.

Twenty-seven new texts. Four missed calls. Six new voice memos. All from the same name.

Sebastian.

You didn’t open them right away. You just stood there for a minute, phone clutched in your hand, staring out across the vast horizon as dusk wrapped the world in shades of violet.

Then you sat down on a warm stone, legs crossed beneath you, and opened the messages. Most of them were exactly what you’d expect; equal parts worried and ridiculous, in true Sebastian fashion.

“Are you alive or just ignoring me?”

“Ominis says hi. He also says I’m insufferable when you’re gone.”

“There’s a new café near the Ministry that does pumpkin spice cold brew. I tried it. Thought of you. It was foul. But you’d love it.”

“Seriously though. Just let me know you’re okay, yeah?”

“They had to pair me with a rookie on patrol yesterday. I deserve hazard pay.”

You let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. Your eyes stung, but you blinked it away. Then you moved to the voice memos. The first was short.

“Alright, Cursebreaker. Starting to think you’ve joined a cult. Or gotten lost. Or are too famous now for us regular Ministry folk. If you’re not dead, message me back.”

The second had been sent later that same day.

“Sorry. That came out wrong. You’re probably just busy. Or stuck in a mountain or something. I just…” A pause. “Never mind. Just… let me know you’re alright, yeah?”

You listened to them one by one, each one more vulnerable than the last. A running commentary of his week: an annoying paperwork mix-up, a late night on patrol, Ominis catching him sneaking biscuits from the shared cupboard. Mundane, silly things. But his voice had that edge to it. That tension he only got when he was worried.

In the last one, he sounded tired.

“They filed the entire report under the wrong Sebastian. Took me three hours to prove I didn’t hex a shopkeeper in Edinburgh. I wasn’t even in Edinburgh. Anyway. I hate everything. Except you… assuming you’re alive.”

That one broke you a little. Your thumb hovered over the screen for a long moment. Then you hit record. Your voice came out quiet, low with exhaustion but laced with something warm.

“Just got reception. Still alive. Dusty, bruised, possibly concussed… but alive. Today I set off an trap meant to crush me under four tons of decorative ceiling, but you know. Occupational hazard.”

You paused, thumb brushing the ridge of your phone, then exhaled slowly.

“Missed hearing your voice. Sorry it’s been so long. Wasn’t avoiding you, I swear, just couldn’t get a signal all bloody week."

Another pause. You swallowed, trying not to overthink it.

“Anyway. I’m okay. I promise. Tired. A little worn down. But okay.”

Then, after a breath, softer:

“You’re still the first person I want to talk to after a day like this. That hasn’t changed.”

You debated adding something more, sarcasm, maybe, or a joke to soften the weight of it, but in the end, you just hit send and sat there while the wind tugged gently at your sleeves.

Your phone buzzed. You fumbled it open. Sebastian had sent new voice a new voice memo. You hit play.

“Bloody hell,” he said, voice low and disbelieving. “I was starting to think I’d have to file a missing persons report. Don’t scare me like that again, yeah?”

You smiled.

“...It’s good to hear your voice” he went on. “Even if you do sound half-dead. The hell do they do to you lot out there? Honestly. Ancient death traps, collapsing tunnels… I’m starting to think your career choice was a personal attack on my blood pressure.”

You laughed quietly, forehead pressed to your knees, eyes stinging.

“Also, just for the record, if you had been crushed by a ceiling, I’d never forgive you." He paused, then added, almost sheepishly, “Glad you’re okay. Really. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear your voice until I did.”

Your chest swelled with something tight and bittersweet.

You tapped your phone against your knee, debating a reply, but your thoughts were slow now—dulled by exhaustion, by relief, by that aching, half-buried longing you’d tried to keep at bay.

Instead, you just texted back, “I’m okay, I promise. Just dust and bruises. Talk more soon?”

The reply came almost immediately.

“More always.”

Then he sent another voice recording. You tapped play without thinking and there it was.

A soft, familiar hum. The same absentminded tune he used to whistle when you were studying in the library together, or sprawled out across the floor of the Undercroft with books open and parchment everywhere. The melody wasn’t anything special—just something he'd made up once and never stopped doing—but it was his. It was home.

You pressed your free hand to your mouth. You definitely didn’t cry.

Well… maybe you did. Just a little.

Just enough that it blurred the edge of the stars overhead. Just enough that your breath caught when the message ended and silence crept back in, broken only by the wind skimming over the ridge.

You wiped your cheeks with the heel of your palm. Sniffed. Shook your head and laughed at yourself.

Then you whispered to no one, “You bloody sap.”

The tune still echoed in your ears. And when you headed back down to your tent, you hummed it too.

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[atiny-for-life]

Ateez's Full Storyline Explained - Part 25

Masterlist

Golden Hour: Pt. 3 - In Your Fantasy Diary - Entries:

Thank you to @thirstkanaphan for tagging me in this post so I could find out about the new Diary Entries <3

We pick up right where the last entries left off with all the members reuniting once they tracked down Yunho and Mingi at a nearby café. They wake them up with the music Jongho had prepared, proving once more that their shared memories and emotional bond are what is freeing them from Sopro's influence.

As they were tracking down Yunho and Mingi, the other six also realized why Mingi had deleted his social media posts - he'd been embarrassed. Yet again a new emotion learned by Sopro which had immediately been projected onto everyone in their vicinity.

People were embarrassed to even be perceived so they hid out in the streets, each flushed red as they scurried about, peeking around corners, afraid to be noticed.

While still inside the caf��, Sopro moves on to another host - something they only take note of because the people around them begin acting differently.

They bit their lips and clenched their fists, looking like they were desperately holding back the urge to run away. It was an emotion that looked like embarrassment but with an undertone of restraint. What was it called again? Oh! That's right! Wooyoung: "Shame." That was it. The people were now ashamed.

We switch perspectives and once again see the world through Sopro's eyes.

I feel like I'm dying. I'm so sad. Depressed. Why is this only happening to me? What the hell did I do wrong? It's so painful. It's too hard. I'm lonely. How am I supposed to keep on living like this from now on?

We now learn what it was like for Sopro in the last entries when it was in the factory owner's body and experiencing despair for the first time in its existence.

It felt like it was drowning, like it was dying, until the body it was in began to cry out the sadness and allowed it to escape. It fled across the Han River, in search for new experiences, until it found another body - the body of a woman currently out on a walk with someone she seems to be in love with.

In a short moment, countless worries passed through the woman's mind. But when the man brushed a stray lock of hair out of the woman's face, she turned red again, and all her thoughts stopped. It felt like being propelled back and forth uncontrollably on a rollercoaster. While the woman liked the man, she was also overcome by the desire to run away and hide. Yet, at the same time, she didn't want to leave him either, and was worried about how she looked to him right now. She felt good, but also a little nauseous as if she were motion-sick, or perhaps hungover.

This is how Mingi and Yunho were feeling while hiding away inside the café - it's what triggered Mingi to delete his social media posts.

While still inside the woman's body, Sopro also experiences shame for the first time as they bump into a group of people who know the woman.

They looked at the woman and spoke sheepishly as if they were embarrassed by her. At that moment, I fell from the clouds. The clouds disappeared, and the space around me slowly darkened.

I'm so embarrassed. What the hell do they even think of me? Why did I have to run into them here? The woman thought, and I thought the same. I want to run away, I want to disappear.

And then she truly does begin to run, away from the people, from the man she was with, from everything, until they collide with somebody we know all too well.

Yunho, as we now learn, has a so-called "spirit scanner" in his possession which has helped them track down Sopro. And of course, he gets teased for it:

Mingi:  "It really worked. The spirit scanner." Yeosang:  "To think someone studying archaeology would have such a pseudo-scientific thing. I don't believe it." Yunho: "Thanks for the input, but don't you think we should focus on catching it right now?"

The other members keep talking to the woman in an attempt to keep her calm and let her know what's going on (vaguely), but as it turns out, the woman is truly no longer in charge of her own body. We're still seeing things from Sopro's POV:

I used the woman again to speak. "No, you've got it all wrong. No one's messing with my emotions." San: "You only think that way because Sopro's inside you. Sopro has the power to control people's emotions as it pleases." Hongjoong: "Just a moment ago, you felt ashamed, right? I don't know for sure if that's what Sopro felt, or if those emotions were purely yours... But, because you have Sopro in you, those feelings are infecting everyone around us. Look."

As Sopro lays eyes on the people around them, it begins to wonder if it really is to blame for their bizarre behavior. But while it's still stuck trying to process it all, Mingi already holds the woman's phone up to its face - the phone he'd just unlocked with the woman's finger.

On screen, a video is playing, one taken by the woman of her puppy as she was trying to teach him how to give paw. Still in Sopro's POV:

The woman held out her hand, and the puppy nuzzled its face against her. The woman laughed and petted the dog, and the dog happily enjoyed the affection. My head felt as though it might crack. The woman crouched down and rubbed her temples. As she did so, the men who had been holding her let go. "Come! Follow me." The woman in the video ran backwards, filming the dog. Then the dog ran towards the woman. The woman here outside the video began to heave. A vortex sped toward me. If I got caught in that vortex, I would be forced outside again. I had this feeling that I shouldn't go outside, not now. As I ran away from the vortex, the dog from the video began running toward me from the opposite side. The woman must be recalling memories of her dog. But, unlike the bright image in the video, the dog snarled at me, showing its fangs. He barked and growled loudly, as if trying to protect the woman and telling me to get out — now! He was telling me that if I ignored his warning, he would attack. I backed up. At that moment, I was swept away by the vortex from behind. Hongjoong: "It's out!" Wooyoung:  "Look! It's definitely bigger than before." Seonghwa: "Wooyoung, quick!"

And this is the moment where things become a whole lot more emotionally charged.

We're still with Sopro who is now getting trapped on the ground under Wooyoung's shoe and, as we get to hear its thoughts, we can see there's a one-sided connection there between the two that Wooyoung doesn't seem to have picked up on - but Sopro has:

While I was also saddened by the fact that I was being stepped on and couldn't move, the fact that it was my mother bird, of all people, who was causing me to suffer came as a much bigger sadness. I felt a much bigger mixture of emotions that felt both like the sea of sadness and what the woman felt running into friends she didn't want to meet. It was fear. And resentment. I wanted to run up to my mother bird and be adored like the puppy and the woman. So why was he hurting me like this? He stepped on me even harder, and dirt flew up from the ground. I was pushed deeper into the dirt. Deeper, deeper... Would I be pushed underground? The mother bird won't be able to catch me. Because when he finally takes his foot off to look at me, I won't be there. I've already run away...down...

We skip ahead in time, away from Sopro's POV and find out that, while Sopro hasn't acted up again, the spread of its power had actually been way more far reaching than initially expected:

The problem was that the abnormal phenomenon was not limited to just one country. Modern science could not explain why the world's population all felt the same thing at the same time. Some groups viewed the event as a religious phenomenon, and others thought it might have been something similar to the instinctual group reactions of birds and rats right before a disaster.

Anxious about what might have happened to Sopro and whether it will return or not, Yunho spent those same days holed up inside the library, trying to uncover whether there was a historical record in the A-World about an artifact like Sopro.

By accident, he discovered a section of the library that was not on the book record map, and began reading through the books there as if he were possessed. He found a book by a scholar specializing in legends and myths based on the theory that the universe is composed of multiple dimensions. As soon as he read the introduction to the book, Yunho knew he needed to meet him. This was the introduction: 'It is a great error to assume that the artifacts of our world can only be interpreted by the logic of our world.' Jongho: "That man... Isn't that Left Eye?"

Upon going to meet their world's Left Eye at his lab, the members learn that this version of him also has a daughter - one who is alive and well - and that he believes in their experiences of Z-World.

Additionally, he also shares with them a picture of a long-dead king wearing a necklace with an embedded ruby-red stone, one very much reminiscent of Sopro.

"Legend says that it was a gift given to the king by a huge bird — a spiritual creature. As a stone with the ability to move the hearts of all things, it was gifted to the king as a symbol of his love for the people." Mingi:  "Hearts... Yeah, that does sound like Sopro." The members examined the paper again. Below the picture was the following text: "Legends such as these often come with warnings. The nature of this stone is like a child, and the king in possession of this stone becomes the parent of that child. Therefore, if the king has an evil heart, the child will learn that wickedness, and if the king has a good heart, it will learn goodness." Wooyoung: "A child." The line comparing the nature of the stone to a young child caught Wooyoung's eye.

But while the members are still stuck on the similarities between the two worlds' legends, Yeosang is already on his tablet, looking for clues about where Sopro might have disappeared to or if it's truly gone.

Yeosang: "It didn't disappear, it was just hiding!" Yeosang turned his tablet to the members. On the screen was a live clip of a video creator searching for true ghost stories. He talked while walking through a graveyard. A statue that didn't exist until yesterday suddenly appeared overnight, and monsters were rising from the ground. The bust statue, made of corpse, bone, soil, and grass, had grown into a human shape. With a shriek, its eyes shot open. It looked enraged. People watching the live video called it "the resurrection of Frankenstein". Not long after, a war broke out over there.

It seems Sopro has built itself a body so it will no longer have to depend on a human host. And that is where the story ends. For now.

[writing-mlm]

One was all he needed [2]

Summary: Dick’s finally out of the dog house, now it’s just a matter of time before your schedules can finally align. Pairing: Dick Grayson x Black!Male!Reader Word Count: 4.6k Tags/Warnings: smut, Black Lightning s1 spoilers, p-in-v, creampie, no condom, identity reveal A/n: here’s part 1

Your mother enters the police station with conflicting confidence. She walks like she knows what she’s doing but she’s carrying herself like she’s scared. She is. So are you. You’ve been here before, picking up Anissa after she got arrested, sometimes to visit Henderson, and more recently, to visit Dick. 

This time, you’re here because someone planted drugs in your father's car and he’s been arrested. You didn’t believe Jenn when she texted you, but then you saw the photos. You saw the school's camera footage and you left work with your mom, heading straight to the police station. 

You can vaguely recall texting Dick, something along the lines of: Are you working, I need you right now. So it wasn’t a surprise that when you entered the lobby, he was there waiting for you. 

“What’s wrong, Buggy?” He asks and you turn to him, holding yourself.

You relax a little, dropping your arms as he gets close, close enough that he holds you. “My dad got arrested—“

“Jefferson got arrested?” His eyes widen and you nod, resting your head on his chest. “How— why?” He looks at the receptionist as she talks to your mom as if one of them would give him the answers. 

“Someone planted drugs in his car at school. Jenn and Anissa said everyone watched. Whoever set him up made sure it was this fucking public humiliation thing, They said he’s dealing drugs!” You whisper, pulling away from him. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” He nods. “I got here basically two minutes ago. Inspector Henderson is here, too. He’ll know more than me right now,” Nodding, the two of you join your mom as Henderson does, he gives you a solemn nod as he greets your mother before the four of you head into a separate hallway to talk. 

He was hesitant to bring Dick along but you and your mother vouched for him. He relents without much fuss, he’s known Dick for some time already, vaguely and he knows the other cops keep him at arm's length. They think he’s a trust fund baby in cops' clothes. An airhead with a look on life so naive it’s almost sad. 

You never understood how they got that assumption from him, but now isn’t the time. 

“Bill, you know Jeff. You know he would never ever do anything—“ Your mother's eyes swim with worry while you glance around. All the doors are closed and there’s no one around. 

“Of course, I know. Lynn. But now is not the time and this is not the place.”

“Well… he can’t be there right now. He can’t.” She reaches for your hand, squeezing it. You don’t know if it was for her comfort or your own. “Something so bad could happen.”

“I can check on him,” Dick offers, his hand settling on the small of your back. “Keep him safe.”

“Please,” She nods. “I need to talk to lawyers,” With a gentle squeeze to your arm, your mother walks away and Dick inhales, watching as Henderson rubs his head and walks in the other direction. 

“I’ll put my comm on, you got yours?” He whispers, leaning close to your ear, both of his hands wrapping around you. You know to the cameras it looks like a warm gesture, you play into it, leaning into his touch. 

“It’s in my jacket in the car, I’ll go and get it.”

“And wait there.” He goes to pull away but you pull him back. 

“Dick—“

“In case something happens and we need you, Buggy. Stay in the car.” 

“Fine.” He thanks you, his forehead pressed to the pack of your head before he heads over to the holding cells, digging into his pocket before fake sneezing. You head to the car, slipping into the back and quickly put the comm in. 

Dick managed to switch shifts with one of the officers in the cells, sticking to his side like glue. You stayed clued in for as long as he did, learning updates and giving them to your mother and Gambi until it was time to start his plan that he and Anissa had crafted while you were in front of the precinct. 

So far, the plan was for you and Anissa to draw as enough attention to yourselves as possible. The easiest way to do that, you found, was simply to walk in the street in your suits. And sure enough, the people flocked and followed you like moths to a flame. Cameras were out and word was quickly spreading the more blocks you walked down. 

As planned, a truck pulled out from the alleyway as if it were a getaway car. It’s fast enough that it looks like the truck is trying to run you over, just as planned. But it’s slow enough that it gives you enough time for the two of you to dive out of the way and Gambi to turn on the holographic Black Lightning without anyone noticing. The ‘three’ of you chased after the truck, and he used his ‘powers’ to stop the truck, and the danger that it was going to cause or whatever. You didn’t question the narrative, not when the people around cheered, confirming that they’d seen Black Lightning was out in action while Jefferson Pierce was in police custody. 

By the time you got home, Dick was on the comm line telling you that Henderson had just handed your dad his bag of clothes and the deputy was being arrested for a set of offenses. 

That night, Dick drove your dad back to the safe house. You all huddled around your dad, giving him hugs and maybe shedding a few tears before you turned to Dick. He was standing awkwardly at the door and you smiled, ushering him further into the house and eventually for dinner.

— 

Believe it or not, after your date with Dick, nothing truly happened beyond that. It wasn’t because it wasn’t good, the date was lovely. He’d taken you to a nice restaurant and then the two of you went for a walk, eventually stopping at a gas station for slushies before he drove you home. But then all the stuff with Gambi happened, and then you had to go to the safe house— it was a bunch of stuff. It just wasn’t the best timing, is all. 

And he understood, he was just glad that there was clearly a spark there. A mutual spark.

Nothing was truly going how you wanted it to, you thought that after your sisters found their powers things would be okay. Maybe a little rough because it’s Freeland but nothing compared to this. It seemed like every week there was something, every week you were up to your neck in issues. He’d helped where he could, but he couldn’t be involved as Dick, not without exposing himself as Nightwing. 

He helped you, Jefferson, and Anissa when Khalil attacked the school. He cleared them out of the hallways and kept the area clear while the three of you worked. He knew all too well that the two of you, especially your dad, didn’t like outside help so he kept his distance. And he’s willing to bet that Anissa feels the same way. 

You think that’s when Anissa started getting suspicious about him. You think Jenn started getting suspicious before that. Probably that day when he was allowed to stay for dinner at the safe house. Because, sure, your rich friend who’s trying to date you is also a cop helping out is normal. Henderson helped out. But he definitely wouldn’t have been allowed to stay for dinner. 

And that was partly your fault, you did agree to let him stay.

But what solidified it was when you went to the cabin. 

Everything was hectic and you were working on helping your dad when Dick joined your side. He wasn’t much physical help, truth be told, but he was amazing with the emotional support. You were keeping track of Jefferson's vitals, keeping track of his temporary coma until Dick made you get some fresh air. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” You ask, leaning against the banister. “You’ve been in your suit all day.” You add.

“Bug, I’m staying.” He shakes his head, leaning into you. “The suit is very comfortable, I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“Been worse,” You laugh, it’s a bit dry but it’s a laugh. “I know my sisters are taking it harsh. Plus, they’re a bit hesitant around you. Secret identities and all that jazz.” No one’s really changed out of their suits and you know it’s because of Dick. Also partly because no one’s had a moment to relax yet. 

“Do you think I should…?” He points to the mask. 

“They’ll figure out who Batman is,” You carefully say, not wanting to sway him one way or another. 

But you know he’s already made up his mind. “He’ll forgive me.” Even behind the mask you can tell he rolls his eyes before he reaches up and takes it off. Under where the adhesive was is a red line and you chuckle, smoothing it out. He smiles, gently holding your wrist before he pulls you into him. “Is this an inappropriate time to make a move?”

“Probably,” You nod. “But, it’ll be a good distraction.” He grins, teeth flashing before he leans in. Leaning in, you cup his face and then the door opens. 

“Oh,” Gambi breathes as the two of you pull away. “I’m… sorry,”

“It’s fine.” You sigh, leaning against the railing as Dick pulls away, clearing his throat. “Did you need me?” He shakes his head and goes back into the cabin but the mood is ruined. You never thought Gambi of all people would cockblock you. Dragging your eyes back to Dick, you sigh and tilt your head. “Thank you— for being here.” 

“I meant my promise,” His eyes flicker between yours, keeping your focus on him. Gently, he holds your face, his thumbs rubbing across your cheeks and you’re sure he can feel them getting warmer. 

“I’m putting you first; always.”

“You never promised that,” You quietly say and he shrugs. 

“Maybe not to you,” He mutters, pressing his forehead against yours. “But I definitely promised myself.” He pulls away and trails his hand down from your face down to your hand, pulling you back into the cabin. 

No one acknowledges the two of you for a while, so Dick helps you tie your locs up while you take your mask off. You’re getting chaffed in your suit and the adhesive was starting to irritate your skin. 

“Woah,” Anissa pauses as she exits from the bathroom. “Oh my god.”

“What? Is Dad okay?” Jenn looks up, her eyes frantically scratching Jefferson’s body and the tablet showing his vitals. He’s still stable, thankfully, so she relaxes a bit before looking around. It doesn’t take long before she takes note of the two of you. “This makes a lot of sense, actually,”

“Identity reveal over, now can we please put some comfortable clothes on?” You groan, already grabbing your bag. “This binder’s killing me.” Anissa just points to the empty bedroom, looking between the two of you. 

Dick follows after you, his hand reaching for your waist. “Got any clothes for me?” He grins and you look back at him, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t bring any!”

—

Things had settled down since the cabin— sure some stuff with Jenn and some stuff with Anissa happened but things were going good overall. It sort of felt like you were in the calm before the storm— or maybe in the center of a tornado, depending on how the next couple of months play out. On the Dick front of your life, it’s complicated, you haven’t seen much of him after his promotion to detective keeps him busy and you’re still working horrible shifts at the hospital. 

It doesn’t stop Jenn or Anissa from teasing you, though. God forbid you smile at your phone or someone calls you and they’re back to being pre-teens with the way they giggle and whisper. You’ve gotten used to it, besides, they haven’t noticed when Dick climbs in through your window. 

Like right now, with him sitting next to you on your bed as the two of you watch a random reality show he’s been dying to get you to watch. 

Dick never really asks to come over, he’ll just show up and send a quick text along the lines of open the window or look down. Not that you minded, he’s been good company as of late. Obviously. 

He pretended to shift on the bed and you pretended not to notice his hand moving to your exposed thigh. You weren’t scandalous by any means, just in pajama shorts that had ridden further up because you had moved around so much. 

Carefully, he starts squeezing your flesh, his eyes drifting from the laptop screen to your face as you try to focus on the latest drama. Something about the sister telling the boyfriend something the other sister didn’t want him to know. Juicy. “Dick,” You whisper when he squeezes your thigh tighter. 

He just grins, feigning innocence. “Hmm?” Pausing the show, you turn to face him and he eagerly does the same, moving his grip on your thigh to your hips. 

“Is there something you want?” You ask, looking between his eyes. 

“I think we both know the answer to that,” He breathes, inching closer. You scoff a laugh and pin him on his back, watching as his expression goes from barely hidden amusement to… shocked arousal? That’s new for you. Climbing on his lap, Dick holds your hips, chewing on his bottom lip as he stares up at you. 

You lean down, watching as his eyes dart from your eyes to your lips like he was struggling to pick one.  “Is this what you wanted?” You whisper, leaning past his lips to his ear. 

“Baby,” He whines, gripping your flesh. 

“Is it?” You ask again, this time pulling up from his ear and watching his expression. You note that he’s blushing, the type of blush that spreads across his body. 

Dick nods, still chewing on his bottom lip. “It is,” Your eyes dip to his lip, slightly puffy from biting it and glossy.  You grin, deciding you’ve played with him for long enough and lean down. He leans up, not waiting the full second it would’ve taken and crashes his lips into yours. Your hands tangle in his shirt as he lowers back to your pillow, dragging one of his hands to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your locs. 

He rocks up into you, quite literally moaning into the kiss and you pant, pulling away slightly. He reaches up, chasing your lips as the kiss heats up. Dick’s kissed— made out with a handful of people before, both in relationships and on stupid teenager games like seven minutes in heaven but he’s never worked for those kisses. He’s spent so long wanting this, needing this, picturing this exact moment that he was committed to memorizing it. The way your lips tasted like your favorite chapstick, how your hands felt pulling him close, your hair tickled his skin because you hadn’t put it up yet. 

Fuck. He’s so glad your first kiss wasn’t at the cabin. He doesn’t want anyone to ruin this experience, he doesn’t want it to end. 

When your tongue brushes against his lips, he parts his immediately. He groans when your tongues meet, rolling his hips again and this time he rolls against your core and you whine. You’d felt his dick growing under you but hadn’t paid any mind until now. 

Pulling away to breathe, you don’t miss the way he frowns despite also needing air. He’s softly panting, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with you. Dick waits for you, watching as you go to lean down again before you pause, your head snapping to the hallway. 

It’s Jenn, you know her footsteps. You sit, listening as they draw closer with each passing second, hoping she’s going down to the kitchen since your bedroom is next to the stairs. It’s only when you hear the first step creaking under her weight that you relax, turning back to Dick. He’s still looking at you, dazed and blushing. 

“You’re a really good kisser,” He whispers. 

You chuckle, sliding off of him. “You’re not bad, either,” 

The episode ends and you take the time to close your laptop, setting it on the ground. Dick doesn’t move, instead he gets comfortable under the blankets, leaving your half of your bed open for when you return. “Who said you’re spending the night?” You ask, kneeling on the bed as you climb inside. “Y’know my dad will have a heart attack if he found you here,”

He just grins, shuffling further into your bed. “I know how to be quiet,” 

Somehow Dick manages to convince you that he should spend the night, citing that it’s late and starting up his motorcycle could draw someone’s attention. It would be better to leave in the morning… or maybe the afternoon when everyone is out of the house. You just agreed, locking your door in case someone decided to barge in before you woke up and cleaned up before finally going to bed. 

He was still in your bed when you woke up, his arms securely wrapped around you and his face buried in the space between your shoulder and neck. His hair tickled your face and he’d shifted so his legs were caging you in— you blame his hyper mobility for that. When you went to get up, he whined, pulling you closer and you laughed but you really had to get up. You could smell breakfast and you really had to use the bathroom; you told him as much and he eventually relaxed enough that you could slip from the bed and leave. 

Everyone was downstairs, you could hear them talking about something going on at the high school while you brushed your teeth. Sometimes you were jealous that Anissa and Jenn had a bathroom attached to their bedroom, instead of having to use the ‘guest’ bathroom. The door opens and your head whips over, finding Dick slinking inside. 

He’s always been quiet on his feet, something you’re constantly thankful for, especially now. “Dick,” You hiss after he closes the door, running the water louder just in case. 

“I had to pee!” He whispers back and you groan, spitting the toothpaste into the sink. “Do you work today?” He asks. 

Jesus Christ, you blink away from him. “No, but I’m on call so, maybe.” 

“Do you think I could have breakfast…?” He slowly asks, turning his head to you. “It smells good.”

“You’re pushing it, Dick.”

—

Everyone had left the house soon after; you’d managed to get wrangled into a small breakfast because your parents just wanted to see you before they left out for the day. Dick had waited exactly two minutes before coming downstairs, gleeful as ever when he saw there was still food left. 

“I’m gonna take a shower,” You tell him, watching as he helps himself to your cup of orange juice. 

“Can I join?”

You laugh as you walk towards the staircase. “Shut the fuck up.” Halfway up the stairs you pause, staring at the back of Dick’s head. “Hurry up,” The chair falls back as he rushes after you, kissing your neck the entire way into the shower. 

It’s tough, finding out Dick likes hot showers. He compromised by setting the water warm when you wouldn’t even stand close to him with the heat, apologizing with soft kisses. You don’t have sex— you’re firmly against shower sex. It’s messy and annoying, only good in theory but you don’t miss the way Dick’s eyes travel across your body. The way he’s eager to get your back and how much time he takes doing it. The way he’d gotten close enough that you felt his cock pressing against you the entire time. 

You both were eager to be out of the bathroom, wet footprints rushing from the bathroom to your room as you both hurriedly dried off, not even caring to put on clothes. Once he’s mostly dry, he’s on you, his mouth latching onto your lips as he backs you up to your bed. 

“Am I reading this wrong?” He asks as his hands travel across your body. You pull away from the kiss, staring at him like he’s an idiot. “I like having express consent,” He adds and you smile, looking away. 

“You’re not reading this wrong, Dick.” He waits for a second, just smiling. Your phone rings during that second and you grumble, checking it. Your dad. 

“Shit, give me a sec’,” Dick nods, watching as you answer the phone. 

“Hey, Dad,” You greet, pointing at Dick and then the bed. He promptly sits, leaning back on his elbows while you stare at him, your eyes taking him in like you’re hungry. “Oh, that sucks. What happened?” You hum, removing your phone to check the time. “Okay, um, I’ll clean up. See you guys soon, then. I love you, too.” Hanging up, you groan. 

“There’s a gas leak in the school, they’re closing for the day.” You tell Dick, walking back to him. 

“So… pause on this?” He carefully asks to which you scoff. 

“God just touch me,” You huff, throwing your leg over his torso. He helps you sit on top of him and his hands immediately find their home on your thighs, rubbing the skin. “You’re insufferable, I hope you know that.” He laughs at that, raising his hand to glide his thumb over your bottom lip. He watched with an almost enamored gaze as his thumb collects your chapstick and he’s reminded of the apple pie flavor from earlier. He wonders if your lips just naturally taste like that or if you have a secret stash on you somewhere. 

“How insufferable?” He muses, watching as you lean down, sucking spots on his neck. He groans, digging his blunt nails into the flesh of your thighs and you focus on that one spot. “Shit— you had practice?” He asks through breathy moans. 

“Don’t ruin the mood.” You grumble, pushing him flat to the bed with your left hand while your right pushes you away from him. “We both know neither of us are virgins. Now, they’ll be back within an hour— enough time for you?” 

“We can make it work,” He nods, watching as you nod back and get up to shut the curtains. Dick moves further onto the bed, slowly laying back as you walk back to him, straddling his hips. “If you want me to stop— just say stop,”

You nod, running your hands down his chest, watching the light red marks appear on his skin. “You, too,” He nods, reaching his hands down to your legs and opening them more, letting you fall on top of his dick. Softly moaning, you start rocking up and down, watching his expression as he pants. He loves feeling your wetness collect on his cock, the way he can feel your folds caging him in and how he’s leaking from just that. Once you feel like there’s enough, you rise up, grabbing the base of his dick and guiding him inside of you. 

His mouth drops open as you sink on him, eyes trained on his face. You’re chest to chest with him at this point, slowly moving your ass up and down on his dick as he lets out broken moans. His hands travel up from your legs to your ass, squeezing and pulling on your flesh as you rest your arms on the pillow under him. 

“Fuck,” His eyes open for a moment, staring at you before he starts kissing your neck again. “Faster, please,” He pants and you grin down at him, slowing down on purpose. 

“Make me, Dick,” You pant and he groans, bucking his hips up before adjusting his grip on your ass. Using his newly discovered leverage, he starts making you go faster on him, soft slaps echoing throughout your room. You moan, dropping your head down to his and he leans higher, kissing you. He keeps that pace, even as you’re moaning into your mouth, hands clenching the pillow case. 

He pulls away first, staring up at you. “Yeah,” He moans, slapping your ass and watching as you cry out a moan. “Like that, baby?” He grits, massaging the burning spot on your ass. 

You nod, chewing on your lip. “Just like that, Dick.” He grins, shifting your legs so that he can position his higher and starts ramming up into you. “Fuck—“ You whine, head dropping and eyes closing. Rocking back and forth, you feel that coil in your stomach and distract yourself by sucking along his neck. You can’t cum first, and not so soon.  But you can tell that he knows, based on the way you're tightening around him, how your moans have gotten louder without you realizing it, how you’re staring at him like he’s holding the one thing you crave. 

“I got you, baby,” He grins. “You wanna cum for me?” You shake your head but don’t stop yourself from rocking on him, making him laugh. “It’s okay, (Y/n). I know I’m making you feel so good. Right? Shit— You’re so tight f’ me,” He moans, closing his eyes as you clench around his cock.

“Here,” He pauses his thrusting, watching as you try and chase his pacing with little results. Dick lifts him, grabbing your back until it hits the bed and flips you onto your stomach. “So you don’t have to do a thing, right, baby?” He asks while rubbing his dick along your folds. 

“Dick,” You whine, staring back at him. He cooes, shifting your locs from your face. 

He kisses your back, trailing up to your neck while his hands trail down to the top of your ass. “Just relax,” He whispers, stuffing himself inside of you. You moan, dropping your head down to your pillow as he starts thrusting. He places himself in a way that he can watch you, watch how you moan and try to say something back to him, only to cut yourself off with your own moans. 

When you start to tighten around him again, he presses his body weight against yours, adding pressure as you fist your pillowcase. “C’mon,” He encourages, still studying you. “I know you want to, (Y/n).” The coil is coming back faster this time, your legs tensing as you feel yourself getting closer and closer with each thrust. 

“Shit!” Your head drops as you cum around him and he waits until your head lifts to kiss you, swallowing your moans as you ride out your high on his cock. He pulls away for a second, his face red. “Can I… fuck… inside of you?” You nod, looking at him as he nods back and gives a couple of shallow thrusts before he spills inside of you. He slowly pulls out and you flip onto your back, taking in a big breath. 

“Shower again?” He asks, rubbing your side as an apology for being a little rough. “I can give you a bath,” He offers. 

“If we hurry,” You nod and he scoops you up, rushing into the bathroom. Dick plugs the tug and makes sure the water is right for you as you sit on the toilet, watching him. 

Once the tub is filled, he picks you up and gently sets you down. “I’ll clean your room, okay?” It takes ten minutes, both the bath and cleaning the room, after all you were on a bit of a time crunch. Especially when you were getting dressed and heard the car door closing. 

You’re cursing as you toss on a hoodie and Dick is fumbling to put a pair of shorts on. “Is that Richard’s bike on the road?”

[usagifuyusummer]

Best friends or something...

Feeling so much like a dead corpse lately. It's probably the stress of the semester... and being mistreated/ underappreciated a lot. Still, I'll manage.

Happy Valentine's Day to those who celebrate it, by the way! It's a coincidence that I drew something mildly mushy on the occasion, lol. It wasn't really my intention. Just gotta let these thoughts (Toxic YAOI LMAO) about them out, and then I can get back to business. If you're confused, that's just how I draw younger Jimmy and Curly. What an odd pair of friends(?)...

[ahollowgrave]

pinching her cheeks

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Do you have any cherik fics recs set in the comics? Or at least not set in X-men first class

my rec list is very small for i don't really read fanfics and i only really read things when they're recc'd to me HOWEVER i do have a Very Small collection for you (descending by word count). under the cut cause the descriptions got long by accident Oops

1.) [EXPLICIT, READ WARNINGS BEFOREHAND] Chimera, by Andraste (Word Count: 1,304)

(Takes place in the Ultimate X-Men (2001) timeline) I can't really describe this fic adequately without telling the whole thing or accidentally doing an analysis on it: while it doesn't have a strict plot, calling it PWP isn't too accurate in my opinion either. The smut in this fic- in my reading- isn't meant to be erotic in the typical way we approach NSFW in fanfiction, but if I start to go in-depth on what that means this post is just going to be dissecting everything line-for-line LOL. The best way I suppose I can describe the premise of this fic is a "grim" scenario based around Charles reworking Erik's mind and keeping him "docile", and Erik catching on to what's been happening to him. This fic explores how Erik wants Charles to "atone" and confront the consequences for this meddling.

2.) As If Nothing Happened, by joshriku (Word Count: 3,289)

(Takes place amidst X-Men Unlimited (1993) #1) This fic expands on the X-Men Unlimited tidbit where Charles is rescued by a """"mysterious"""" figure (who we later learn is Erik in UXM 309) during the snowstorm he, Scott, and Ororo were entrapped by. Very domestic and "warm" and sprinkled with beautiful, playful back-and-forths, and is a joy to revisit if you want something cozy.

3.) [EXPLICIT, READ WARNINGS BEFOREHAND] Behind Closed Minds by f3armgneto (Word Count: 4,914)

(No specific verse or timeline) Honorable Mention Is Honorable i gotta include the fic that was written for me... i wasn't sure if you were looking for explicitly-stated comicverse fics only but i needed to do an honorable mention..... the art this fic's based off of is meant to be comicverse so surely that must count... Premise is essentially that Charles accidentally telepathically peeps on Erik showering and is incapable of moving beyond the instance without "proper resolution". Meanwhile on Erik's end, fully aware he'd been spied upon, thinks of a "countermeasure" to Charles' voyeurism (spoilers: it's more of a reward than a deterrent).

4.) it's going to be a long, long time, by joshriku

(Takes places amidst Krakoa period around AXE Judgment and X-Men Red) A series of events between Charles and Erik following the latter leaving to retire on Arakko. My summary does a poor job on highlighting the chemistry, dialogue, and longing between Erik and Charles in this: I can only beg you to give the fic some time to read it.

5.) not so tragic, my love- it's this dream, it's this sun, by joshriku

(Takes place post-gala/beginning-of-post of the Krakoa period, diverges from X-men: From The Ashes (2024)) Erik has Charles stay with him on Island M after the fall of Krakoa. It's no surprise Charles isn't doing so well mentally after losing everything, but- amidst the facsimile of some domestic joys- Erik wrangles with Charles' depression and anguish, the professor having long lost the light in his spirit to help his fellow mutants readjust after the downfall. (Guest Starring: Jean Grey who has a wonderfully written interaction with Charles- though this fic In Its Entirety is wonderfully written...)

when i was looking through my bookmarks i hadn't realized literally like. half of my rec list was written by joshriku AJLVKEJALK BUT THEM'S THE WORKS i owe them my life for getting charles and erik's voices, thoughts, and actions down so wonderfully. i hadn't read Number 5 in a while and i'm grateful for the excuse to do so: it's probably my favorite of their works that i have listed here, so if you read any of these fics i greatly suggest that one

if you read any of these at all tho i hope you enjoy them !!

[tohruies]

ha! 💌 ! except that i’m doing uno reverse and sending one to you! (and especially since you’ve already written it once for me and i even printed it out!!!)

dear coco, so i know how you always want to bring even the tiniest smile to people’s faces! you are the sunshine that peeks from behind the clouds during the cloudy days ⛅️ but i’m smacking you affectionately because oftentimes in your selfship dynamics you mention that your dear beloveds soothe your heart after you give it away to everyone around on an open palm — and you should listen to that inner voice! ✨ treat yourself first, be a little selfish, make sure to feel comfortable before you comfort others ❤️‍🩹 let me tell you again — i am shaking you and telling you this because a happy and healthy coco guarantees even more happy people around her! 🥺 i love your prose, love your poetry that you sneak so elegantly in between sentences and paragraphs — it’s been a while since i’ve read anything from you and i understand that there are things that you must focus on first, but no matter the passing time, yours will always be one of the styles that inspired me the most in my writing journey on here! 🥹 your presence here has been influencing my life in the most positive way ever since becoming mooties with you! you always put so much thought into remembering everyone’s personalities, lives, preferences and stories! 🌸 but i wanted to make sure that you know how it also feels to be on the receiving side of love (though i know i’m not the only one adoring you so much and certainly there are so many others who would stand right beside you if you only needed a shoulder to lean on) 🩷

༼ﾉ ´༎ຶ ﹏ ༎ຶ༽ ﾉ *: ·ﾟ💌 when manu wears the biggest ever size of meanie pants ever... /silly

(i will acknowledge & respond to your own 💌 to me in the tags, if that's okay!! 🥺 oh my goodness 🥺🥺)

3 days later and i think i have finally collected myself enough to respond to this WAH... I AM SO SORRY TO KEEP YOU WAITING MANU! 🥺 i am uno reversing your uno reverse >:3 hehe, i remember that i wrote you one of these last year, in april!!!! it's always been a difficult month for me, so it made me really happy + meant the whole world to be able to write something for you and have you receive it with all the love in your heart 🥺 so much so that you even printed it out (i cried tears of joy last year when you told me that AODKJFAJ i am so sorry 🙈). i hope you don't mind that i give last year's message a sibling LOL, with what i am about to say to you now!!!! (⁄ ⁄>⁄ω⁄<⁄ ⁄) 

dearest manu mousie, manu the great, my manumimii!

where do i even begin with youuuu ;w; /pos!!!!! maybe i can start with how much i love (and also fear /lh, because you are truly so... omniscient lol!) how perceptive you are... the way you make people feel seen (exhibit a, the contents of this ask asdfghjkl) and look so deep into their hearts... i think you are incredibly excellent at analysing people and charaters /POS and i feel like this is very evident in your fics and character studies!!!!! it is due in large part to your introspection which is another thing i love about you :D and why i think i find a great deal of comfort in you 🥺 because i am always especially drawn to these kinds of people!! people who you don't need to wear a mask around because they will be able to see through you anyway... it's very soothing in a sense to know that you are like this 🥺💗 and it only inspires me to be more perceptive too!! i hope i can be as caring and kind as manu is some day, heheh (๑•̀ᴗ•́๑)  💗

which brings me to my next point—i love all the ways in which you are quietly kind and looking out for your friends—again, as evidenced by this ask, wah... BUT ALSO!!! in how you do other things for them! 🥺 little blurbs in their mailbox (i revisit that xiangli one you wrote me not so long ago) or even drawings!!! perhaps i don't ship with haitham anymore, but the doodle you gifted me last year has always been a widget on my phone :3 and it will continue to be!!! that was the very first time anyone had ever drawn me something just out of the goodness of their heart, let alone gifted me anything of the sort!!!! 🥺🥺 so it is something i hold really really close. it makes me smile SO BIG!! and kick my feet all excitedly to see you do that for your other friends here too HEHE—when i look at femi's pfp... vana's pinned... i am reminded of just how big and bursting with love that your heart is 🥺💗

i love how much you have grown on here over the past year. ⭐️ in terms of your writing—which has been such a pleasure to witness over time how you've grown into a style that is so distinctly manu!! 🥺🥺 because like! 🥺 i remember so distinctly a certain post you made last year about wanting to improve your writing and your vocabulary and finding your 'own writing voice' 🥺 look at you now!!! with your lush descriptions and rich prose and dynamic characterisation, IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY!!!!! AND PROUD!!! and i hope you too, are proud of yourself friend 🥹💖 even aside from your writing, i'm so glad that you have grown more comfortable here in sharing more personal posts about yourself hehe AND OF COURSE YOUR SELFSHIPS!!!!!!!!!! :3 i am also very glad about how you have lots and lots of friends on here now!!! that all love and cherish and uplift and reassure you in the way you deserve to be 🥺

i'm just really happy you are here with us, babie. i hope you won't take it the wrong way when i say this, but i really do believe that you are so much stronger, kinder, and easy to love than you think yourself to be! 🥺🥺 i hope that you can continue to work on being less hard on yourself, and i hope that all your friends here can help with that in any way you'll let us!! i hope you will continue to share more of your heart with us here and let us cradle it and soothe it when you need it. i hope your studies will treat you as kindly as they can, and that you will succeed in them :3 i hope you know that all you need to do is try your best!! you have a beautiful brain and a tender, loving heart—so i am sure in due time that all the good karma will be returned to you 🥺💗 making you a steaming cup of pink chai with a dollop of condensed milk in it, and gently rubbing your hands in mine to warm them up 🥰 we love you so much manu, not just for all that you do for us, but for just simply existing as you are, and letting us bask in the warm light you radiate 💖💖💖

[raven-master]

When you figure out have to characterise Gale Dekarios without getting a headache lmk

honestly soothing to know this is a Universal Experience

[entropysanyt]

what

[s-t-a-r-c-o]

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