#the shadow is but a small and passing thing

[fellominaarcher]

don't gotta be in love — stripper!Karina x g!p fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: Beneath the heat lies a soft toxicity neither of them can shake—a game of control, temptation, and unspoken feelings they both pretend not to crave.

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⤷ content warning: sexual content (MINORS DNI), usage of alcohol and possibly drugs, probably will be long, more heavy themes.

A space bathed in red, blue, and green—colors bleeding into one another like temptation incarnate. Half-naked girls swayed on polished platforms, their movements hypnotic under the low haze of neon. Higher-class strippers graced elevated stages, commanding the poles like deities, gliding and spinning with the elegance of practiced sin. The bass throbbed in Y/N’s chest, a relentless thump that matched her heartbeat, dulled only by the alcohol she’d been nursing.

Hellfire Club.

The club that wore decadence like perfume.

The club that had Karina.

And there she was—Y/N.

Back in the den of temptation she told herself she wouldn’t crawl back to. But of course she did. She always did.

Back again.

Her gaze swept the room, but it was vacant in a way only an obsession could cause. She didn’t care for the others. Not the writhing bodies. Not the flirtatious giggles or the overdone perfumes clinging to their skins. Her mind was elsewhere, fixed on one thing, one woman.

Karina.

Co-owner. High-tier stripper. The first and only one Y/N ever truly wanted. The first woman who fucked her brains out and then left her bed like she'd never been there to begin with. The same woman who spat words dipped in venom while between her legs still slick with Y/N’s cum.

It had only been a few days since that night. Karina had shown up uninvited, draped in a long coat and armed with a mouth full of lies and lingerie stitched from devilry and Y/N had welcomed her like an idiot dog wagging its tail. That night had ended as it always did—with bodies tangled, breaths stolen, and bitter remarks left bleeding on silk sheets. Y/N let her go again, didn’t even try to stop her.

Because this was the only way she got close to her. As a customer. As a nobody.

Now seated in a lavish corner booth with gold accents and crushed velvet, Y/N watched the girls move like shadows made flesh. She nursed her drink, glass after glass, until numbers blurred. Eight? Ten? Twelve? She couldn’t remember. The taste of whiskey numbed her tongue, but her mind remained stubbornly focused, dangerously lucid despite the spin in her head.

One of the drinks, she was sure, had been tampered with. A small, low-dose cocktail of something meant to loosen her grip. Not enough to knock her out, but just enough to blur reality at the edges. She could still drive, probably. But that wasn’t what she came for. She didn’t come for logic.

She came for Karina.

Only Karina.

And yet… Karina hadn’t made an appearance. Not even a passing glance on stage. Not even that smirk that gutted her like a hooked fish. So she kept drinking, kept bobbing her head absentmindedly to the music, kept buying drinks for girls whose names she didn’t care to remember. Girls who came for money, for fake promises she delivered like a priest handing out communion.

They're drawn to the designer suit and the thick wallet. Stupid promises that smelt of paychecks and pearls.

Swarovski. Chanel. “I’ll take you home.” “I’ll buy you that necklace,” “You’ll never work again,” “Come home with me tonight.”

Lies. All of them.

Because none of them were Karina.

Until someone else approached.

A woman. A different kind of beautiful. Sharp cheekbones, smooth skin, an effortless power in the way she carried herself. She had that glimmer about her—expensive lingerie, smooth legs, perfect smile. The type who didn’t dance on the floor. One of the elites. She leaned down to meet Y/N’s gaze, her voice velvet smooth as she whispered just beside her ear.

“You look lonely.”

Her lips grazed Y/N’s jaw after the sentence, soft, deliberate.

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Her glass was suddenly heavier than before.

“There’s somewhere quieter than this… hellhole,” the woman continued, the word rolling off her tongue like a secret. “Let me take you there. I can fix it, Y/N.”

Y/N blinked. Slowly. The mention of her name jolted something in her drunken haze. Her gaze sharpened, if only for a second. “How do you know my—”

But the woman smiled, a curl of knowing mischief. She tugged lightly at Y/N’s collar. And Y/N, like a moth, followed.

Y/N didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. She let herself be guided away, letting this mystery woman lead her up into a part of the club she rarely had access to.

The private chambers.

Only a few times, though. Those times were with Karina.

Minutes later, they were side by side on a velvet chaise, surrounded by silence and ambient light. Her tie loosened, shirt slightly unbuttoned. Her skin wasn’t sweating anymore; the haze in her head had begun to lift, thanks to the cold glass of water placed in her hand.

“I’m the other owner,” the woman finally said, reclining into the plush couch. “You’ve never seen me because I was overseas for the past two months.” Her lips curled into a smirk. “But you can call me Winter.”

Y/N studied her, brow raised. “Winter, huh?”

Winter crossed one leg over the other, her dress inching up her thigh. “Mm. Not very fitting, is it?” she teased, eyes gleaming. “I tend to run hot.”

Y/N chuckled, her voice low and dry. “You run nosy. Knowing my name and all.”

Winter leaned in again, her lips hovering close. “I’ve read your file,” she whispered, fingertips brushing Y/N’s chest. “You’ve spent more on Karina than anyone else in the club combined. That makes you interesting.”

Y/N swallowed, her throat tightening. “Is that why you lured me in here? Business talk?”

“No,” Winter said simply. “Curiosity.”

Y/N chuckled lowly, taking a slow sip. “Is it that obvious?”

Winter tilted her head. “That you may or may not have an affinity for my business partner? She's known for her... emotional unavailability. You must really like getting hurt.”

“Maybe I like the burn,” Y/N shot back, gaze narrowing with a lazy smirk.

“Mm.” Winter shifted closer, their knees touching now. “Or maybe you’re just dumb.”

Y/N didn’t deny it. Her eyes lingered on Winter’s lips. “You didn’t bring me here to talk about Karina, did you?”

Winter is very pretty, easily passed as her type of woman to tangle with it but maybe Y/N was really desperate and halfway drunk.

“Maybe you're not as dumb as I thought you were, a pretty face and she wears good quality fabric as her suit,” she spoke, her voice was half teasing and her volume was low.

As if to tempt Y/N to break and the owners of Hellfire Club did have a bit of negative streak in them, don't they?

Winter smiled, it was playful, but there was a hunger lurking behind her eyes. She leaned in, her lips grazing Y/N’s in a teasing touch. A single peck. Then one at the corner of her mouth. Then her jawline.

Her hands pressed gently to Y/N’s chest, not pushing her away, but pulling herself closer.

Y/N responded slowly, pressing two soft kisses back to Winter’s mouth before gripping her neck with one hand—gently, possessively. Her thumb traced just beneath her jaw as she deepened the kiss.

She kissed her for real this time. Slow. Languid. Tasting. Feeling. Letting herself lean into it even though her head was still somewhere between wanting Karina and wanting to forget Karina.

Winter let out a soft moan against her lips, climbing onto Y/N’s lap, straddling her with graceful confidence. Her hands clutched the collar of Y/N’s shirt, slowly unbuttoning it. Y/N, in turn, slipped her hand under Winter’s dress, her palm flat on the soft skin of her thigh, moving up-

Winter broke the kiss, barely, and whispered against her lips, “You kiss like you’re still thinking about her.”

Y/N’s eyes darkened. “And you talk like you care.”

Winter smiled. “I don’t.”

And then they kissed again, rougher this time. More hands. Less restraint. Clothes loosening. Breath hitching.

But it wasn’t just lust. It was something else. Something darker. Something hollow trying to be filled.

Winter broke the kiss first, gasping softly, her lips red and swollen. Her fingers curled into Y/N’s shirt like claws, trembling with lust and impatience. She wanted to rip it off, wanted to touch every inch of that body, feel that cock pressing into her, teasing her entrance without even being inside. Her clit ached with anticipation, her cunt twitching with the need to be filled.

Their breaths came out ragged, heated and uneven. The air between them was practically crackling. The temperature in the room spiked; heartbeats pounded like drums, fast and a tad heavy.

“You’re so fucking lucky, Y/N,” Winter whispered, her voice low and seductive, laced with something wicked. Her palm slid to the back of Y/N’s neck, nails grazing lightly. “I don’t usually bring customers to my chamber. I don’t let them touch me like this. Let alone fuck me on sight.”

She leaned in and kissed Y/N again. It was slow, messy, tongue licking into her mouth like she wanted to taste every regret she was about to cause.

It was long. Drawn out. Addictive.

They took their time. There was no rush, just the burn of anticipation, the slow unraveling of restraint. Hands roamed like they had every right, like they were both claiming territory. Y/N’s lips trailed down Winter’s throat, suckling, biting softly, then soothing the skin with her tongue. Winter let out a breathy moan, tilting her head back and grinding her hips down into Y/N’s lap.

They weren’t fully naked, not yet. But their clothes were disheveled, half-undone, falling away piece by piece like a countdown. Buttons popped. A bra strap slipped. A belt was loosened, hanging off the loop. They wanted to get there, to the core of it all.

But they didn’t want to rush what was blooming in the tension, the maddening pleasure of teasing, of knowing what was coming but refusing to give it just yet.

Winter straddled Y/N, rolling her hips down slowly, letting the friction of Y/N’s bulge make her whimper.

Y/N’s hands slid under Winter’s dress, up her thighs, gripping her ass and pulling her forward again, harder this time. She whispered something against Winter’s neck, it was dirty, low, possessive.

“Want you dripping. I want to bend you over this couch and watch you beg for it.”

Winter bit her lip, pressing her forehead against Y/N’s. “You’re close,” she breathed. “So close to getting everything you want. Keep going.”

Y/N didn’t need encouragement. She kissed her again, hungrily, then trailed her lips down to Winter’s collarbone, her hands now palming her breasts through the thin fabric of her dress. She wanted to ruin her. Wanted Winter’s legs thrown over her shoulders while she made her scream into the silk cushions of this goddamn throne room.

It was carnal. Beautiful. Consensual destruction.

Until the door slammed open.

The sound echoed like a gunshot.

Both women jolted. Winter cursed under her breath and immediately shoved Y/N off her lap, breathless and annoyed. The mood snapped like a rubber band pulled too tight.

Standing in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes burning, was Karina.

Karina.

Wearing black leather pants and a cropped blazer with nothing but lace underneath. Her eyes were locked onto Winter, expression unreadable but vibrating with rage.

Winter groaned and rolled her eyes. “Well, fuck… night’s ruined.” She adjusted her dress with lazy irritation, the fabric barely covering her thighs.

Y/N stood up too, buttoning her shirt clumsily, tucking it back into her pants as if that would erase the heat still radiating off her. Her head was spinning. She was still a little high, on alcohol, on lust, on Winter’s lips but Karina’s sudden entrance cut through it all.

Y/N turned to face her. “Karina…”

She said it like a prayer. Like an answered one.

But Karina didn’t look at her. Not once. Her eyes never left Winter, cold and sharp like she could gut her with just a glare.

“Get out,” she barked. Her voice cracked like a whip. “Y/N, get out of here. Now.”

Y/N didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The leash around her neck was invisible, but she felt it pull. She obeyed, slipping past Karina, heart pounding, jaw clenched.

Behind her, a glass shattered.

Winter screamed and hurled the empty drinking glass at the wall behind Karina, the sound splitting the tension in two.

Neither woman flinched.

It was a silent war between them. One that didn’t need words.

Karina didn’t know why she barged in. Why she had yanked Y/N out of someone else’s hands like she had the right. Why her chest felt like it was splitting open.

But in that moment, it felt right.

It felt like saving Y/N from a fire she had no business walking into even though Karina had set the match.

And neither of them knew…

──────────────────────

Karina followed Y/N out of Winter’s chamber, her heels clicking against the marble floor of the hallway as the music dimmed behind them. The air outside hit different. It was quieter, cooler, and painfully real. Y/N stumbled slightly as she stepped into the semi-deserted parking lot, gripping the lapel of her blazer tightly, like it might anchor her sanity after what just happened.

Karina watched from a few steps behind, gaze sharp but unreadable. Y/N wasn’t sure what to say, how to face her, not after being caught in the middle of something that felt like cheating even if they weren’t anything. Not officially. Not on paper. Not even emotionally, right?

She told herself there was nothing to feel guilty about. Karina had made herself clear that night, weeks ago in Y/N's penthouse—“You’re a customer. Nothing more.” Harsh, unforgettable, and branded into Y/N's memory. So maybe she’d just been in her head. Maybe the late-night texts, the mind-melting sex, the stolen looks across the club, all of that meant nothing. Just business, just bodies. She had to believe that.

But Karina barged into Winter’s chamber tonight like she owned Y/N’s body. Like she had every right to rip her out of someone else’s arms.

The vice president leaned against her black sedan, leather seats still warm from the sun, but the cold night air was creeping in. The bass from inside the club thumped faintly through the concrete, and the silence between them stretched too long, too loud. Karina was still standing behind her, silent, and it reminded Y/N of the time she’d smashed a whiskey glass into Juyeon’s head. That same energy. That same burning, irrational, territorial rage.

Y/N didn’t turn around yet. Her voice was low. Steady. “What was that?”

Silence.

“Not the time, Y/N,” Karina replied, her tone clipped, but her voice softer than it had been inside.

Y/N finally turned, eyes sharp and laced with something darker. “What was that?” she repeated, firmer now.

Karina stood still, arms folded, her face unreadable under the parking lot lights. Her lips parted, then closed again. She hated being cornered. But Y/N wasn’t backing down.

“I don’t know,” Karina admitted finally, her voice dry. “I have no excuses for that.”

She paused. A slow breath, eyes not leaving Y/N’s. “Don’t be flattered, Y/N. Like I told you that night, I’m not attached. But you are. Or you’re on your way to being. And I don’t like that.”

The sting landed, but it wasn’t fatal. Y/N raised a brow. “Huh?” That’s all she gave. She wanted Karina to keep talking. To dig her own grave deeper.

Karina rolled her eyes, shifting her weight as the wind tugged at her sheer blouse. “I almost had you blacklisted from the club.”

Y/N blinked. “Seriously?”

“I need the money,” Karina added with a shrug, trying to mask the weight of the statement under apathy. “So I didn’t.”

Y/N dropped her eyes to the asphalt, exhaled, then glanced up again. Karina was hugging herself now, visibly cold, though she refused to ask for warmth.

Y/N sucked her teeth, jaw tightening. “Get off work, Karina. I’ll drive you home. Like I do sometimes.”

The reminder hung between them was quiet but heavy. A shared history neither of them wanted to name.

Karina didn’t move at first. She just stared at Y/N, like weighing the pros and cons of sliding into her car again, into that familiar leather passenger seat where things always got blurry. But finally, she nodded once and followed.

Inside the car, warmth returned. They didn’t talk much at first, just let the silence breathe. The city blurred by in streaks of gold and red. Then, slowly, Karina muttered something about a customer who left her a bad tip, and Y/N countered with a snarky joke about expensive cocktails and cheap men. The tension thinned, but it didn’t disappear.

Y/N’s fingers drummed the steering wheel. “So… the blacklist thing. Would you actually do that?”

Karina didn’t answer right away. “Does it matter?” she asked, not looking at her.

“It does to me,” Y/N said, eyes flicking to her. “I need to know if you were threatening me with something real or just being dramatic.”

Karina bit her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe a little of both.”

A beat.

Y/N smiled, but there was no humor in it. “You’re such a bitch.”

“And you still want me,” Karina replied, barely above a whisper.

Y/N pulled into Karina's building’s underground parking lot and parked. She didn’t kill the engine right away.

“I do want you,” Y/N confessed, her voice lower now, more intimate. “But not in the way you think. I don’t want you to be my girlfriend. I’m not asking you to catch feelings.”

Karina turned to her slowly.

“We don’t gotta be in love to kiss,” Y/N said. “We don’t have to fall apart every time we see each other naked. We can just… be. You can be mine for a night when you need it. When the mood’s right.”

Karina looked at her with unreadable eyes, the tension shifting in the air again—thick, warm, dangerously familiar.

“And,” Y/N added with a lazy grin, “Dont blacklist me, though. I really like that cocktail at Hellfire. What’s it called again? Wet Pussy?”

Karina snorted despite herself, lips curling. “You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot who tips well.”

Karina leaned back in her seat, letting her head rest against the headrest. Her expression softened, but her guard was still halfway up.

Y/N reached over and brushed her knuckles along Karina’s arm, slow and deliberate. “Walk me up.” Karina asked Y/N, looking into her eyes and the tension was thinning.

Y/N didn’t answer, but the silence wasn’t a no.

And that was enough.

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[l1v-jzn]

„Bite The Blade” Series – Chapter. 01 – The Call

pairing: Ghostface!Seong-Je x FinalGirl!Reader

genre: Horror, Thriller, Dark Romance

summary: Rain lashes down over seong-an high, an all-girls school now haunted by fear and a string of mysterious murders. You’re the last student on campus, trying to wait out the storm until a blocked call comes through with a voice that knows too much. Taunting, intimate, and terrifying, the voice on the other end seems to be watching your every move.

as panic sets in, you flee into the storm-drenched streets, only to be cornered by a figure cloaked in shadows until Park Humin appears, offering safety. But the game isn’t over. Another call. Another threat. And high above, behind the curtain of rain, Keum Seong-Je watches. Masked. Patient. Hungry for the chase.

and the game? It’s only just begun.

taglist: @thepoeticfirefly @kyungjunnies @hikaerys @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @miyawwn @sanaxo-o @feralmaneater @jeewhat @satorustorm (and anyone wanna be tagged here!)

— All Chapters. — — Next Chapter. —

rain peeled down the windows of the city like the sky had finally given up. Seong-an High, an all-girls school tucked away behind high gates and ivy-clad walls, had always been a place of whispered rumors and secrets. The kind of place where every step echoed in empty corridors and the slightest glance could be more telling than it seemed. sat empty past dusk, the echo of student laughter now distant and ghost-like. The old gym's roof leaked in a rhythmic tap, and somewhere in the shadows of the campus, a lone figure stood still beneath a flickering streetlight.

inside a corner study room, you were the last one left. A practice test half-filled in front of you, your name scrawled hastily at the top. The overhead fluorescents hummed their stale buzz while you chewed the end of a pen, eyes darting to the ticking clock. 8:36 p.m.

he was late again. Yeon Si-Eun had promised to meet you. A small tutoring favor, a ruse to make sure you weren’t walking home alone anymore. After all, it hadn’t been safe since the murders started.

people whispered about them now like urban legends, but they were very real. Classmates missing. Found days later. Faces unrecognizable.

and every time, a single phone left at the scene. No fingerprints. Just one thing on the screen: UNKNOWN CALLER.

tonight felt different. Your gut said leave, but the rain roared like a cage outside, so you stayed, half hoping Sieun would show, half resenting that he hadn’t.

your phone buzzed. Not a message. A call. Blocked ID. You froze.

against every rational instinct, you answered. "Hello?" Static. Then–

"Why do you always stay so late?" The voice was smooth. Male. Unmistakably amused. Low and too familiar.

your heart jerked. "Who is this?"

"I liked the way you looked today. That oversized hoodie. You always try to blend in, but you’re just begging to be seen."

You swallowed hard. The door behind you creaked because of wind, maybe. Or not. "Si-Eun? Is this some kind of joke?" A pause. Then a slow, dangerous chuckle. "Si-Eun’s cute. He won’t save you." You dropped the phone. It hit the tile with a crack.

your breath picked up. You grabbed your bag, shoving your things in fast, your pulse hammering so loudly you nearly missed it. The sound of a locker door slamming down the hall.

you turned off the lights, slipped into the hallway’s shadow, heart crawling up your throat.

your feet padded silently down the corridor, every step echoing louder than it should. You passed Classroom 2-B. Empty. 2-C. Then a fast movement occurred in the room.

a figure down the hall. Tall. Hooded. He didn’t run. He walked. Like he had time. Like he owned the chase.

you backed away, slipping into a stairwell. The sound of footsteps behind you, getting faster. You pushed through the exit door, out into the storm.

rain soaked through your clothes instantly, turning the world to slush and shadow. Neon signs in the distance flickered like dying stars.

you ran down the hill. Toward the back of town. Toward anywhere that felt lit, populated ≠ safe.

your phone buzzed again. You didn’t want to look. But you did. UNKNOWN CALLER. It has a new voicemail. You played it on speaker as you moved.

"Run all you want, pretty thing. But I’m not chasing you because I have to." A pause happened for a second before he continued.

"I’m chasing you because it’s fun."

a scream somewhere behind you. Someone else. Or maybe someone who could help you. And from the rooftop across the street, a silhouette watched. Masked. Still. Rain glinting off a blade tucked beneath his jacket. Keum Seong-Je. Still hidden. Still waiting. But not for long.

you ducked into a narrow alley between a noodle shop and an old karaoke bar, the smell of grease and mildew clinging to your skin. Steam curled from a vent above your head, thick and blinding. Your breath fogged in the air, matching the panic crawling up your spine.

a man stepped out of the shadows near the end of the alley.

not masked.

at first, your breath hitched, sharp and panicked, because all you saw was a tall figure emerging from the shadows. Your feet stumbled back, heart nearly punching through your ribs, convinced it was him. The masked voice. The hunter.

but then the light from the noodle shop hit his face: familiar, confused, unmasked. Park Humin.

“Hey!” he called, squinting through the rain. “What the hell are you doing out here alone?”

you ran to him, grabbed his sleeve. “Someone’s following me. He called me. H-he knew things. He was inside the school.” Hu-min’s eyes narrowed. “Are you hurt?”

you shook your head, trembling. “No, but–”

a crashing sound behind you. A trash can tipped over. Then silence.

hu-min pushed you behind him. “Stay here.” you gripped the wall, fingers slipping against wet bricks. But nothing came. No movement. No voice. Until Hu-min turned back to you, lips tight. “We need to call Si-Eun. Now.” you nodded in anticipation and pulled out your phone in your pocket. No signal. The first thing you both noticed before sending a message for Si-Eun.

hu-min cursed under his breath and pulled his own out, but before he could dial– A ringtone. He looked at the screen.

UNKNOWN CALLER.

his thumb hovered. Then he pressed answer. “Who the hell–” before he could finish his sentence. A voice on the other end spoke. Loud enough for both of you to hear. "Two for one? Lucky me." Then static. Then laughter. Cold and electric.

humin quickly ends the call. He grabbed your hand and pulled you out into the street, weaving through crowds, past neon lights and shuttered shops.

but just as you reached the alley’s edge, a thud echoed behind you. Both of you froze. Hu-min turned fast, shielding you with his body again. A trash bin now lay tipped over, not the one from earlier. This one had something embedded in the wall behind it. A knife. Long. Sharp. Still quivering from the force.

your knees buckled slightly. You clung to Hu-min's jacket, the adrenaline melting into a tremble that ran deep.

“I–I can’t do this,” you whispered, your voice cracking with more than fear now. Rain mingled with the tears you didn’t want to admit were falling. “He knew things. He was in the school. He saw me.”

hu-min glanced down at you, his usual carefree demeanor replaced by something graver. “We’re gonna figure this out. I promise.” He gently helped you wipe the rain from your face with his sleeve, his touch uncharacteristically soft.

you barely had a second to breathe before your phone buzzed again. A silent alert. A photo of you and Hu-min. In the alley. Taken seconds ago. From above.

high on a nearby rooftop, a figure in a hooded raincoat leaned against the ledge, mask glinting under the red neon of a motel sign. He watched you both—carefully.

and somewhere, from a rooftop or a fire escape, Seong-Je watched. Mask lowered to his chin, blade tucked into his hoodie. He licked his thumb and wiped the blood from the edge.

“We're just getting started.”

————————————————————————

note: just finished chapter 1! woohoo 😔🙌🏻 hope y'all like this first chapter!! It's kinda short tho, but I'll make it longer in the next chapters 🤞🏻

© l1v-jzn

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 24

<<<Previous Next>>>

You had just taken a bite of your pastry; still warm, the subtle sweetness of melon practically melting on your tongue when Chai Latte Cookie leaned in with that look. You knew that look.

“So…” she began innocently, twirling a strand of her hair around one finger. “Will the ever-elusive, breathtakingly mysterious, utterly unshakable Sage of Truth be joining us this morning?” 

You nearly choked. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie let out a low whistle, already smirking behind his cup. Earl Grey didn’t look up, but you could see the small upward twitch of his lips. You glared at Chai, cheeks warming. “We didn’t even see each other yesterday.” 

“Oh, I know,” she said breezily. “Which is exactly why I’m asking. Perhaps absence makes the heart grow bolder?”

“Don’t you mean fonder?” Hazelnut biscotti offered, raising a brow. 

“No,” Chai said with mock solemnity. “I meant what I said. This one’s bold now. I saw it. The way they held his hand like a seasoned romantic under the table the other day? The nerve.” 

You covered your face with your hands, groaning into your palms. “I’m going to walk into the sea.”

“There is no sea,” Earl Grey said mildly, buttering his second pastry. “But if there were, I imagine you'd still try.” 

Chai patted your shoulder, all too pleased with herself. “Don’t worry. We’re proud of you. Truly. But if you think for a second I’m not going to tease you every time he’s not around, you’re wrong.” You peeked out from between your fingers. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me.” Unfortunately, you did. Still, despite the embarrassment, there was a warmth in your chest that hadn’t faded not since that day in the gardens, not since the quiet walk to dinner, not since the moment you caught yourself watching him with that soft, foolish smile on your face. 

No, he wasn’t joining you this morning. But the thought of him lingered all the same. You waited for the perfect beat just as Chai Latte Cookie sipped her tea, her eyes still dancing from the last quip she made about Shadow Milk and then you leaned in, casually, your tone light but unmistakably deliberate. “So,” you said, “is there someone you’ve been thinking about lately?”

Chai choked. A sputter of tea escaped her lips as she quickly reached for a napkin, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with as much grace as one could muster after nearly inhaling jasmine green. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie blinked. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, her voice half an octave too high. 

Earl Grey Cookie raised a brow, ever observant. “They barely asked anything. You reacted as though they proposed on one knee.”

“I did not,” Chai huffed, cheeks just a touch too pink. “It was just them asking. I didn’t expect it.” You tilted your head innocently, sipping your own tea. “Why not me?”

 Chai stared at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a carefully constructed smile, she leaned back in her seat, twirling her spoon between two fingers. “You just don’t usually ask things like that,” she said smoothly. “Especially not first.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned forward, clearly invested. “But it’s a good question. Is there someone, Chai?”

Chai waved him off with a groan. “Please, like I’d tell you.” 

You gave her a small smile, more sincere this time. “You don’t have to tell us. I was just curious.” 

Her eyes softened, and something flickered across her face brief, almost imperceptible. She reached for her teacup again, holding it between her hands like a shield. 

“…Maybe,” she murmured into the steam. “Maybe there’s someone. Or maybe I just enjoy a good story too much.” 

Earl Grey gave a quiet hum, sipping his tea like this was all immensely entertaining. Hazelnut Biscotti looked scandalized; he hadn't gotten a straight answer. But you just smiled, letting the moment pass. Because you saw the way her gaze lingered not on Hazelnut or Earl, but on you. And maybe she did enjoy a good story. Or perhaps she was just quietly waiting for hers to be written.

You rested your chin in your hand, watching the morning light glint off your tea. “I think we’ll get in,” you said, voice softer than expected, but certain. “All of us. The Spire, the labs we want… I really believe it.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie tilted his head, grinning. “You sound pretty confident for someone who almost got taken out by enchanted ice cream.” 

You rolled your eyes. “That was one time.” Chai Latte Cookie laughed, nudging your leg under the table. “Go on, then. Enlighten us. What do you think it’ll be like?”

You glanced at each of them, letting the thought build in your mind. “Big, obviously. But not in an intimidating way. More like… the kind of big that feels earned. The towers won’t just scrape the sky, they'll speak to it. Glass ceilings, enchanted railings, whole hallways that reflect constellations, maybe even floating staircases. It’ll feel alive.” 

Earl Grey Cookie raised a brow, intrigued. “You sound like you’ve seen the blueprints.” You smiled. “Maybe I’ve just dreamed hard enough.” There was a quiet moment before you added, “I want us there. Together. I want to sit with you all in some ridiculous sky-windowed study hall with piles of research and cups of bad tea and think…we made it. Not because someone handed it to us, but because we earned it. Because we never stopped trying.” 

Hazelnut leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, grinning. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“I’m serious,” you said, trying not to laugh. “We’ve all worked so hard. You, with your field reports and that time you got Professor Calamint to quote you-”

“Unintentionally,” Hazelnut Biscotti mumbled.

“Still counts,” you said. “Chai, your enchantments? I saw how the upper division students were in awe of your binding techniques.” Chai blushed, sipping her tea to hide it.

“And Earl Grey,” you continued, looking at him, “you’re probably already halfway to running your own department.”

He didn’t smile, not exactly but something in his expression shifted. A kind of quiet, thoughtful pride.

“I just mean…” You trailed off for a second, then looked back down at your tea, hands cupped around it. “I want it to be us. I want to build something with all of you. Not just research. A life.” 

Chai reached across the table, squeezing your hand. “Then let’s do it,” she said simply. “Let’s get in. All of us.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti raised his cup. “To windows in the sky and pineapple-free food experiments.” Earl Grey added, “To what comes next. And who we’ll become, getting there.”

You smiled, heart full. “To us. Always.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie squinted at you over the rim of his cup, dramatic suspicion written all over his face. “Okay,” he said slowly, pointing a croissant at you like it was a wand of truth.

“But seriously. Who are you and what have you done with the real you?”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” he said, leaning back with a grin, “first you nearly cry over us doing research together like it’s the last scene in a tearjerker, and now you’re giving motivational speeches over tea. Are you… okay?”

“I’m great,” you replied, mock-offended. “I’m being heartfelt!”

“Oh no,” he said, gasping. “It’s worse than I thought.” 

Before you could retaliate, he reached across the table and dramatically placed his palm on your forehead. “Warm. Suspiciously warm. Someone check the pineapple ice cream. I think it’s still in their system.” 

Chai Latte Cookie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea. “Hazelnut Leave them be!”

“I’m just saying!” he protested, wagging his croissant like a lecturing professor. “Next thing you know, they’ll be asking us to hold hands and sing a unity song about the Spire.” 

You groaned, grabbing a napkin and chucking it at his head. “You’re unbelievable.” Earl Grey Cookie, unbothered, sipped his tea calmly. “If they do start singing, I’m leaving. Just for the record.”

“Rude,” you muttered, trying not to smile. Hazelnut grinned, victorious. “There’s the real you. All I had to do was poke the dramatics out.” 

You shook your head, finally laughing again. “Fine. No more speeches. But you’re all still stuck with me at the Spire.”

Hazelnut Biscotti gave you a mock salute. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Moments like these made you cherish what it meant to be mortal. Even as breakfast came to a close the laughter lingered in your memories.

The four of you trudged toward Professor Almond Custard Cookie’s lecture hall like prisoners marching toward a velvet-lined doom. Despite the laughter from breakfast still lingering in your chest, the energy had shifted to something sleepier, more subdued as if the early hour pressed down heavier now that the scent of fresh pastries had faded from the air.

Even Earl Grey Cookie, who normally carried himself with such relentless composure, rubbed at his eyes with a gloved hand as you rounded the corner. 

Chai Latte Cookie stifled a yawn beside you. “Do you think if we all collectively fall asleep, he’ll just… keep going?” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie groaned dramatically. “He’d probably take it as a compliment. ‘Ah, yes,’”

he said, imitating Almond Custard’s slow, droning cadence, “‘my voice so soothing, so powerful it guides even the most unwilling minds into the arms of dreams.’”

You stifled a laugh. “You know that’s exactly what he’d say.” Chai nodded solemnly. “And he’d still assign homework while we’re unconscious.” 

The lecture hall loomed ahead, filled already with the rustle of notebooks and the soft drone of students shuffling into their usual seats. You settled into yours automatically; second row, left side while the others filled in around you.

A few weeks ago, your stomach would’ve twisted just being here. Back then, your notebook was mostly blank, your confidence was hanging by a thread, and Professor Almond Custard had developed an uncanny knack for calling on you at the worst possible moments. But now?

Now your notebook had pages of real notes. Now you could follow the material not always easily, but with far less panic. And now, thankfully, the professor barely called on you at all. Whether that was out of mercy or satisfaction, you weren’t sure, but you’d take the reprieve.

Professor Almond Custard Cookie shuffled in at last, his robes rustling like pages of an old tome, and the class collectively slumped as he cleared his throat. 

“Good morning,” he intoned, voice as slow and honey-thick as ever. “Let us return to the topic of magical theoretical integrations and their applications in low-energy environments…” 

Hazelnut whispered behind you, “Wake me when he says something I need to care about.” You fought a grin and let your head tilt ever so slightly toward Chai Latte Cookie, who was already doodling sleepy stars in the corner of her notes.

Even Earl Grey Cookie didn’t pretend to look overly invested though his quill still scratched dutifully at his parchment, because of course it did. Your hand drifted to your own pen, and you began writing, a steady rhythm that helped keep your eyes from drifting shut. 

The class stretched ahead, dull and slow, but you didn’t dread it anymore. And somewhere in the back of your mind just beyond the sound of Almond Custard’s voice you wondered what Shadow Milk Cookie was doing now.

If he was working on his speech that was endlessly picked apart. If he thought about you the way you were thinking about him. You tapped your pen once against your notebook. Just a little longer, you thought. Then you’d see him again.

The rest of your classes passed in a kind of sleepy, sunlit haze the kind that made your notes a bit messier than usual, but your mind was just clear enough to carry you through.

The late morning hours melted into afternoon without resistance, and soon enough, the four of you were trailing lazily down the corridor together, lingering in the quiet comfort of post-class peace.

“I think I’m gonna head to the Scholar’s Wing,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder and adjusting the strap with a small sigh. “Go see Shadow Milk for lunch.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie perked up with a grin. “Oh? A lunch date with the Fount of Knowledge himself?”

“Tutoring,” you corrected smoothly, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “I’ll just… check in on him. See how the speech prep is going.” 

Earl Grey Cookie gave a knowing hum, brushing a bit of dust off his sleeve. “Very considerate of you.”

“I brought snacks,” you added, patting your satchel. “I’m not planning to starve myself before dinner.” Chai Latte Cookie stepped in front of you without warning, hands already moving toward your collar. 

“Hold still,” she murmured, cupping your face, getting rid of any residual crumbs checking for anything that might be off.

“If you’re going to see him, you might as well look like you weren’t flattened by six hours of lectures.”

You blinked. “Do I look that bad?”

She gave you a soft smile, gently straightening a crease on your shoulder. “No. You look like you. Just… a slightly rumpled version.”

Her fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary before she stepped back. “There. Perfect.” 

Hazelnut rolled his eyes dramatically. “You’re sending them off like a lovesick noble in a romantic epic.” 

Earl Grey Cookie chuckled. “It’s the academic equivalent of sending a knight off to war.” You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was impossible to ignore. “You three are insufferable.”

Chai looked at you sweetly, “Don’t lie to yourself, you love us.” 

You didn’t argue. Just smiled, small and quiet, your heart full. “I’ll meet you all at dinner,” you said, starting to walk backward down the corridor. “If I don’t show, assume I’ve been buried under three feet of rhetorical edits.”

“We’ll bring a shovel,” Hazelnut called.

“And tea,” Chai added.

“And reason,” Earl Grey said with a smirk. “Though he may not listen.”

You waved them off, turning toward the familiar quiet of the Scholar’s Wing notes in your bag, nervous energy in your chest, and a little bit of magic still tangled in your hair where Chai had touched it. 

You approached the Scholar’s Wing with steady steps, though your heart drummed a little faster the closer you got.

The soft light that filtered through the tall arched windows of the corridor dappled across the polished floors like shards of daydreams quiet, golden, expectant. It always felt a little different, coming here with purpose. 

Not for tutoring, not strictly. Just to see him. You reached the familiar door, the one you’d memorized every detail of by now the precise polish of the brass plaque, the way the faintest hum of warding spells curled around the wood like mist.

You were early. You knew that. Technically, you didn’t need to knock Shadow Milk had said so once, long ago, in his typical way “Formality is a construct. But I’ll indulge it, if you must.” Still, your knuckles rapped gently on the door three soft taps, quick and careful. It wasn’t about permission, not really. It was a greeting. A ritual. You waited a beat. Then another.

No one responded at first, and for a moment you wondered if he might be buried in his work again, head down over a sea of ancient texts or that ever-growing speech draft. But then soft footsteps. A shadow passed under the threshold. The door opened. And there he was.

Shadow Milk Cookie stood with his usual composed grace, robes drawn neatly around him, one sleeve still slightly ink-smudged. His expression shifted the moment he saw you not with surprise, but with a softness that was almost imperceptible if you didn’t already know what to look for. “You’re early,” he said, voice low, calm. You gave a sheepish smile. “I know. But I wanted to see you.”

He blinked once, slow and unreadable. Then, he stepped aside. “Then by all means,” he said, and there was the faintest trace of something warmer in his tone, welcoming, even. “Come in.”

He didn’t say anything more at first just stepped aside as you entered, the soft fall of his robes brushing the doorframe. But something about it struck you. You tilted your head, giving him a sideways glance. “You usually don’t get up.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie raised a brow ever so slightly, hands folding behind his back. “Don’t I?”

“Nope.” You stepped further into the room, shrugging off your bag. “You always say ‘Enter’ like a command whispered through the walls. I’ve never actually seen you open the door yourself.” He looked at you for a long moment, then turned, walking back toward his desk with that same composed grace he always carried. “You arrived earlier than usual. I assumed it might be someone else.”

“Ah.” You nodded slowly, teasing, lacing your words. “So I’m not the only one gracing you with midday visits.” 

His glance flicked toward you again sharp, amused. “I didn’t say that.” You smiled, folding your arms. “So who did you think it was?” 

He paused, adjusting a few scrolls on his desk. “Perhaps I hoped it was you.” Your breath caught just briefly and then his voice softened. “But if it hadn’t been… I imagine I would’ve been disappointed.” 

You blinked. You paused, your fingers hovering over the back of the chair across from him, the seat you always took.

The one for students, for questions, for careful study beneath the ever-watchful gaze of the Sage of Truth. But something about it didn’t feel right today.

Instead, you stepped around the desk, dragging the chair slowly, deliberately, to his side. The soft scrape of wood against stone echoed through the quiet room as you brought it next to his, tucking it just so close enough to feel the space shift, the atmosphere soften. Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t speak, but you could feel his gaze on you, sharp and observant, as always.You didn’t meet his eyes right away. 

You just settled beside him, folding your hands in your lap. “Thought I’d try sitting here today,” you said lightly, though your voice wavered at the edges. “If that’s alright.”

There was a beat of silence just long enough for you to wonder if you’d overstepped. Then, softly, “It’s more than alright.”

You turned your head to look at him then, and for once, he wasn’t wearing the mask of the Fount of Knowledge. No distant air, no carefully crafted distance. Just Shadow Milk, sitting beside you, his gaze softened into something gentle. You offered a small smile, and he nodded once, slow and sure. 

And just like that, the space between you wasn’t for questions and answers anymore. It was just for you.

You sat a little straighter in your chair, glancing sideways at him, watching the way his attention lingered half on you, half on the open scroll he had yet to properly acknowledge since your arrival. A quiet moment passed, and then, you cleared your throat gently.

“So,” you said, nudging your shoulder slightly toward his, “are you planning to eat lunch? Or are you just going to subsist on ink fumes and scholarly resolve?”

He let out a breath, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “That was the plan,” he murmured, eyes still focused ahead. “But your tone suggests disapproval.” 

You smiled, pleased. “Deep disapproval. Shame, even.” He turned to look at you then, one brow arched in that signature, inquisitive way. “I see.” 

You reached down and pulled your bag into your lap, flipping open the flap with a rustle and revealing the contents with a small flourish. “Lucky for you, I came prepared.” Inside were perhaps more than reasonably necessary snacks. Wrapped treats, dried fruit, a half-loaf of sweetbread from the dining hall, and two little jars of preserved jam nestled among napkins and spoons.

“I brought provisions,” you said, very proudly. “Just in case I got hungry. Or, you know, in case you needed a reason to not forget about basic mortal needs.” 

He looked at the collection, then at you, then back again. “You planned for this?”

“I plan for many things,” you said solemnly. “Hunger emergencies are high on the list. Especially in rooms where you lose track of time and forget meals exist.” 

A small, fond smile tugged at the corners of his lips, subtle but real. “I should’ve known,” he murmured. “You’re quite difficult to out-prepare.” 

You held out a wrapped bit of sweetbread like a peace offering. “Accept the mortal offering, O Fount of Knowledge.” His eyes narrowed just slightly amused. And then, with a quiet, almost reverent motion, he took it from your hand. “I suppose I’m convinced,” he said. “Just this once.”

You grinned. “That’s all I ask.” And for a few moments more, the two of you sat in gentle silence, sharing quiet laughter and sweeter things, the air lighter than it had been moments before.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, nibbling on your snack as the thought came to you casual, light, and maybe a little mischievous. 

“So,” you began, tone playful, “what’s your favorite flower? And which do you think you’d embody?” Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t look up from the parchment he was annotating, but you saw the faint lift at the corner of his lips. “A curious question for a midday visit.”

“Come on,” you prodded. “It’s not that odd. Everyone has a favorite flower.”

“That may be true,” he murmured, finishing his note with a flourish of ink. “But few ask for both a favorite and a self-portrait in petals.”

You grinned. “Then I’m the first, and that makes it special.” He finally looked up at that heterochromic gaze resting on you with a flicker of amusement. “Very well.” You perked up. “So?” A breath passed. He set his quill down. 

“…Delphinium,” he said at last. “Tall. Elusive. Slightly poisonous. But beautiful in a way not easily understood.” You blinked. “Poisonous?”

“Only to those who are careless with it,” he replied smoothly. That made you laugh. “That sounds about right.”

“But,” he added, eyes narrowing slightly in thought, “if I had to choose a flower to embody, it would be different.”

“Oh?”

“The hellebore,” he said softly. “Quiet. Winter-blooming. Not eager to be known. And yet, it endures. Even under snow.” You tilted your head. “That’s a little sad.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But also true.” 

You were quiet for a moment, letting that settle. Then, with a smile, you said, “Okay. Your turn. Do me next.”

His brow arched. “Pardon?”

“Pick a flower,” you said, pointing to yourself dramatically. “One that fits me. What would I be?”

He studied you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze made your cheeks warm. Then, calmly, he said, “An Orchid.” You blinked. “Really? Not something more delicate?”

“No.” His voice was firm, but gentle.“Rare,” he said, almost to himself. “Stubborn, if not tended to just right. You don’t shout to be seen, but you’re noticed anyway. And…” He paused, then added, softer, “you thrive in places others might wither.” You swallowed.

“…That’s really sweet.”

He gave you a knowing look. “You asked.” 

You couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed across your face. “Alright, fine. You win.” Winning what you weren’t quite sure.

“I usually do.” He picked his quill back up, but the corner of his mouth curled just slightly, betraying the softness beneath the mask.

You said nothing more. Your heart caught, an unexpected stillness fluttering in your chest. You smiled, a little breathless. “That was… a very poetic read of me.”

“I am, regrettably, quite familiar with you.”

You laughed, light and flustered. “Is that a compliment?” He didn’t answer. But the corners of his lips curled, and his quill moved again this time slower, steadier. You looked at your hands for a moment, then glanced back up.

“Thanks,” you said, voice quieter now. “For seeing me like that.” 

He didn’t look up. But he murmured, so gently you almost missed it, “You’re easy to see. When one bothers to look.” Shadow Milk Cookie brushed the last few crumbs from his sleeve with careful fingers, finishing the small snack you’d brought with the same attention he gave to deciphering constellations or ancient texts…an absurd level of seriousness for a biscuit. 

You watched as he folded the empty wrapper and set it down beside his quill, then turned toward you with that unreadable calm. But you’d known him long enough to see the way his eyes softened at the edges. 

The way they held a question before his mouth ever moved. He gestured faintly to the seat you’d dragged beside his. “So,” he said, voice low, amused, “was today’s visit prompted by academic curiosity, or did you simply come to feed me?” 

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “Both, maybe.”

“Oh?” He leaned his elbow lightly on the desk, resting his chin against his knuckles. “You brought sustenance and questions? How strategic.”

“I like to come prepared.”

“Clearly.” His gaze flicked toward the snack wrapper. “Though if your goal was bribery, you’ll need to bring more than one.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not bribery, it’s hospitality.”

“And if your presence is hospitality, then what is the lesson I’m supposed to impart in exchange?”

You shrugged. “Company. That’s all I wanted today.” He didn’t reply immediately, but you could tell he was still watching you carefully, attentively.

Like you were a page he hadn’t quite finished reading. After a beat, he said softly, “Then consider me a willing participant.” You blinked, a little stunned by the quiet sincerity of it.

“No tutoring today?” you asked, only half-teasing. “No assessments? Not even a pop quiz?” He smirked slightly. “Not unless you request one.” You groaned. “You ruin everything.”

“I ruin nothing,” he said, voice just barely playful. “You’ve simply come on a different kind of lesson day.”

“Oh yeah?” You raised an eyebrow. “And what kind of lesson is that?” He leaned back slightly, just enough for the window light to catch in his hair.

“The kind,” he said, “where we sit in silence, eat questionable snacks, and pretend, just for an hour, that time doesn’t exist.” 

You smiled. “I think I could pass that.” He smiled, too just a flicker. Just enough to say he agreed. You leaned back in your chair, eyes drifting to the soft afternoon light spilling through the Scholar’s Wing window.

The warmth made the air feel still, like the day itself had paused just for the two of you. Your foot nudged against the leg of his desk absently, your gaze flicking toward him as he finished brushing a final crumb from his sleeve.

“So,” you said lightly, almost dreamily, “when the hour’s up… does that mean we have to go back to tutoring?”

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t look at you at first. He was quiet, contemplative, his gaze trained on the golden rim of his teacup as if divining truth from the way the light curved around porcelain. Then, with the faintest lift of a brow, he finally replied.

“Of course.”

You groaned dramatically, slumping forward onto his desk like a tragic play protagonist. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

“Why would I?” he said, tone infuriatingly serene. “An hour of reprieve is generous. But I am still your tutor. And you are still… you.” 

You raised your head just enough to glare at him from over your arm. “That’s rude.”

“That’s accurate.” You scoffed, but your lips curled despite yourself. “What if I claimed the hour was spiritually transformative and I can’t possibly return to academics today?” 

He didn’t blink. “Then I would suggest you take up poetry and write a full reflection on your enlightenment by tomorrow morning.” You let out a long, suffering sigh. “You’re evil.”

“I’m thorough.”

“Same thing.”

Shadow Milk Cookie gave the faintest shrug, and you could almost swear there was the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “If it’s any consolation,” he murmured, “I find your dramatics deeply amusing.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “That is… not consolation.”

“It is to me.” You exhaled again, defeated, but a grin found its way to your face anyway. You settled back beside him, arms folded behind your head, and let the silence return for just a while longer.

An hour could last forever, if you didn’t look too closely. However time flies and you found yourself one-foot in the grave from his merciless tutoring. 

Shadow Milk Cookie leaned back in his chair slightly, elegant as always, before he returned his attention to you with an expectant look. He definitely asked you something…but you don’t remember what…time to deflect. You twirled your pen between your fingers and gave him a sly glance. “So… once I finish tutoring, do I get a reward?” 

He tilted his head, as if amused by your phrasing. “You mean beyond the privilege of knowledge?” You groaned theatrically. “Oh come on. That’s not a reward, that’s just the academic version of vegetables.”

“I happen to like vegetables,” he said, entirely unbothered.

“Of course you do,” you muttered. “Let me guess. You were the kind of kid who asked for steamed greens as a treat.”

“I was the kind of child,” he replied smoothly, “who did not need treats to behave.”

You blinked. “Okay, that’s kind of terrifying.”

He smiled, just faintly. “So. You want a reward.”

You nodded, leaning forward over your notes. “Just a little something. I think I’ve earned it. I didn’t even fall asleep during the theory explanation, and I only got mildly distracted twice.”

“I counted four.”

You gasped. “That’s not fair! My thoughts were only briefly astray!” His smile deepened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he said, “If you finish the next two questions properly I’ll consider it.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not a yes.”

“No,” he said. “But it is a challenge. And I know how you are with those.” 

You stared at him, then picked up your pen. “Fine. But if I ace this, I’m expecting at least a poetic compliment and maybe a walk to the Academy gardens. Or stargazing. Or a secret book from your private collection.” 

He raised a brow. “You negotiate like someone who intends to win.”

“I always intend to win,” you said, scribbling the first answer. “Especially when you’re involved.” His voice was quiet when he replied. “Then perhaps I should start preparing your reward.” 

You handed him your notebook with a sheepish look, hoping praying that maybe, just maybe, your overconfident answers had landed somewhere near the truth.

Shadow Milk Cookie took it with all the ceremony of a scholar preparing to weigh ancient truths, flipping to your page without a word. He read through your work carefully, eyes scanning your answers with a focus so intense it made your stomach twist. Then came the silence. Not the awful, disappointed kind. The worse kind; the patient kind.

“…I take it I don’t get my garden walk,” you mumbled, slumping in your chair. Shadow Milk Cookie closed the notebook with a soft thump and folded his hands over it. “Not quite.” 

You sighed, dragging your hands down your face. “Okay, but in my defense, I got close. The structure was there, right? Emotionally, it was correct.”

“Emotion,” he said gently, “is not what governs magical theory. You’ve made conceptual leaps without establishing the foundation first.”

You peeked up at him through your fingers. “So… I failed the challenge.” 

He tilted his head, gaze soft. “You simply haven’t passed it yet.” You blinked. Then sighed. “Okay. Walk me through it. Again.” 

He picked up your notebook and turned it toward you, tapping lightly on your first answer. “Here. You conflated mnemonic sigils with memory anchors. Understandable, there’s overlap but you have to trace the function backward. What is this sigil supposed to do?”

“…Reinforce the cognitive imprint of a casting pattern?” you guessed.

“Correct. But not preserve it. That would be a memory anchor.” You nodded slowly. “Okay. So the application is different…”

“Fundamentally,” he said, tone never once unkind. “You’re not wrong in instinct. But instinct is only the beginning.” 

You scribbled a note next to the margin. “I’m still not getting that third part of the last question, though. About the transfer threshold.” 

He leaned closer, reaching over to annotate the diagram in your notebook. His voice was soft, measured steady in the way only he could be. “The threshold isn’t static. It fluctuates based on the complexity of the spell and the vessel channeling it. You were thinking too linearly.” 

You stared at the correction, then at his handwriting, elegant and sure even in the tight margin of your page. “This is why I wanted a reward,” you muttered, lips twitching. “You’re too good at making me feel like an amateur.”

He gave a rare, almost fond chuckle. “And yet, you are here still learning.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You nudged his elbow lightly with yours. “Thanks for not rubbing it in.”

Shadow Milk Cookie looked at you and offered a smile, so earnest, it made your chest ache. “I would never mock a mind in pursuit of truth,” he said softly. “But I will correct it. Gently.” 

You couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face. “Even if I don’t get my garden walk?” 

His eyes gleamed. “Finish the next section. Then we’ll see about the stars.” You set your pen down with a quiet click, stretching your arms above your head with a groan that felt entirely too dramatic for only an hour’s worth of effort. 

Still your brain was tired, and your notes looked like a battlefield of trial and error.

Victory was hard-earned, even if the page wasn’t perfect. Shadow Milk Cookie glanced over your latest attempt. “Close,” he murmured, tapping one line with his index finger. “This theorem wants clarity, not charm.”

You leaned in, squinting. “So, charm doesn’t count for partial credit?”

“That depends,” he said. “Are you trying to charm the rubric, or me?” 

You snorted. “Both, ideally.” He gave you a long, slow look. Then, with a soft hum, gently guided you through the correction. His voice was steady, as it always was, and even your missteps didn’t feel like failures when he spoke, not scolding, but unveiling the answers, like the truth had always been there, waiting for you to uncover it. By the time you scribbled down the final line again, the sky outside had begun to mellow, bathed in hues of lilac and pale rose.

The day was fading fast. You sat back in your chair and exhaled. “Well, I didn’t get them all right… but we finished before dinner. That’s something.”

Shadow Milk Cookie gathered the loose pages with fluid precision, stacking them neatly before turning to you. “It is.” You hesitated, glancing out the window toward the soft-lit spires and glowing walkways of the Academy. 

Then you turned back to him. “I’ll come with you,” you said quietly. “After dinner.” His head tilted slightly. “Come with me?” 

You nodded, voice a touch firmer now. “Wherever you’re going after this. If you’re working or wandering or… just sitting in your favorite chair cataloging truth like it’s poetry I’ll come.” The air held still for a moment, like the room itself was listening.

“But,” you added quickly, raising a hand, “after dinner. Because dinner is sacred, and if I miss even one meal with them, Chai will write a haiku about my betrayal. And Earl Grey will read it aloud.” 

He blinked once. Then, finally, the smile arrived soft, quiet, and full of that strange fondness that never had to be loud to be real. “Then I will wait,” he said. “Sacred rituals must not be disturbed.” 

You stood, gathering your things with a smile that reached your eyes. “You’re learning.”

“On the contrary,” he replied smoothly, walking with you to the door, “I’ve always known how to wait.” And outside, the day dimmed into dusk, while your heart carried the warmth of a promise unspoken but understood. The walk to the dining halls was practically engraved in your bones, lost in your thoughts.

You stepped into the dining hall just as the golden lanterns flickered to life above, casting their warm evening glow across the room. The scent of baked herbs and sweet rolls drifted from the buffet tables, mixing with the hum of end-of-day chatter and the occasional clatter of cutlery. Your friends were already at your usual spot middle table, just near the windows. 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie had kicked back in his seat, nursing something that looked suspiciously like his second bowl of stew. Earl Grey Cookie sat with perfect posture, reading over something folded in his lap that looked a lot like extra-credit material. Chai Latte Cookie, of course, was mid-sentence, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“-and then,” she was saying as you slid into the empty seat beside her, “he tripped over his own robe trying to flirt with one of the potion scholars. Knocked over two cauldrons. The entire hallway smelled like burnt strawberries for an hour.”

Hazelnut let out a bark of laughter. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” Chai said dramatically, turning toward you as you began to fill your plate.

“Oh, you made it just in time. I was just about to retell the story, and trust me you need to hear this.” You arched a brow. “Is this the part where you traumatize me with gossip before I’ve even had dinner?”

“It’s tradition,” Earl Grey offered dryly without looking up. Chai grinned, tapping her spoon against the rim of her bowl like a conductor warming up the orchestra. “So. Rumor is, one of the second-years you know, the one who always talks about elemental harmony like it’s a romance novel? Well he accidentally enchanted his shoes to follow someone around campus. Without his consent.”

“Wait, what?” you blinked. “Like… autonomous shoes?”

“Fully sentient slippers,” Hazelnut said solemnly.

“They followed her for three hours,” Chai continued, barely holding back laughter. “She screamed every time they got closer. They had to call in the Labyrinth Tactician to unbind them.” 

You pressed your hand to your forehead. “I leave you all alone for one afternoon, and chaos takes the stage.”

“It always does,” Earl Grey said, setting his paper aside with an exhale. “But at least it’s never our fault.” 

Chai gave you a pointed side glance. “Well. Usually never.” You made a face but couldn’t suppress the smile curling at the corners of your lips. The table felt warm, familiar like all the strange, academic chaos of your life had found its grounding here. 

Among food, friends, and just enough nonsense to remind you that no matter what, you were still allowed to laugh. Chai Latte Cookie tapped her spoon against the rim of her teacup like a judge ready to deliver a sentence, her eyes glinting as she leaned in. “Okay, okay…this one isn’t about any random student for once.” 

You nearly choked on your tea, relieved and yet… mildly suspicious. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie looked up, intrigued. “Then who is it about?” 

Chai wiggled her brows. “You know Professor Dandelion Quiche, right? The one from the Divining Sciences department?” Earl Grey Cookie’s brow arched ever so slightly. “The one who’s always late to faculty meetings and quotes ancient dream omens out of context?”

“That’s the one.” Chai grinned. “So get this apparently, someone saw her sneaking out of the Cryohex Lab in the middle of the night. With Professor Frosted Thyme.” Hazelnut nearly dropped his fork. “No way.”

“They’re from opposite disciplines,” you said, bewildered. Chai leaned in closer, as if she was telling you all state secrets. “Exactly. Divination and elemental alchemy? It’s like academic blasphemy.” 

Earl Grey sighed, brushing crumbs from his sleeve. “That lab’s restricted after dark. If they were there, they were either committing scientific brilliance or a deeply suspicious rendezvous.”

“Or both,” Chai said, sipping her tea with flair. “Some say they’ve been working on a long-lost fusion technique. Others say they’re just… working on each other.” 

Hazelnut let out a choked snort. “I’m never going to be able to look at Professor Quiche the same again.” 

You stared at Chai, half-amused, half-horrified. “How do you even find these things out?” Chai just winked. “You’d be amazed what people forget to whisper in the tea line.”

She beamed. “I’m simply conducting research of the heart. And also chaos.” You shook your head, trying to smother your laugh behind your cup. “Well, thanks for the image. Really enriched my afternoon.” 

Chai patted your arm sweetly. “Anytime.”

Chai Latte Cookie had just launched into another one of her scandalous tales, this one about a rumored duel between two rival potion instructors over a misidentified root when Earl Grey Cookie, ever composed, set down his teacup with a soft clink and spoke.

“She’s not the only one,” he said, voice smooth as always. Chai turned to him, eyes wide with mock betrayal. “Earl Grey.” He arched a brow at her, unbothered. “Please. Half the things you know are because I told you first.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie nearly choked on his juice. “You? No way.” 

You looked between the two of them, blinking. “Wait…Earl Grey’s your source?” Chai huffed, folding her arms. “Sometimes. Occasionally.” 

He smiled faintly. “Often.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

Earl Grey took another sip of tea, his expression amused. “But I let her do the reporting. It’s only fair. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t let her have the gossip spotlight?” 

Chai gave him a begrudging grin. “You mean the glory, which I richly deserve.” Hazelnut leaned across the table, eyes wide with mock reverence. “So you're like… the secret informant? The shadow behind the gossip throne?”

“I prefer to think of myself,” Earl Grey said coolly, “as the archivist. She’s the herald.”

“I’m the herald,” Chai repeated, eyes sparkling. “Okay, I kind of love that.” 

You laughed, unable to help it. “So you’ve been working together this whole time?” Chai gestured between them with her fork. “Only when it’s really juicy.”

“And it always is,” Earl Grey added without missing a beat. You shook your head fondly. “No wonder you two are dangerous.”

“We’re efficient,” Chai corrected.

“Terrifying,” Hazelnut muttered into his cup.

Chai just beamed, clinking her glass gently against Earl’s. “To the dream team.” 

He returned the gesture with a dry smile. “To chaos well-curated.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie extended his hand across the table toward you, his expression equal parts exhausted and helplessly amused. Without a word, you took it, your fingers sliding into his with an ease born of mutual suffering. 

No dramatic flourish. No commentary. Just the silent, resigned solidarity of two Cookies who had been utterly outmaneuvered by the gossip duo at your table.

Chai Latte Cookie and Earl Grey Cookie were now deep in some kind of dramatic reenactment Chai’s arms flailing as she described the alleged potion duel in increasingly elaborate detail, while Earl Grey occasionally nodded, offering precise, unnecessary corrections like a dedicated footnote brought to life.

You and Hazelnut just… sat there. Holding hands. Witnesses to chaos.

“What even is this,” you whispered under your breath, half-laughing. Hazelnut exhaled through his nose, squeezing your hand gently. “I don’t know,” he murmured, deadpan. “But we’re in it together now.” 

You gave him a solemn nod. “This is our reality.”

“Pray for us,” he added, as Chai dramatically slammed her spoon down to mimic the sound of “a wand being shattered against a cauldron in fury.” You both winced in unison. 

And kept holding on. Because sometimes, friendship meant enduring the gossip apocalypse with the only other sane person left at the table. Chai Latte Cookie leaned forward, her eyes alight with mischief and the kind of energy that only brewed from too much tea and too many rumors.

“Okay, but hear me out…what if we all just come back to my dorm again? Another sleepover. I’ve got clean sheets, cinnamon candles, and I may have saved the last box of almond puff pastries.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie perked up. “You had pastries this whole time and didn’t say anything?” Earl Grey Cookie gave him a side glance. “She was waiting for a dramatic reveal. Obviously.”

Chai grinned. “What’s the point of hoarding snacks if you don’t unveil them like buried treasure?” 

You laughed, setting your tea down gently, but shook your head. “As tempting as that sounds, I can’t tonight.”

Chai blinked. “What? Why not?” You hesitated for a moment, then said softly, “I have to head back to the Scholar’s Wing. Shadow Milk’s waiting.” 

The words settled quietly over the table not dramatic, not scandalous. Just true. Chai tilted her head, the mischief fading into something gentler. “He’s expecting you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I told him I’d come back after dinner. I think… he was hoping I would.” 

Hazelnut let out a soft “oooh” under his breath, but didn’t say anything more. Earl Grey simply gave you a knowing look and a faint nod of approval. Chai smiled, nudging your arm. “Alright. We’ll save the pastries for next time.” 

Chai Latte Cookie’s smile faltered for half a second so brief it might’ve been missed if you weren’t looking. But then it was back, radiant and a little too bright, like sunshine forcing its way through a clouded sky.

“Ditching me for your mysterious scholar boyfriend?” she teased, elbowing you gently. “I see how it is. Cold betrayal wrapped in ink-stained affection.” 

You snorted, setting down your cup. “I never said he was my boyfriend, it's a bit complicated.”

“Oh, please,” she huffed dramatically. “You think I didn’t notice the way you practically floated back into the dining hall last time? If that wasn’t a post-kiss glow, I don’t know what is.” 

You flushed, and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie cackled into his drink. “She’s not wrong.” True or not, nothing would help your case. 

Earl Grey Cookie, as always, was calm and composed, though his eyes twinkled just slightly. “We’ll be sure to ration the pastries accordingly in your absence.” You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “It’s just one evening.”

“That’s how it starts,” Chai sighed, clutching her chest like the lead in a tragic play. “One night becomes two. Suddenly we’re attending your wedding in the Moonlit Archives and I’m writing your vows.”

“You’d write the vows anyway,” Hazelnut muttered. Chai smirked.

“Exactly. I’d do a great job.” Despite her theatrics, you saw it that tiny flicker of something behind her eyes. Not sadness, exactly. Not jealousy, either. Just… a quiet ache. 

The way someone might look when they realize a secret part of their world is shifting. You reached across the table, brushing her hand with yours.

“Next time, I promise. Sleepover, pastries, everything.” She looked at you for a moment and then her smile softened into something more real.

“You better,” she said, voice warm. “Or I’m holding your pineapple ice cream hostage.” 

You grinned. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would.”

The table broke into laughter again, but your fingers lingered on hers for a second longer just long enough to say what you couldn’t out loud. Then, quietly, you rose, the chatter fading behind you as your thoughts turned toward the quiet hum of the Scholar’s Wing. 

Where he would be waiting. The knock was more of a courtesy than anything three soft raps against the wood, followed by the subtle creak of the door as you slipped inside and shut it behind you. The wards barely flickered, recognizing you, allowing you entrance as if you belonged. You weren’t expecting silence. 

But that’s what you were met with the low hum of enchantments, the faint rustle of parchment disturbed by the breeze of the closing door, and the softest sound of steady breathing. Shadow Milk Cookie was asleep. He was slumped over his desk, head resting on the crook of his arm, ink still drying beside a half-finished passage, his quill cast aside like a soldier at rest. Strands of star-dappled blue hair had fallen from their usual order, trailing like silk across the page and his cheek. 

His brows, usually so precise, were relaxed, his whole expression stripped of his usual composure. In sleep, he didn’t look like the Sage of Truth. He didn’t look like the Fount of Knowledge. He just looked… tired.

And human.

You stood frozen for a moment, the breath catching softly in your throat. He hadn’t moved the chair you'd claimed so many times before tucked beside him behind the desk rather than across from it. A quiet invitation. Your steps were featherlight as you crossed the room, your shoes barely making a sound against the floor. 

You lowered yourself into the chair beside him with the kind of care normally reserved for sacred things. For a long moment, you didn’t speak. Didn’t move. You just watched him. The afternoon light spilled through the stained glass in the corner, casting a gentle shimmer across the edge of his robes. You could see now just how long his lashes were. The faint shadows beneath his eyes, the subtle weariness in his posture. 

The way his fingers still twitched lightly, as if even in sleep, he was chasing something: an idea, a truth, maybe even a dream. You weren’t sure how long you sat there, only that the air in the room felt softer now, almost reverent. You didn’t dare reach for him afraid to wake him, afraid to interrupt the one moment where even time itself seemed to let him rest. Instead, you leaned in just a little, your voice barely above a whisper.

“…You always wait for me. Maybe I can wait for you just this once.” You smiled, small and warm, and rested your chin against your hand. And then, in the stillness, you waited. Your voice barely made a sound. Not even a whisper, really just breath shaped into words, the kind that dissolved into the quiet before they ever had a chance to be heard. Still, you spoke them anyway, tracing the air between you and him with thoughts too heavy to hold in silence.

“…I don’t know what we are,” you murmured, gaze flicking over to his peaceful, sleeping face. “Not really.” 

You watched the way his breath moved, slow and even. Not a stir, not a twitch. He was lost to slumber, far from the questions swirling in your chest. “Are we… something?” you continued, so soft that it was almost like thinking aloud. 

“Are we together? Are we… in love?” You didn’t expect an answer. Of course you didn’t. That wasn’t the point. “I mean, how do you even know?” you said, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. 

“Is it love if you never said the word? If you just… keep showing up? Keep holding someone’s hand beneath the table, or letting them sleep on your shoulder, or fixing their portfolio without asking?” 

You glanced down, a faint crease forming in your brow. “Or is that just kindness? Infatuation? I don’t know. I don’t know how to tell the difference.” Your voice wavered, but never rose.

“I keep waiting for someone to define it. For you to define it. But maybe… maybe it’s not supposed to be defined.” You looked at him again his cheek resting on ink-smudged parchment, his expression gentle, the starlight of his hair softly spilling over the page like spilled magic. “I just…” You swallowed. “I hope it’s not something fleeting. Not something that vanishes when my part in your timeline ends.” 

Still, he didn’t move. And maybe that was a kindness too. You leaned back just slightly in the chair, curling your knees up to your chest, folding your arms loosely around them. “You’re asleep,” you said, barely audible. “So I guess this is safe.” A pause. Then, quieter still, as if confessing to the air itself 

“…I think I’m scared because it feels real.”

And there, in the hush of that quiet, starlit room with no answers, no definitions, and no one to hear you but the weight of your own words you let your thoughts drift beside his, just for a little while longer. You shifted slightly, careful not to make a sound. The wooden desk felt cool beneath your cheek as you rested your head down, facing him. Closer than you’d normally dare when he was awake. 

From this angle, you could see the subtle slope of his nose, the way his lashes cast faint shadows beneath his eyes. His lips were parted slightly, breath even and soft. He looked peaceful like this… reachable. You studied him in silence, your own breath syncing to his without you meaning to. And then, like a secret too heavy to keep, your voice slipped out.

“I don’t know what we are.”

It wasn’t bitter. Just honest.

“I mean, we’re clearly not just friends. Not anymore. Not after everything.” Your gaze lingered on his hands, one curled under his head, the other resting loosely near the forgotten quill.

“But no one’s said anything. No label. No definition. It’s just… this.”

A silence. One he didn’t break. Couldn’t. That was what made this easier. “I think I’m okay with it. Most days,” you whispered.

“But sometimes… sometimes it aches. Just a little. To not know. To not call it anything.” 

You shifted your cheek against the desk, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. “It’s easier to say this when you’re asleep,” you added, quieter now.

“When no one can hear. Truths are easier like that…when they don’t echo.” 

The ache in your chest pulsed again quiet, persistent. “I don’t need you to say it,” you breathed. “But… sometimes I wish I could.”

And still, he slept. And still, you stayed half-hoping, half-afraid that one day, the silence between you would have a name. You tapped him lightly on the shoulder gentle, careful, like a knock made from fingertip to sleeve. Shadow Milk Cookie stirred beside you, shifting with a soft, drawn breath as though pulled gently from some far-off dream. He blinked slowly, hair falling slightly into his eyes, his gaze still hazy with sleep as he turned toward you.

“…You’re here,” he murmured, voice rough and low, like a warm stone just beginning to cool from the sun. You gave him a small smile. “You were asleep when I got here. I didn’t want to wake you.” 

His brow furrowed faintly, more out of puzzlement than anything. “How long was I out?” You shrugged. “Not sure. I just… watched you for a while.” A quiet pause followed thick with something unspoken, something neither of you felt the need to put into words. His golden eyes lingered on you, still soft from sleep. You were close. Closer than usual. Close enough that you could count the stars in his hair if you wanted to. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” he said, sitting up straighter and rubbing at his eyes.

“You didn’t,” you replied quickly. “I liked the quiet. And besides, I told you I’d come back.” He smiled faintly at that just the smallest shift of his lips. “So you did.” 

You leaned your cheek against your arm, resting on the desk beside him. “If you’re still tired, we don’t have to do anything. I could just stay. Or we could go for a walk, if you wanted. Or we can sit here and talk about absolutely nothing until we get tired of that too.”

“Talking about nothing sounds dangerously close to philosophy,” he teased, voice still soft-edged. 

You grinned. “That’s only if you do it.” He chuckled lightly under his breath, the sound rare and warm. The world outside hushed and still. Then, on a whim, you spoke. “Can I ask you some questions? Not serious ones. Mostly nonsense.” 

He gave you a wary but amused glance. “That usually means trouble.”

“Definitely,” you confirmed. He gestured with one hand, resigned. “Very well. Proceed.” You cleared your throat dramatically. “If you had to live in a teapot for the rest of your life, what flavor of tea would you want to steep in?” His brow lifted. “…What.”

“Answer the question.”

“Chamomile,” he said, without missing a beat. “Mild. Soothing. Unlikely to stain my robes.” You laughed. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I’m simply fast on my feet.” You took another breath, letting yourself relax into the rhythm of your questions, the quiet between his replies.

“Okay, new one. Would you rather read every thought someone has about you or have to recite every thought you have about someone out loud?” He winced. “Neither.”

“Not an option.”

“…The first, if only so I could never speak again and no one would find it strange.” 

You were still laughing when the next question slipped out too quick, too curious. “Have you ever been in love?” The air between you stilled. You instantly regretted it not because it was a bad question, but because you hadn’t meant to say it so soon, hadn’t meant to ask it when his guard was still soft, when the edge between sleep and wakefulness made everything feel too close, too real. He didn’t answer at first. 

But then he turned slightly, eyes meeting yours with a look you couldn’t decipher right away. “If I have…” he said quietly, “I imagine it would feel like this.”

Your heart skipped. You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t ruin the softness of that moment. So instead, you reached across the desk and gently nudged his hand with yours nothing more than a touch, light as air. 

And he let his fingers rest there, beside yours. Not reaching. Not pulling away. Just being. You felt the weight of his words settle somewhere between your ribs, the silence afterward stretching not awkward, but undeniably charged, like the pause before a leap neither of you were brave enough to take. His fingers still lingered near yours. Close, but not quite touching.

You didn’t know what to say. So, naturally, you said something else entirely. “…If you were a soup,” you asked softly, “what kind would you be?” He blinked once. Slowly. There was a twitch of his brow, almost a smile, but not quite. “A… soup?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, as if doubling down would make it seem like less of a cover. “Like, if you had to embody the spirit of a soup. What would it be?” He looked at you for a long, still moment. And then quietly, almost conspiratorially he said, “Miso.” You raised an eyebrow. “Miso?”

“Mysterious. Slightly salty. Best when warm,” he replied, ever composed, though his gaze flicked briefly toward your lips before darting back to the space between your hands. “Also widely misunderstood.” A breathy laugh escaped you, too quiet to be called anything more.

“Sounds about right,” you murmured. Neither of you mentioned the question you did ask. Neither of you dared to acknowledge how close you were to something that would change the rhythm between you forever. And so, you leaned into the ridiculous. Let the veil fall back into place. 

“Wrong answer,” you said at last, deadpan. “The only correct soup is tomato bisque.” He scoffed delicately, theatrically. “Of course you would say that.” And for a little while longer, the veil stayed intact. But neither of you let your hands drift apart. 

You stood from the chair slowly, your movements careful quiet. You didn't want to disturb the strange stillness that had settled over the room, the way the golden lamplight made the air feel soft and warm and a little heavy. 

Shadow Milk Cookie blinked at you, still emerging from the drowsy edges of sleep, and in the quiet that stretched between you, there was too much you both weren’t saying. You looked down at him, at the faint print his sleeve had left on his cheek, the way his hair was out of place ever so slightly from his nap. You could’ve reached out. You could’ve asked. But instead, you offered a small, lopsided smile.

“I think I’ll take my leave,” you said, voice light, a little too easy. “You seem too tired to be interrogated tonight.”

His gaze lifted to yours slowly, the corners of his eyes still soft from sleep. “You don’t have to go.” 

You hesitated. “I know. But you’re tired, and I…well, I’m feeling merciful tonight.” That got the smallest huff of air from him, barely a breath away from a laugh. You made it halfway to the door before glancing back over your shoulder.

“Oh, and just for the record,” you added, voice deliberately casual, “if you were a soup, I’ve decided you’d be a very dramatic miso.” 

A blink. “…Why?” 

You smiled faintly. “Because you always seem composed until someone stirs you, and then everything just… floats to the top.” 

His expression faltered not with annoyance, not with confusion, but something more like… hesitation. You weren’t sure. But he didn’t reply. And you didn’t ask again. You turned back to the door and rested your hand on the handle. There were questions you could’ve asked. 

Ones that weren’t dressed in metaphor. But neither of you were quite ready for that not yet. Maybe one day you’d say what you meant. When that day came maybe, he’d say it back. But for now? You slipped quietly through the door, letting it close behind you with a soft click, and left your feelings resting in the silence between them.

A/N Hey y'all! this chapter has been LONG overdue, I'm studying for finals nothing major (I'm coping) but no I promise I am a okay thank you to all of those who have asked, and not to worry I will bring this story to completion...Once all my exams are over I will have all the time in the world (for a bit) Anyways I will be replying to my inbox tomorrow!

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥

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[iris-qt]

What I Cannot Say

knight!theo | medieval au ⚔︎

The castle slumbers.

Rain patters softly against the high, stained-glass windows, and the candle at your desk burns low, its golden flame dancing across your ink-stained fingers. You shouldn’t still be here. The other court scribes have long since vanished, and even the guards are trading shifts beneath their breath.

But the scrolls before you whisper like old friends, records of ancient treaties, old languages curling across parchment like spells.

You don’t notice the door open.

Not until the floorboard creaks... the one you keep meaning to fix.

Your quill stills.

You look up, heart skipping.

He stands there, silent in the threshold, half-draped in shadow. Rain beads across the black leather of his shoulder guards, his hair damp, curling at the edges. A dark cloak slung across one shoulder. A blade at his hip.

Ser Theodore Nott.

He shouldn't be here. Not at this hour. Not in the library. Not with you.

“My lord,” you say softly, standing too quickly. You nearly knock over the candle.

He doesn’t blink. His gaze, sharp and unreadable, scans the room before returning to you.

“I was told you kept the original texts from the House of Gwael,” he says, voice quiet. Clipped. As if it costs him something to ask. “I need to read them.”

You swallow. “Of course.”

You bend to retrieve the scrolls, your fingers trembling. Not because you’re frightened. You’re not. It’s just—

He’s taller than you remembered. And even in the flickering candlelight, he’s beautiful in the way statues are beautiful: cold and eternal and utterly untouchable.

You hand him the scroll.

His fingers brush yours.

A mistake, probably. He’s wearing gloves, and yet the contact makes your breath catch anyway.

Theo notices. You can feel it... not in any expression (his face stays unreadable as ever), but in the slow, precise way he unrolls the scroll, eyes flickering toward you only once.

“I didn’t think knights cared for language,” you murmur, half to yourself.

He glances up. His voice is low and sure.

“I care for many things people assume I don’t.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you return to your seat, unsure whether to keep reading or flee to your chambers and scream into your pillow. The candle gutters. He stays.

Minutes pass. The only sounds are rain, your turning pages, and the soft scratch of his gauntlet against parchment. Then, quietly:

“Why do you work so late?”

You look up.

Theodore’s gaze is trained on the page, but his question lingers in the air, warm and unexpected.

You blink. “No one notices me here.”

At that, his eyes lift. Hold yours.

“I do.”

Your heart thuds. Loud enough that surely even a knight can hear it.

“I’ve noticed,” he says, more gently now. “You’re always the last to leave. Even in the cold. Even when your hands shake.”

You flush, throat tight.

“I like the quiet.”

He hums. “So do I.”

A long pause. A soft flicker of lightning. His hand drifts, without thinking, to the hilt of his sword, the motion absentminded, protective.

You wonder if he’s always like this, or just with you.

Theo rolls the scroll back up and sets it down but doesn’t leave. Not yet.

Instead, he says softly, “You read poetry, don’t you?”

You nod, uncertain.

“I remembered a line, once,” he says, still not looking at you. “When I was bleeding. I thought I would die. But it came back to me anyway. Something about stars. And the way some people carry light inside them.”

You stare.

He finally meets your gaze.

“I thought of you.”

And just like that, the room feels smaller. Warmer. Brighter.

Like a candle that refuses to go out.

...

The next time you find it, it’s tucked between the pages of your copy of Herbal Magicks of the Olden Kingdoms.

A shard of dragon glass. Real. Cool to the touch, with a small crest engraved at its center: not from your kingdom. Foreign. Ancient. Pinned beside it: a note. Neatly folded.

Your name is written in an impossibly tidy hand. You open it.

For the scholar who outshines the sun with her questions. This was taken from the ruins of Aelwyn, where the old queens studied spellfire and starlore. I thought of you when I saw it. —T.N.

Your breath catches.

He thinks of you. In battle. In ruins. In other kingdoms.

You clutch the note to your chest and spend a full five minutes pacing the length of the library trying not to combust.

You don’t get the chance to thank him. Not yet.

Because the court session that day is… a mess.

You’re summoned to bring the translated treaty notes, normal work, but the nobles are restless. They gossip, drunk on mead and power, casting eyes at the quiet scribe who dares sit in council.

And then Lord Durran (slimy, bored, and old) speaks up.

"Tell me, girl," he sneers, loud enough to echo. “When did scribes begin thinking themselves courtiers? Or are you simply warming Lord Nott’s lap in exchange for coin?”

The hall freezes. You do, too. Until the scrape of a chair. A deliberate step.

Theodore Nott doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. But when he moves, the entire chamber listens.

“I suggest,” he says coldly, “you keep my name off your tongue unless you’re prepared to swallow your teeth.”

Gasps ripple. Durran flushes, paling. No one challenges Ser Theodore. Not even fools.

He doesn’t look at the others. Only at you.

And then, in the shadows of the halls outside the courtroom, he walks over and places another small item in your palm.

It’s a pendant this time. Worn. Engraved with a script only three historians in the realm could read.

“I thought you might translate it,” he murmurs, quiet enough just for you.

And with that, he turns. Walks away. Cloak swirling. Sword gleaming. You remain frozen, your heart racing. It says something that you don’t even open the pendant until much later. You just stand there, cheeks burning, wondering how it’s possible for someone so silent to make this much noise inside your chest.

...

It takes you three days to crack it.

Not because you’re slow, gods no. You’re the only person in the castle who can read High Eltheric, a long-dead language that looks like poetry and spells had a lovechild.

But you hesitate.

You hold the pendant beneath your pillow, beneath your breath, fingers tracing the etched lines like they’ll whisper something before your mind dares translate it. Every time you try to begin, you think of Theo’s eyes on you. The way he placed it in your hand. Like it meant something. Like you mean something.

Finally, on the third night, rain against your windows, firelight low, you set the pendant beside your ink pot, take a steadying breath, and begin.

Word by word, the meaning unravels:

To the one whose mind is a thousand burning stars I offer what little heart I have. If you ever wish to claim it.

Your quill drops.

Your breath hitches.

You read it again. And again. And again.

It doesn’t change.

He gave you a coded love confession. In a dead language. That only you could read.

What kind of maddening, infuriating, devastatingly romantic knight—

You sit back in your chair, staring at the pendant like it might burst into flames. Because now you know. Now you see it. The pattern of his gifts. The books. The relics. The looks that lingered too long and the way he always stood between you and danger, like a silent shadow forged of steel and longing.

You bite your lip.

And you smile.

Because you realize: he thinks you haven’t noticed.

A/N: obsessed with this au | ty to @kiaxika and tagging @ladyblablabla

[elswhore]

──RAINY SZN IN JACKSON

summary— in which you and ellie navigate the raw aftermath of a breakup, the relentless rain mirroring your inner turmoil, until the night escelated into a heated confrontation and longing that neither of you can't ignore.

warning— ex lovers trope. angsty smut. intensereconcilation. wrist pinning. sub-top ellie. sub-top reader. ingering. oral sex. desperate sex. munch ellie.

rain came down in sheets, a relentless cascade that turned kackson’s dirt paths into slick, muddy rivers.

tye air was thick with the scent of wet earth and pine, the kind of night that made everything feel heavier.

your thoughts, your heart, the ache in your chest that hadn’t dulled since ellie walked out of your life.

three weeks ago, you’d been something, lovers, partners, two souls tangled in the fragile hope of a world that didn’t chew up everything soft.

now, you were nothing but echoes, ghosts haunting the same small town, dodging each other’s shadows.

you pulled your jacket tighter, the damp seeping through the worn canvas as you trudged toward the library.

it was late, the kind of hour where jackson’s streets emptied, leaving only the patter of rain and the occasional flicker of lantern light in windows.

the library was your refuge, a place to bury yourself in dog eared books and forget the way rllie’s laugh used to feel like sunlight.

but tonight, the rain made it worse.

it stirred memories you’d tried to drown.

nights spent huddled under blankets in her attic room, her calloused fingers tracing patterns on your skin, her voice soft as she murmured stories about the stars.

the rain was her, somehow, wild and unyielding, and it made the hole she’d left feel like a canyon.

you pushed open the library door, the familiar creak of hinges greeting you.

the air inside was warm, tinged with the musty scent of old paper.

you shook off your hood, water dripping onto the worn wooden floor, and froze.

there, slouched in a chair by the window, was ellie.

her auburn hair was damp, sticking to her forehead, her flannel shirt clinging to her shoulders.

a book lay open in her lap, but her eyes were fixed on the rain streaked glass, her expression unreadable.

your stomach twisted, a mix of longing and dread.

you hadn’t spoken since the breakup, not really, just curt nods in passing, each one a knife to the gut.

you considered leaving, but the rain was a wall outside, and pride kept your feet rooted.

you wouldn’t run from her.

not again.

you moved to a table across the room, grabbing a random book from the shelf, some faded sci-fi novel and sat down, forcing your eyes to the pages.

the words blurred, your focus splintered by the weight of her presence.

you could feel her, the way you always could, like a current pulling you under.

every rustle of her clothes, every shift in her chair, was a reminder of what you’d lost.

minutes stretched into an eternity, the silence between you thicker than the storm outside.

then, her voice cut through it, low and sharp, like a blade.

“you’re really gonna sit there and pretend i don’t exist?” your head snapped up.

ellie was staring at you now, her green eyes glinting, her jaw was tight, her fingers gripping the edge of her book like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

“i’m not pretending anything.” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“i’m just trying to read.”

“bullshit.” she slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

“you’ve been avoiding me for weeks, can’t even look at me.”

“maybe because looking at you hurts,” you shot back, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

her expression faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to crack something open inside you.

the rain pounded harder outside, a mirror to the storm building in the room.

ellie stood, her chair scraping against the floor.

“you don’t get to play the victim here,” she said, crossing the room in a few strides.

she stopped at your table, looming over you, her hands braced on the edge.

“you’re the one who fucked this up.”

“me?” you shoved your chair back, standing to meet her gaze.

“you’re the one who shut me out, ellie, you stopped talking, stopped letting me in, what was i supposed to do, beg you to love me?”

“i never stopped loving you!” her voice cracked, raw and jagged, and it stole the air from your lungs.

she took a step closer, close enough that you could smell the rain on her, the faint cedar of her soap.

“but you—you gave up, you walked away when it got hard.”

“that’s not fair,” you said, your throat tight.

“i tried, ellie., i tried so fucking hard to hold us together, but you were like a ghost, always out on patrol, always picking fights, always finding reasons to push me away! i couldn’t keep chasing you.”

“you didn’t chase me.” she said, her voice dropping to a bitter whisper.

“you let me go.” the words landed like a punch, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

the library felt too small, the walls closing in, the rain a deafening roar.

you wanted to scream, to shake her, to make her see how wrong she was.

but all you could see was he, ellie, with her guarded heart and her stubborn pride, the girl you’d loved so fiercely it scared you.

“i didn’t let you go,” you said, your voice trembling.

“you left me no choice.” she laughed, a hollow sound that made your chest ache.

“keep telling yourself that.” she turned, grabbing her jacket from the chair, her movements sharp and final.

“i’m done with this.” she was halfway to the door when something snapped inside you.

you couldn’t let her walk away, not like this, not with her thinking she’d won, that you were the one who’d broken everything.

you lunged forward, grabbing her wrist, your fingers digging into the damp fabric of her sleeve.

“don’t you dare,” you said, your voice low and fierce.

“you don’t get to blame me and then run.” she froze, her back to you, her wrist tense in your grip.

for a moment, the only sound was the rain, the world holding its breath.

then she turned, and before you could process it, her hands were on your face, her lips crashing into yours.

the kiss was hard, desperate, all teeth and heat and unspoken things.

it tasted of rain and salt, of everything you’d both lost.

your hands fisted in her shirt, pulling her closer, even as your mind screamed to push her away.

it was too much, too raw, a wound reopened.

then, as suddenly as it started, it was over.

ellie pulled back, her breath ragged, her eyes dark and unreadable.

she didn’t say a word, just yanked her jacket free and walked out, the door slamming shut behind her.

you stood there, your lips tingling, your heart pounding, the library silent except for the rain.

she was gone, and you were left with nothing but the ghost of her kiss and the weight of all the things you’d never said.

──────────────────────────────

the rain hadn’t let up, a ceaseless drumbeat against the windows of the tipsy bison, jackson’s makeshift tavern.

inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted venison, woodsmoke, and the low hum of conversation.

the community dinner was a rare occasion, a chance for everyone to gather, share food, and pretend the world outside wasn’t a graveyard of broken things.

but for you, it was a battlefield.

ellie sat across the long table, her presence like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing.

here she was, picking at her plate, her jaw tight, her eyes anywhere but on you.

the table was crowded, joel, maria, tommy, a handful of patrol members, but it might as well have been just the two of you, the tension between you a living thing, coiling tighter with every passing minute.

stolen glances burned across the table.

you caught her looking once, her green eyes sharp and unreadable, but she turned away the second your gaze met hers.

it stung, but you were done begging for scraps of her attention.

tye rain battered the roof, a perfect mirror for the storm in your chest.

you tipped back your glass, the homemade moonshine searing your throat.

it wasn’t enough to drown the ache, but it loosened the knot inside you, made you reckless.

fuck it.

if ellie wanted to pretend you didn’t exist, you’d give her a show she couldn’t ignore.

the fiddles started up, a lively tune cutting through the din.

a few people cleared tables, making space for dancing, and you didn’t hesitate.

you grabbed lena, a patrol regular with a quick laugh, and pulled her into the makeshift dance floor.

the moonshine buzzed in your veins, not enough to make you drunk, just enough to make you bold, to make you stop caring.

you spun lena, your boots stomping to the rhythm, your laughter loud and deliberate.

heads turned, and you felt ellie’s gaze like a brand, but you didn’t look her way.

let her stew.

let her see you living without her.

lena was replaced by sam, then clara, then someone else, you lost track, each partner a blur of hands and smiles.

the room spun, warm and hazy, the music a pulse you could lose yourself in.

you were wild, untethered, dancing like you could outrun the hole ellie had left.

but every so often, your eyes betrayed you, flicking to her.

she hadn’t moved, her hands clenched around her glass, her expression a storm cloud.

good.

let it hurt her too.

the night wore on, the crowd thinning as people trickled out into the rain.

you were breathless, your hair sticking to your sweaty forehead, when maria’s hand landed on your shoulder.

“alright, wildfire.” she said, her tone fond but firm.

“think you’ve had enough fun for one night.”

“im fine,” you protested, but your words slurred just enough to undermine you.

you weren’t drunk, not really, just tipsy, riding the edge of control.

maria raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“i’ll take her home,” a voice cut in, low and rough.

ellie.

you turned, and there she was, standing too close, her jacket slung over her shoulder.

her eyes were dark, a mix of irritation and something softer you didn’t want to name.

“i don’t need you to,” you said, defiant, but your legs wobbled as you stepped back, betraying you.

maria sighed, clearly done with both of you.

“ellie’s got it,” she said, waving you off.

“get some rest.” ellie didn’t wait for your approval.

she grabbed your arm, not hard but firm enough to steer you toward the door.

the rain hit you like a slap as you stepped outside, cold and relentless, soaking through your shirt in seconds.

you yanked your arm free, glaring at her.

“i can walk myself.”

“yeah, you’re doing a great job of it,” she muttered, her voice clipped.

she stayed close, matching your uneven steps as you stumbled down the muddy street.

the lanterns cast weak pools of light, and the world felt like it was shrinking to just you, her, and the rain.

“why do you care?” you snapped, stopping abruptly.

water dripped from your hair, your breath visible in the chilly air.

“you made it real clear in the library you’re done with me.” ellie’s jaw tightened, her hands shoving into her pockets.

“doesn’t mean i want you passed out in a ditch.” you laughed, sharp and bitter.

“oh, so noble, just admit it, uou couldn’t stand watching me have fun.” her eyes flashed, and for a second, you thought she’d snap back.

instead, she stepped closer, her voice low.

“you were making a fool of yourself, dancing like that, throwing yourself at everyone, for what? to piss me off?”

“maybe i was.” you said, reckless, the moonshine still singing in your blood.

“maybe i wanted you to feel something for once.” her breath hitched, and the space between you crackled, alive with everything unsaid.

the rain poured down, blurring the world, but neither of you moved.

then, abruptly, she grabbed your hand, pulling you toward your house.

“come on,” she said, her voice rough.

“you’re gonna freeze.” you let her lead you, too tired to fight.

the walk was silent, the only sound the squelch of boots in mud and the rain’s endless rhythm.

when you reached your porch, she let go, but her hand lingered near yours, like she wasn’t ready to leave.

you looked at her, really looked, her wet hair plastered to her face, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes searching yours for something you didn’t know how to give.

“thanks,” you mumbled, turning to the door. But before you could step inside, her voice stopped you.

“you don’t get it, do you?” she said, soft but fierce.

“i never stopped caring, not for a second.” you froze, your hand on the doorknob, your heart pounding.

your hand stayed on the doorknob, the cold metal biting into your palm as the rain thundered outside, a relentless curtain that blurred the world beyond your porch.

you wanted to turn the knob, to step inside and shut her out, to bury the ache she’d carved into you.

but your body wouldn’t move.

the pull of her was a tide, inescapable, dragging you under no matter how hard you fought.

you heard the creak of the porch boards, the soft squelch of her boots in the puddles as she stepped closer.

your breath hitched, and before you could think, you turned.

the door was still ajar, a sliver of lantern light spilling out, catching the planes of her face.

ellie stood inches away, her auburn hair plastered to her cheeks, rain dripping from the ends, her green eyes raw and unguarded.

they were a storm in themselves, anger, longing, something so vulnerable it made your throat tighten.

her jacket was soaked, clinging to her shoulders, and her chest rose and fell with quick, uneven breaths.

“ellie..” you said, your voice barely audible over the rain, a fragile thing that felt like it might break.

you didn’t know what you were asking for, forgiveness, answers, or just her, the way she used to be before everything fractured.

she didn’t let you finish.

her hand was on your face in an instant, her thumb brushing the curve of your cheek, cold from the rain but warm where it met your skin.

the touch sent a shiver through you, a spark that lit up every nerve.

then, slowly, deliberately, she leaned in.

her lips brushed yours, soft and tentative, like she was testing the weight of the moment, giving you a chance to pull away.

but pulling away was the last thing you wanted.

the kiss was a lifeline, a tether to something you’d thought you’d lost forever.

you leaned into her, your hands finding her waist, fingers curling into the damp fabric of her flannel.

the door clicked shut behind you, forgotten, as you pulled her inside, the world narrowing to the heat of her breath, the taste of rain on her lips.

the kiss deepened, growing hungrier, more insistent.

her tongue brushed yours, and a soft moan escaped you, swallowed by the intensity of her mouth.

her hands slid to your neck, fingers tangling in your wet hair, tugging just enough to make your pulse race.

“fuck,” she whispered against your lips, her voice rough and low, vibrating through you.

the sound was a match to kindling, igniting a fire you’d tried to smother for weeks.

the kiss turned desperate, all teeth and heat, a collision of everything you’d both been holding back, hurt, love, need.

you stumbled backward, pulling her with you, until your back hit the wall of your small living room.

the impact jolted you, but her body pressed against yours, grounding you, her hips pinning you in place.

her mouth moved to your jaw, then lower, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck.

you tilted your head back, giving her access, your hands fisting in her shirt as a gasp slipped out.

her lips were relentless, sucking lightly at your pulse point, sending a rush of heat straight to your core.

“ellie,” you breathed, half warning, half plea, your voice trembling with the weight of it all.

she pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, her breath ragged, her pupils blown wide with want.

her freckles stood out against her flushed cheeks, and for a moment, she looked like the ellie you’d fallen for.

“tell me to stop,” she said, her voice low, almost a growl, but there was a tremor in it, like she was afraid you might actually say it.

“tell me, and i’ll go.” you didn’t answer with words. Instead, you grabbed her collar and yanked her back to you, kissing her hard, pouring every ounce of frustration and longing into it.

she groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and that was it.

the last shred of restraint burned away.

her hands were everywhere, frantic, shoving your jacket off your shoulders, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

you helped her, peeling off the soaked fabric, your skin prickling in the cool air.

her flannel followed, buttons popping as you tore it open, revealing the worn tank top beneath, the lean lines of her body.

you didn’t stop there, your hands greedy, pushing the tank up and off, leaving her in just a sports bra.

her skin was damp, warm, and you couldn’t get enough of it.

she pushed you toward the couch, her hands on your hips, guiding you until you hit the armrest.

you stumbled, but she was there, steadying you, her body a solid weight against yours.

“you’re gonna drive me insane.” she muttered, her lips brushing your ear, and the raw edge in her voice made your thighs clench.

“then do something about it,” you shot back, defiant, the moonshine from earlier still buzzing in your veins, making you bold.

her eyes darkened, a spark of challenge flaring, and before you could react, she grabbed both your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head against the wall behind the couch.

the restraint was firm, her grip unyielding, and the sudden loss of control sent a thrill through you, your breath hitching.

“careful what you ask for,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, a smirk tugging at her lips.

her free hand slid under your bra, calloused fingers brushing your nipple, teasing until it hardened under her touch.

you arched into her, a soft whine escaping, and her smirk widened, all cocky confidence now.

she kissed you again, slower this time, but no less intense, her tongue exploring your mouth like she was claiming it.

her hand moved lower, popping the button of your jeans, her fingers slipping inside with practiced ease.

you gasped as she found you, her touch deliberate, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your hips buck.

“ellie,” you moaned, the sound muffled against her lips, and she hummed in response, clearly pleased.

“fuck, you’re so wet,” she murmured, her voice rough with awe, and the words alone made you tremble.

her fingers slid lower, teasing your entrance before pushing inside, slow at first, letting you adjust.

the stretch was perfect, her fingers curling just right, hitting that spot that made your vision blur.

she moved faster, her palm grinding against your clit with every thrust, and you were already unraveling, the restraint of your wrists amplifying every sensation.

you wanted to touch her, to pull her closer, but her grip on your wrists tightened, keeping you pinned.

“not yet,” she said, her voice a low command, and the authority in it sent another wave of heat through you.

she dropped to her knees, her fingers still working you, and your breath stopped as she tugged your jeans and underwear down, leaving you exposed.

her eyes flicked up to meet yours, a question in them, and you nodded, desperate.

her mouth was on you in an instant, her tongue flat and warm, licking a slow stripe that made your thighs shake.

she was relentless, alternating between soft flicks and deep, hungry pulls, her fingers never slowing.

the combination was devastating, your body a live wire under her touch.

you moaned her name, your head tipping back against the wall, and she groaned against you, the vibration pushing you closer to the edge.

“ellie—fuck, please.” you begged, your voice broken, and she doubled down, her tongue circling your clit as her fingers thrust harder, deeper.

the world narrowed to the heat of her mouth, the pressure of her hand, the way she held you captive.

you came with a cry, your body shaking, pleasure crashing through you like a wave.

she didn’t stop, working you through it until you were oversensitive, gasping, tugging at her grip on your wrists.

she finally released you, standing to kiss you, and you tasted yourself on her lips, the intimacy of it making your heart stutter.

your hands were free now, and you didn’t waste time, shoving her toward the couch.

she went willingly, a glint of surprise in her eyes as you straddled her hips, your hands pinning her shoulders.

“my turn,” you said, your voice rough, and her laugh was low, almost a growl.

“think you can handle me?” she teased, but her breath hitched as you tugged her bra off, your hands exploring the familiar planes of her body, her firm breasts, the taut muscles of her stomach.

you kissed her hard, biting her lower lip, and she groaned, her hands gripping your hips, urging you on.

you didn’t rush, savoring the way she responded, every hitch of her breath, every shift of her body.

your hands wandered lower, undoing her jeans, and she helped you shove them off, leaving her bare beneath you.

you took a moment, drinking her in, her flushed skin, the freckles dusting her thighs, the way she looked at you, like you were everything.

you slid a hand between her legs, finding her soaked, and she gasped, her hips lifting into your touch.

you teased her, slow circles that made her curse under her breath, her nails digging into your arms.

“don’t fucking tease.” she said, but there was no real venom in it, just need.

you grinned, leaning down to kiss her neck, your fingers slipping inside her, curling until she moaned, loud and unfiltered.

you set a rhythm, steady but relentless, your thumb brushing her clit as you fucked her with your fingers.

her head tipped back, her mouth open, and you kissed her throat, feeling the vibration of her moans.

“look at me.” you said, and her eyes snapped open, locking onto yours.

the intensity there, the raw, unguarded want, made your chest ache.

you pushed her closer, faster, until she was trembling, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps.

“come for me,” you whispered, and she did, her body tensing, a low moan tearing from her throat as she clenched around your fingers.

you kept going, drawing it out, until she was shuddering, her hands pulling you down for a messy, desperate kiss.

but you weren’t done.

the need between you was a living thing, insatiable.

you shifted, straddling her thigh, grinding against her as you kissed her, the friction sparking new heat.

her hands roamed your back, nails leaving faint trails that made you shiver.

the room was a haze of heat and sound, your gasps, her moans, the rain pounding outside, a wild symphony that drowned out everything else.

it was messy, intense, a reclaiming of each other.

you moved together, bodies slick with sweat and rain, chasing release again and again.

when you finally collapsed beside her on the couch, breathless and spent, the world was quiet except for the storm and the soft rhythm of your breathing.

her arm draped across your waist, her forehead pressed to your shoulder, and for a moment, it felt like before, like you could stay here, tangled in her, and pretend the world hadn’t broken you apart.

but the rain kept falling, and reality crept in, cold and sharp.

this didn’t fix the hurt, didn’t erase the weeks of silence or the fight in the library.

you turned to look at her, her face soft in the dim light, her eyes half closed but watching you.

“what now?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, afraid of the answer.

she didn’t respond right away, just pulled you closer, her lips brushing your temple.

“i don’t know,” she said finally, her voice raw, heavy with truth.

“but i’m not walking away again, not unless you tell me to.” you closed your eyes, letting her words settle, wanting to believe them but knowing it wasn’t that simple.

the rain was still there, the ache still lingered, but for now, you let yourself stay in the warmth of her, even if the storm wasn’t over.

her hand found yours, fingers lacing together, and you held on, not ready to let go.

─────────────────────────────

the morning light filtered through the cracked blinds, a pale glow that stung your eyes as you stirred.

the rain was softer now, a faint drizzle tapping the roof, but it hadn’t stopped.

your body ached, a map of the night before ellie’s hands, her mouth, the way you’d burned together.

you turned, expecting to see her beside you, her freckled face soft in sleep.

but the couch was empty, the blanket crumpled where she’d been.

no note.

no trace

just the ghost of her warmth on the cushion.

“fucker,” you muttered, the word sharp and bitter, cutting through the quiet.

you sat up, the ache in your chest heavier than ever, the rain mocking you as it fell.

she was gone.

and you were alone again, the storm outside no match for the one she’d left behind.

[sushirrrry]

Something about being mindlessly obsessed with Harry's hands. Please.

TOUCH

She had told herself she wouldn’t stare – multiple times, she said it over and over again in her head.

She’d sit at the bar like a normal person, sip her drink slowly, and check her phone often enough to pass for someone not entirely alone. But her friend was late—ten, maybe fifteen minutes now—and she’d made the fatal mistake of looking up.

And there he was: behind the bar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pouring amber liquor into a tumbler like it was a sacred act. So careful and reckless at the same time.

It wasn’t his face that caught her glance at first—though that would’ve been enough, too, with its carved jawline and that indifferent slouch of beauty. But it was his hands.

God, his hands.

There was a kind of reverence in the way he moved, like he thought the glass might bruise if he clinked it too hard against the bar. Long fingers curled around the bottle’s neck, smooth and sure, guiding the pour in a clean ribbon of bourbon into the clear glass. His wrist flexed just slightly, veins rising beneath ink and skin as he capped the bottle with one hand and slid the glass across the counter with the other.

It was just a drink. A simple, practiced thing – he did this all day. But her mouth went dry watching him do it.

She couldn’t explain it. Not if someone asked. Not if her friend finally arrived and saw the way her gaze stayed pinned to his knuckles, his palms, the faint shadow of calluses at the base of his fingers as he took the cash from the customer. She tried to pretend she was watching the music video on the television above the shelves of liquor, but every time he moved, her eyes snapped to the quiet grace of him.

He wore rings; he looked good in silver. The thickness of the band around his index finger would catch the low bar lighting as he polished a glass or twisted a lime wedge over a cocktail.

She sipped her drink—gin and tonic, untouched until now—and hoped it would cool the flush in her chest that had risen to her cheeks when she thought too hard about it. It didn’t.

The bar was mostly quiet. A weeknight lull; she was meeting her friend after work for a cocktail to catch up. Soft music played from somewhere near the jukebox, a slow soul track that hung thick in the air like Chanel No. 5. He moved like he had nowhere to be and nothing to rush for. She hated how badly she wanted to know what else those hands had done—if he played the guitar, or if he painted, or if he held a cigarette like he held that jigger, balanced and lithe, between two fingers.

She wanted to know how his fingers would stretch around the steering wheel. How he held a beer, dangling it between them like it was easy.

And it wasn’t even sexual. Not really. Not yet, at least. She didn’t know his name or his music taste.

It was obsessive in a different way. Mindless. Mechanical. A fixation she’d fallen into like a daydream she couldn’t climb out of. Watching the bend of his knuckles as he wiped the bar down, or the way he palmed a lemon and halved it with two decisive strokes of a small, wicked-looking knife.

His hands were expressive in a way his face wasn’t—his mouth in a habitual line, gaze neutral with a slight dimple between his brows as he concentrated, but his fingers busy with intent, dexterity, rhythm.

At one point, he leaned to grab something from under the bar—a new bottle of something dark and unfamiliar—and she nearly gasped when his fingers brushed over a corkscrew. His grip was gentle but purposeful, like he knew the exact pressure to use. There was nothing nervous in the way he touched things.

Like he’d never second-guessed a move in his life.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. A message from her friend, “running late, 20 more mins, sorry!!”, and she didn’t even blink. Twenty more minutes was a gift. Twenty more minutes to stare at the way his wrist moved when he stirred a cocktail over ice, a slow, steady circle, like he was coaxing something out of the drink; like he was putting it into a hypnotic trance.

He glanced her way once—briefly, like he was scanning the bar for anyone who needed something. Their eyes didn’t meet. She wouldn’t have survived it, she thought. But she noticed – she noticed that he had looked her way. Maybe because he had felt the way that her gaze settled on him.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, suddenly aware of the heat behind her cheeks, the way she’d leaned ever so slightly forward in her seat like she might get a better view. Like that mattered.

It was a strange sort of thing, watching someone’s hands and wondering what they’d feel like. If they were warm or cool, wet or dry. If they’d flinch when touching hers or sink into her skin like they belonged there. She pictured them pulling her jacket off, not in a rush, but methodically, fingers brushing along her shoulder blades. The way his thumb might trace the inside of her wrist just to see if she’d shiver, and the way he’d probably smile while he did so.

God, she was losing her mind.

Another drink order came in, and she watched him pour—rum this time, a mojito. His movements were nearly silent, like a well-oiled machine. She imagined he could tie knots or snap his fingers so loud it’d echo off the walls. That he’d be the kind of man who didn’t touch often, but when he did, it would mean something. Like every small gesture had weight.

Then she watched as he slapped the mint between his palms; the sound of his hands together almost made her mouth dry as she watched him drop it in the glass like it was nothing.

She caught herself biting her lip and forced her gaze to her phone again, though her eyes darted back almost immediately. His hands were back to work, cutting a slice of orange peel, rubbing it along the rim of a glass before flicking it in like nothing. Like it didn’t matter to him, like he knew this job like the back of his hand. He made it look poetic. Intimate, almost.

She wondered if he knew. If he’d caught her looking. If he noticed how often women watched him like this—silent, mesmerized, mouths parted, pretending they weren’t picturing those hands trailing beneath clothes, cradling necks, tipping chins up with a finger beneath the jaw. Using his thumb to pry her lips open–

The door opened, cold air rushing in with the arrival of her friend, but she barely noticed

Because there he was lighting a candle at the edge of the bar, shielding the flame with one hand.

And she swore, she could watch that forever.

[s2owqs]

Anakin Skywalker comforts you after a nightmare

🌌 Headcanon: “When You Have a Nightmare”

(Set between Episodes II and III; you and Anakin are in a secret relationship)

The night was quiet — too quiet for Coruscant. Far away, ships still hummed in the air lanes, but here, in a hidden corner of the Jedi Temple, silence felt almost serene. Almost.

You woke up suddenly — your breath uneven, pulse racing, heart pounding. A nightmare. So vivid, your hands trembled as if you’d just come out of battle. You saw him fall. Anakin. You screamed for him, called his name, but he never answered. In your dream, he disappeared — like smoke slipping through your fingers.

You sat up in bed, arms wrapped around your knees, trying to convince yourself it was just a dream. But the feeling — that overwhelming fear of losing him — lingered like a shadow.

A few minutes passed before the door to your quarters slid open. Quietly. Almost soundlessly. — "I felt something was wrong," came that familiar, warm voice.

Anakin stood in the doorway, dressed in dark sleep clothes, his hair slightly tousled, eyes filled with concern. He shouldn’t be here. No one was supposed to know. But he didn’t care. Not tonight.

— "You were crying in your sleep," he added, stepping closer. "I felt it through the Force."

You looked away, vulnerable and a little embarrassed. — “It was just a dream...” — "No," he said gently, interrupting. "Not just a dream."

He sat down beside you, wrapping you in his arms. His touch was warm and strong, as if he could hold back the nightmares themselves. He didn’t press for details — he just held you, silently, until your trembling began to ease.

— "I’m not going anywhere," he whispered, burying his face in your hair. "I promise. I won’t let anything happen to me... or to you."

You gave a small, shaky smile. — “Promises aren’t exactly Jedi-like.” — "Yeah, well... I’ve never been a very good Jedi." His voice was light, teasing — but the look in his eyes remained serious.

He stayed with you until morning. Lying beside you, holding your hand. Sometimes he would brush his fingers gently along your cheek, like he was reminding himself you were real — and safe. More than once he whispered that he loved you, so softly it felt like a prayer.

And when you finally drifted back to sleep, he stayed awake, watching every breath you took. Because to Anakin, you weren’t just someone he loved. You were his anchor — the only thing keeping him from the edge of the dark.

[oaksgrove]

hi!! i love your fics sm! thank u for taking the time to write them. im the same anon that sent the prince!simon x knight!reader and let me tell you, i love it tons. and so, i have come back with another request.... (too many, actually) what about a sunshine-recruit!reader x simon riley? where reader dies because i am in need of a bit of angst... you can make it fluffy if you wish! tysm :3

-🌊

A Light that Never Goes Out.

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Sunshine!Recruit!Reader

Synopsis: When you joined the team, you brought sunlight to a world built on shadows. Simon Riley, guarded and scarred, never meant to fall for you — but he did, quietly, in the spaces between missions and the weight of war. After a mission goes wrong, Simon is left to grieve the future you dreamed of together. Years later, he fights to build the life you deserved, haunted and comforted by your memory, learning that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. 

Warnings: Major character death (reader), intense grief, mourning, emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet healing, found family support, soft mentions of afterlife signs.

Word Count: 1748

When you joined the team, you were a burst of sunlight in a world made of steel and smoke.

Simon noticed it right away — the way you smiled easily, the way you laughed like you weren’t afraid of the dark things that followed men like him.

At first, he kept his distance.

You were bright.

Not loud or flashy.

Just… bright. Like warm sunlight through broken clouds.

You fought with laughter on your lips. 

You comforted with hands steady and sure.

You lived like every second mattered, like every moment was a gift you refused to waste.

But you had this way of staying, even when he tried to shove you away with silence and gruff remarks.

It undid Simon Riley in ways he couldn’t name.

You became his shadow. His better half.

A hand on his shoulder after a rough debrief.

A warm, unguarded grin across the firepit on cold nights.

A quick-witted remark that made him huff a rare, quiet laugh behind the skull mask.

And somewhere along the way, friendship blurred into something deeper.

Into touches that lingered.

Into glances that burned.

Into conversations in the dead of night, hushed and full of almosts.

Maybe it was the way you handed him coffee in the mornings, always just how he liked it, no words needed.

Maybe it was the way you sat close enough during briefings that your knee brushed his, grounding him without even trying.

Maybe it was how, when nightmares yanked him awake gasping, you were the only one he could stand near — the only one who could sit quietly beside him and make the dark a little less heavy.

He didn’t say it.

You didn’t either.

It lived in the in-between.

The almosts — delicate, unspoken.

One evening — in a rare pocket of peace between missions — you sat together near a low campfire, shoulders brushing in the quiet.

You tilted your head back, staring at the stars, the orange glow soft against your skin.

“You ever seen the English countryside, Ghost?” you asked, voice dreamy.

He grunted. “’Course I have.”

You smiled — soft, faraway.

“I want to see it someday,” you said. “Not just pass through on a mission. I want to live there. A little cottage, a garden, some chickens maybe.”

He snorted quietly. “You, a farmer?”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Shut up. I’d be amazing. I just… I don’t want to miss life, you know? I want peace. I want mornings where the biggest decision is tea or coffee.”

Simon looked at you then — really looked — and something deep inside his chest clenched tight.

You deserved it.

The countryside. The garden. The peace.

Every goddamn good thing this ugly world had to offer.

But lately, you’d changed.

It was small things at first.

You hugged Soap a little longer.

You laughed louder.

You stared up at the stars like you were trying to memorize them.

You lived like you were racing time.

Simon saw it.

He always noticed everything about you.

“Somethin’ you’re not telling me, sunshine?” he asked one night, voice low and rough.

You smiled — soft and sad.

“Just… want to make sure I don’t leave anything unsaid,” you said, gaze flickering over his face.

His chest ached.

Something old and wounded and terrified flared inside him.

But he didn’t push.

He should have.

Because your next mission went sideways.

Explosions. Gunfire. Screams through comms.

Simon fought like hell to reach you.

Bullets sliced the air.

Dust and smoke clawed at his vision.

He found you slumped behind a shattered wall — blood pooling, painting the dirt dark and ugly.

“No, no—” His voice cracked, shattering something inside him.

You blinked up at him, smile trembling.

“Hey, Ghost,” you rasped, teasing even now. “Took you long enough.”

“Don’t you bloody dare,” he growled, hands pressing desperately to the wound, trying to keep you here.

You lifted a weak hand, brushed it against his masked cheek.

“You’ve got to let me go,” you whispered.

He shook his head, fierce.

“I can’t—”

“You can,” you said gently. “You will.”

Your hand slid down, gripping his glove weakly.

“I’m not scared,” you murmured, voice slurring. “I had a good life and you made everything better, Simon.”

And with a final, shuddering breath — you were gone.

Simon didn’t sleep for three days.

He sat in the base office, soaked in grief, as higher-ups coldly discussed standard procedures — how you’d be flown back to London, buried in a cramped military cemetery like a number on a roster.

Simon stood up — slow, dangerous.

“No,” he said, voice low and shaking with rage.

“Lieutenant—”

“No.”

He slammed a hand on the table.

“She wanted the countryside. She gets the countryside.”

It was the first time anyone had seen Ghost lose it like that — not from fear, not from pain — but for you.

It wasn’t easy.

There were papers to sign, approvals to fight for.

There were arguments, threats, pulled favors.

But Simon fought for you the way he wished he could’ve fought that day on the battlefield — until, finally, finally, they relented.

You were laid to rest on a gentle green hill, overlooking golden fields that swayed in the breeze.

Wildflowers scattered the meadow.

The air smelled like rain and earth and the soft promise of spring.

He chose the spot himself.

And they buried you with full honors.

But for Simon, it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

He stood at your grave long after the others left, rain soaking through his jacket, dripping off his mask.

In his gloved hand, he clutched your dogtags, now dulled but still bright in his palm.

“You’re home, love.” he said hoarsely, voice breaking the silence. 

A gust of wind stirred the air, soft as a sigh.

He squeezed the charm tight.

-

The porch creaked under Simon’s weight as he settled into the old wooden chair, a cup of black tea cooling in his hands.

The cottage he lives in is small.

It sits just over the rise from where you’re buried, hidden behind a low, hand-built stone fence.

The wildflowers still scatter across the fields like a living quilt— you would have loved.

It took him a few years to get here.

He wasn’t ready at first.

But your memory pulled him like a tide, quiet and steady, until one day he realized —

This was what you would’ve wanted for him.

Life.

Peace.

Home.

So he bought it.

He planted the garden himself — clumsy at first, rough hands better suited to weapons than trowels.

But he learned. Tomatoes. Lavender. Some stubborn sunflowers that leaned drunkenly against the fence posts.

The chickens were Price’s idea.

“Be good for you,” the old man grunted, hauling a coop into the yard one weekend.

Simon pretended to hate them. But secretly he built them a little covered run and started naming them after famous authors. You would’ve laughed yourself silly.

The 141 came by every few weeks —

Johnny crashing through the door with bags of groceries, insisting he could cook (he couldn’t).

Gaz plopping down on the porch swing with a cold beer, tossing a ball for the dog Simon somehow ended up adopting.

Price bringing his cigar and sitting outside under the stars, talking quietly like the world wasn’t rushing past anymore.

It wasn’t perfect.

Grief still lived in his bones, heavy and old.

Some days hurt more than others.

But here — in this little pocket of the world you dreamed of — Simon healed.

Slowly.

Steadily.

The night was clear — stars scattered across the sky like shards of glass, the fields bathed in silver moonlight.

The chickens were quiet in their coop.

The house behind him glowed warm and steady, windows like golden eyes keeping watch.

He should’ve felt at peace.

Most nights, he did.

But tonight… it felt different, harder to be at ease.

The breeze was gentler than usual — almost tender — brushing across his scarred knuckles, tugging at the collar of his sweater.

And for one trembling second, he could almost swear he felt you.

Sitting beside him.

Swinging your legs, the way you did when you couldn’t quite sit still.

Warmth where there should’ve only been air.

Simon’s chest twisted, a deep, old ache that no amount of time could ever quite erase.

He set the cup down with a shaking hand.

Pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes — rough, embarrassed, furious at himself for still being this wrecked after all these years.

But it broke anyway.

A ragged, raw sound tore from him as he hunched over, shoulders shaking.

Grief clawed up from somewhere deep and buried — sharp, brutal, endless.

“Fuck—”

He bit down hard on the curse, on the pain, on the shame of it.

He barely heard the front door open.

Barely registered the heavy steps across the porch.

And then there was Price, he stayed for the night afraid to drive home, — solid as the stone wall out back, steady as the seasons.

Without a word, the old man sat down in the chair next to him, lit his cigar with practiced ease.

Exhaled smoke into the quiet air.

He didn’t ask what was wrong.

Didn’t offer false comforts.

Didn’t tell Simon to get over it or move on.

He just sat there.

Like a lighthouse in a storm.

After a long while, Simon scrubbed his face with his hands, voice wrecked and raw:

“I just— I could feel her.”

A rasp. A confession.

“Like she was right fuckin’ here.”

Price nodded, slow and grave.

Tipped his head back to look at the stars.

“Maybe she was, mate,” he said simply.

Another long stretch of silence.

Only the chirring of insects.

The whisper of the fields.

Price knocked the ashes from his cigar and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Grief’s just love that’s got nowhere to go,” he said gruffly “You loved her. Still do. Nothin’ wrong with feelin’ it.”

Simon swallowed hard.

Felt something inside him — tight and knotted and hurting — ease just a fraction.

He didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t need to.

Price just reached over, clapped a heavy, fatherly hand on his shoulder, squeezed once.

And for the first time in a long, long time —

Simon let himself lean into it.

Let himself be comforted.

Not just by your memory.

But by the living.

By the life you would have wanted him to keep holding onto.

That night, when he finally went inside, he left the porch light on.

Just in case.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Save a horse, ride a cowboy- H.HJ

Call me miss self indulgence but today is my bday and I have a thing for cowboys since forever 🤭 (also, I don't like rodeos so I didn't describe it much)

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: smut, dom!hyunjin (subtly, I guess)

Alexa, play Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy) by Big & Rich

You jump out of the car with your best friends, boots crunching on dry dirt, laughter spilling into the warm night air.

 The rodeo’s already in full swing— country music playing in the background, the scent of beer and barbecue floating heavily through the crowd. You're buzzed on excitement and nerves, 21 today, first legal drink waiting, heart beating a little too fast under the denim jacket you chose for matching the vibe.

“You look hot”, one of your girls grins, tangling her arm through yours, “We’re getting you drunk and laid tonight”

You laugh, brushing dust off your skirt, not even sure what you’re hoping for— until you see him.

Hyunjin, the rodeo star.

His muscles are lean and his legs are long and he looks way too sinful in those goddamn jeans and black shirt rolled up to his elbows. The charming cowboy hat shadowing his eyes makes him even more mysterious.  

He’s leaning against the fence, watching the arena with one hand hooked into his belt buckle, chewing on a toothpick like every wet dream you've never admitted out loud.

He doesn't say a word when you pass, just tips his hat— barely, with two fingers— and gives you that look and a  smirk that curls slowly at the edge of his mouth like he already knows how you sound when you moan.

You nearly trip over your own feet.

“Holy shit”, you whisper to your friends.

Then the announcer calls his name. 

Hyunjin rides the horse like he was born to ride— fluid, confident, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he adjusts in the saddle. The crowd roars, but you barely hear it. All you can pay attention to is the way his hips move, how his broad back stretches as he leans into the ride, how controlled and powerful every motion is. And when his eyes find yours from the arena, just for a second— he smirks.

That damn smirk.

Your thighs squeeze together on instinct, wondering how sex with him would feel like.

He rides like sin and of course he wins.

You’re still catching your breath when he hops the fence, sweat slicking his neck, hair sticking to his temples. He comes right up to you,  like he knows exactly where to find you in the crowd, and hooks his thumbs into his belt.

“You drink, pretty girl?”,  he asks, voice low and teasing, eyes burning into yours.

Your mouth goes dry, “Just turned twenty one”

“Well then”, he grins, stepping closer, “Happy birthday, beautiful. Let me buy you your first beer”.

And all you can do is  follow him to the bar— a small  place that smells like whiskey and wood. The chatter and clink of glasses surround you, but it feels like it's just you and him. 

Hyunjin leads you to a quiet corner, sliding into the booth with that relaxed, cocky demeanor of his. His cowboy hat’s back on, and his eyes follow you with an almost possessive gaze as you sit down across from him.

"Two beers", he asks to the bartender

He leans back against the seat, stretching his arm along the backrest, casual like he owns the place. The way his muscles flex under his shirt makes you swallow, and your fingers tap nervously on the table.

"So”, he says, tilting his head and looking at you with that devilish smirk, "Tell me, what was your first impression of me?"

Your heart skips a beat, and you feel heat rush to your face. You could pretend to be indifferent, but  the way he’s looking at you makes your body betray you.

"That you’re a total asshole", you say barely above a whisper.

His smirk deepens, and his eyes darken with amusement. "Oh yeah?", he leans in closer, his voice dropping low, "I think you're lying"

The beers arrive, two bottles clinking softly on the table. Hyunjin grabs one, uncapping it and handing it to you. His fingers brush yours, and you feel an electric shock.

“Cheers to your birthday”, he says, raising his bottle, eyes never leaving yours.

You clink your bottles together, watching the way his lips curl around the edge of the bottle. 

"Cheers", you murmur, taking a sip, feeling the beer cold on your tongue.

You sip a little more, gathering your nerves. The alcohol is working its magic, loosening your tongue. 

"I thought you were hot", you finally admit, your voice unsteady, but you hold his gaze, “But didn’t think you’d be so... cocky”

Hyunjin’s lips twitch in amusement, "Cocky?”, he asks, taking a slow drag from his beer, “That’s a word you could use”

He watches you over the rim of his bottle, eyes dropping down to your lips, and you swear he’s savoring the sight of you. You shift uncomfortably, your thighs still squeezing together, the tension between you both thickening with every second.

“So”, he continues, leaning in, eyes glinting with a challenge, “Are you gonna tell me what you really want for your birthday?”

You bite your lip. The heat of the moment makes you bold.

“I don’t know”, you say, voice low, teasing him just like he’s been teasing you, "Maybe something I didn’t expect...?"

He leans in closer, just enough for you to feel the heat of his breath on your skin, his hand reaching across the table to brush against your fingers again.

“Well, I got a few ideas”, he smirks, the hunger in his eyes unmistakable.

You swallow, your body pulsing with anticipation. You glance down at the menu in front of you.

 “Actually”, you say with a small laugh, “I don’t eat meat”

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his gaze, “So you’re one of those, huh?” he teases, “Saving horses and all?”

You grin, leaning in just a little, matching his playful energy.

 “Yeah", you say with a wink, "Maybe I could ride a cowboy too. Like in the music, you know?”

His lips curl into a satisfied smile, and you know he’s already imagining exactly what that might look like.

Before you can say anything else, he stands, extending his hand to you, cocky confidence never leaving him.

“Let’s get outta here. I know a place where we can really make it a birthday you won’t forget”

You take his hand, letting him pull you toward the door, heart racing in anticipation. The night’s only just begun.

The cool night air clings to your skin as you step out of the bar, Hyunjin’s hand still holding yours as he leads you to his truck.

You can feel the excitement between you two, crackling in the air, and it only gets more intense with every step.

His truck is big, dark and intimidating, just like the man standing beside it. 

He opens the door for you, and you slide in feeling the leather seats beneath you. The truck smells like him— sweat, cologne and danger.

You’re barely settled before he’s already climbing in beside you, the door slamming shut with a thud. He turns the key, the engine roaring to life, but all you can hear is the pounding of your own heartbeat.

You glance at him, and he’s watching you— eyes dark, jaw clenched, like he’s just waiting for something, maybe an excuse to pull you closer. Then, he slides a hand up your thigh.

You breath hitches.

He pulls out onto the empty road, the headlights cutting through the darkness as you drive further into the countryside, away from the lights of the town. The anticipation in the air is thick, and your mind races with thoughts of what might come next.

Finally, after a few minutes of silence that feels like it could break you, he pulls off the road and parks. The truck’s engine goes quiet, and he turns to you, eyes glowing with exploding desire.

“So” he says, his voice a low growl, “Ready to get your birthday really started?”

Before you can even respond, he’s out of the truck, pulling you out with him. His hands are warm and firm, and you feel like you might melt under his touch.

 He guides you to the back of the truck, lowering the tailgate, and you’re left breathless as you watch him climb up and sit on the edge of the trunk bed.

“Come here” he says, his voice seductive, “I think you know exactly what to do”

You climb up next to him, barely thinking straight with the way his hands are on you— strong, possessive, guiding you closer until you’re straddling him, your thighs pressing against the rough denim of his jeans.

“Is this what you had in mind for your birthday?”, he asks, his voice teasing as his hands roam over your skin. 

He drags his lips down your neck, making your body shiver with pleasure. You bite your lip, nodding, your hands working to pull his shirt off, revealing the muscled chest beneath. Your breath hitches as you feel the heat of his body against yours.

"No”, you whisper, the words coming out like a challenge, "But I think that’s even better"

A smirk curls on his lips as he pulls you closer, his lips crashing onto yours in a kiss that burns like fire. His hands grip your hips, pulling you down against him as he adjusts beneath you.

You can feel his pulse under your fingertips, the way his breath comes faster when you grind down on him. 

Every shift of your body against his feels like a new level of pleasure, and you can feel his control slipping as you push him further.

“Fuck”, he groans, eyes dark as he pulls away just enough to look at you, “You’re perfect”

You smile, a mixture of sweet and sinful, “Show me just how perfect I am, cowboy”

His smirk turns into something more dangerous.

 “Oh, I will”, he says, his voice rough, as he pulls you into another kiss.

The truck rocks under your hips.

Hyunjin’s hat is off, thrown somewhere near the tailgate, and his hands are firm on your waist, guiding you with firm hands as you ride him. The worn denim of his jeans is pushed just low enough, your panties lost somewhere in the frenzy of his mouth on yours. He groans when he first slides into you.

“Fuck” he breathes, head thrown back, sweat glinting on his neck, “You feel like a dream, birthday girl”

You’re trembling, thighs burning as you move on him, the stretch of him inside you deep and perfect. The air is heavy with heat, your moans, and the creak of the truck’s suspension with every bounce of your hips. 

He palms your ass, smirking through a groan.

 “You said no meat,” he pants, thrusting up hard, deep, “But you’re eating’ this up, ain’t you?”

You gasp, nails digging into his bare shoulders, “Shut up…”

He grins, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat— not choking, just holding, just owning you— as he jerks up into you, faster. 

“Nah”, he whispers, voice dark,  “Not on your birthday”

Then he flips you.

You land on your back, legs spread wide before you even catch your breath, the cool of the trunk bed metal kissing your spine. He kneels between your thighs, cock glistening as he strokes it once, devouring you.

“You want it like this?, he murmurs, dragging his tip through your soaked folds, teasing your clit before nudging at your entrance

 “Want me to fuck you like a real cowboy?”

You nod, frantic, your fingers curling in the crumpled flannel beneath your hips,  “Yes… Hyunjin, please…”

He pushes in again, brutal, all the way in until his hips crash with yours. Your mouth drops open in a silent cry.

“That’s it”, he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your throat as he begins to move in long, deep thrusts that make your body twitch under his.

 “Feel that? That’s me splitting you open like you’re mine”

You moan, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him in deeper. His pelvis grinds against your clit, each thrust perfectly  slick, obscene.

“You gonna come for me?”, he murmurs against your jaw, licking sweat from your skin, “Gonna soak my cock as a good birthday girl?”

“Fuck… yes… yes, Hyunjin, I…”

But you shatter first. Back arching, toes curling, body shaking with tremors as you come around him, walls pulsing tight, milking him. You cry his name, hands clawing at his back, and he moans, wrecked, before slamming into you one last time.

“Gonna fill you up, baby”, he growls, voice cracking as he comes, “Gonna shoot it deep, fuck…”

He let out a strangled groan as his cock twitches inside you, warmth spilling into your core. His body trembles against yours, fingers trembling where they hold your hips and thighs.

You lie there together, tangled and panting under the stars, your skin slick with sweat and his cum, your chest rising in sync.

Hyunjin laughs softly, nose buried in your neck, “You’re trouble, birthday girl”

You smile, drunk on him instead of the beer, “You started it, cowboy”

He chuckles again, rolling off but pulling you with him, wrapping his arms around you tightly, tucking you into his chest. He finds his flannel shirt and drapes it over your body.

“You okay?”, he whispers.

You nod against his chest, body completely wrecked.

“Good”, he smiles, wicked, “Next time, I’m bringing rope. And maybe a gag”

You laugh breathlessly, “Already planning next year?”

He smirks, “Nah, babe. I’m talking about tomorrow”.

If you enjoyed it please consider liking and reblogging. Feedbacks, loves notes and requests are very much appreciated 😊

taglist: @hyyunjinnn , @jehhskz , @mbioooo0000 , @nightmarenyxx , @rozsdascsaptelep @thatonegirlonhere , @notmedina127, @sweetlifeofjoy , @jeonginsleftcheek , @yelhsaa , @my-neurodivergent-world , @hyunles , @lexlikesbts @imagine-all-the-imagines , @mysterysold , @teenagepeterpan , @hangonhyunjin

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Mr. Barnes Pt.1

Bucky Barnes x reader

When Sam brings someone new to his council meetings hosted in the library, the mystery man becomes the hot topic among the librarians.

2k

Single dad Bucky, librarian reader, Sam still has his counceling job. Imagine John didn't absolutely fuck up and is currently being a decent Cap somewhere in the background.

The library was quiet today outside of the scheduled ex-veteran meetings that were hosted once a month. You barely had any customer interaction today and you were bored. Luckily boredom didn’t last long as the men of varying ages started coming in for their meeting. The retired army men always spoke so kindly to you and your coworkers, especially the older, greying men who’d drink their free coffee and stopped for a casual chat whenever any of the librarians had time for them during their visits.

Like always Sam had shown up early, his ever-present smile and kind eyes drew a crowd like clockwork. He’d always be all sunshine and cheer while he set up the last things for the meetings he hosted and brought comfort food for the elderly. He made sure to bring something extra for "his favorite ladies" as he called you and your coworkers, as well. A few takeout boxes with a variety of foods were dropped off in the break room with a sweet little note telling the librarians to enjoy the food, signed by S. Wilson.

“Say thanks to Sarah for me, will ya?” You mumbled as you walked past Sam, making sure the others didn’t hear you mention the one who’d always prepare the delicious foods.

Today, though. Today was different. The food was dropped off without the usual amount of bravado, and the flirty suave Sam didn’t have as much eye for the ladies as he normally had. No, today there was someone else following him around and held most of his attention. Unknowingly, he held the librarians’ attention as well.

Behind Sam trailed a man looking to be around the same age as him. Although the beard and tired eyes did age him a little. Icy blue eyes framed by loose strands of dark brown hair that sat mostly tied in a messy bun. He wore a leather jacket, worn over what looked to be generations of living. A small scarf sat around his neck, hiding skin behind patterned grey fabric. Off one arm hung a motorcycle helmet, its visor gleaming in the overhead light. He still wore his gloves. Dull black leather covering his hands, leaving nothing of his body except for his face uncovered. 

After the meeting had finished and the crowd had left once more it seemed like everyone on the team had seen the guy that followed Sam like a lost puppy, and Sam himself was all but forgotten. 

The Steady buzz around the front desk made it clear no one was going to be doing any work anymore, only talking among colleagues about the mystery man. 

The man showed up more often after that day. Without fail he was at each and every meeting Sam hosted, shadowing him like he would get lost if Sam stepped out of his line of sight. As time went on he started wandering in on his own, always in long sleeves and gloves. No matter the weather he always kept himself covered up. 

It had become a topic of conversation between the library staff, all wondering what the man was hiding underneath. The answer that sounded most obvious was scars, he was a war veteran after all.

"Leave him be, girls." Sam had murmured as he passed the staring group of women once again. 'Him' being the man you learned was named James. Sergeant James Barnes, who "came to these sessions for a reason" and "did not need a gaggle of horny women trailing after him.". Sam, who used to be the object of the staff’s affection, was now all but waved off as he appeared to be blocking the view of Sergeant Barnes. 

"I'm sorry, Sam. They're being assholes." You sat beside him after he finished another meeting, always staying behind to let his mind rest for a moment and have one last coffee before heading back home.

Sam only chuckled as he watched the other women swoon from behind the counter, over his friend who was making his way out of the door and actively ignoring every single one of them. 

Sam leaned back in his chair, slightly tipping his body towards you and spoke in a low voice. "Oh no I get it. I mean, look at him." 

=☆=

It had been over a month and still the library staff's productivity dropped to zero once the veterans, or more specifically, Sargeant Barnes walked in. They'd all greet the others as well to be less obvious, or at least try to. It didn't work, though.

Sam's sister, Sarah Wilson had prepared extra treats for everyone this time, some special occasion you didn't catch the details of but all the food was too much for Sam alone to handle. 

"Can you grab those last ones? I gotta get started or I'll be wasting everybody's time." Sam came speed walking by with a stack of takeout boxes in hand, giving you the biggest puppy dog eyes. 

“Of course. For you, always.” You smiled kindly as you spun to follow his figure, fishing the car keys from his jacket pocket and heading out to grab the last boxes and bring them over to the meeting room.

Once you made your way through the main area and reached the meeting hall after maneuvering through visitors with the small stack of food you could hear someone speak from the doorway. It wasn't the voice of an elderly man, like you'd usually catch as you passed the doorway, but a younger one.

The words made you slow your step, savor the moment before the speaker caught someone walking in.

You listened to the man speak about remembering..

Remembering victims. Deaths and killing.

He spoke of the violence in a sense of not even wanting to participate. Not then, and not now, here in the room with the others. 

The tremble in his voice had you moving, walking into the room as quietly as possible with Sam's requested boxes that you set with the others, sneaking along the wall towards the table in the back and setting down the food.

You couldn't help but look towards the front of the room where the men all sat in a circle. It was only then that you realised who was talking. The man stood out among the greys that filled this week’s session.

It was Sergeant Barnes. He sat with his head down, a gloved hand gripping his left arm so tight you were afraid he'd tear through his sleeve as he tried to even out his breathing. The leather jacket he wore hung over the back of the chair and the dark red henley he wore did nothing to hide the tension and shaking of his shoulders.

He hadn't seen you, but Sam had. He had given you a quick nod in acknowledgement but returned his attention to his friend immediately after. 

It was after the meeting when you saw him again, still frazzled from speaking up earlier. Sam was at his side, handing him two large takeout boxes of food, giving him a last pat on the shoulder and bidding him a safe ride home.

"I made sure to put in enough for you and Maxie." You heard him say as the two of them parted ways.

Maxie.. You hadn’t heard them talk about that person before, did Mr. Barnes have a girlfriend? Uou wouldn’t go feed Sarah’s spiced foods to a pet.

"Don't worry, girls. There's some for you as well." Sam mused as he passed the front desk where you were keeping busy with administration. You worked while the others swarmed around, pretending to be doing stuff near the front desk only to drool over Sergeant Barnes.

"Thank you, Sam. That's so kind." Taking the boxes from him you made a grand gesture of it and quickly put them away in the break room. You put effort into giving him extra attention, it bothered you how everyone else so easily dismissed Sam’s kindness. He was a good friend of the library staff, or at least that’s what you thought.

The second Sam was out the door as well, the first shoulder shoved into you as your coworker’s face inched closer to yours with a strange look on her face. 

“So, are you planning to share what you heard in there?” 

“Yeah girl, we know you heard Barnes talk, what did he say?” The desk was covered in women begging you to spill but you respected the men who came in to share their trauma in a safe environment and you weren’t planning on ruining something by sharing info that was no one else’s business.

Bucky’s ride home was a slow one. His head still spun from speaking up in front of the group and recalling memories of his time as the Winter Soldier. Even disguised as army talk he still couldn’t shake the voice in the back of his mind. The voice thet sounded eerily like a deeper, darker version of his own, a thick russian accent whenever it decided to speak english.

He almost ran a red light. Twice.

“Goddamnit Barnes, get it together..” He mumbled into his helmet.

Back at the apartment building after retrieving the food from his bike bags and slinging his helmet around his arm Bucky made his way up to his home where he could hear his daughter before he saw her, singing along to the tunes of her favorite movie she could quote by heart. Maxie had watched that movie so many times now that even Bucky wasn't immune to humming along to the tune of ‘Bad Reputation’. He had found himself humming the tune even when he was out and about, something about the lyrics that he tried to keep close. Plus, it made him think of Maxie, who hadn’t noticed him coming home yet with how focused she was on acting along with the movie. 

“Really,” Bucky decided to announce his presence when the song was over. “watching this one again?” He leaned against the countertop with the bag of food in his hand, a knowing smile on his face as he watched Maxie turn around and jump up at the sight of the simple white bag. 

“Uncle Sam brought food? Yay!” Within seconds she had climbed her way onto the barstool, ready for her autie Sarah’s food. 

Bucky got everything ready with a huff and a roll of his eyes. Maxie always got excited when he brough home extras from his meetings, a smile on her face from the second she’d see it in Bucky’s hands or or on the bar counter that separated the kitchen and livingroom and served as their dining table. The place was just big enough to fit the big couch and a coffee table. 

And yeah, Bucky could have picked a different couch to make more room for other furniture, but Maxie had loved this one a little too much. It also didn’t help that it was the perfect size for him to sleep on without having his legs dangle off one end or have his knees hang off the front when he pulled his legs up. No, that couch wasn’t going anywhere. 

“Dad? You there?” Maxie knocked on the counter to get her dad’s attention, pulling him back out of his mind.

“Sorry, sweetie. Had a difficult meeting today, my head is still weird.” Bucky quickly grabbed cutlery while Maxie unpacked the bag and placed a box on either side of the bar top. 

“M’sorry your day was weird.” It was all Maxie really said regarding Bucky’s issues. He hadn’t told her anything besides that he used to be in the army and he was seeing people to talk about it during the meetings he attended. Luckily she was a smart kid and grew up fast enough to stay home alone for the duration of Bucky’s meetings. 

Bucky wished he could talk about it all more with her, but she was too young. She didn’t need all of that trauma dumping just yet. 

Maybe he’d try and start with the simple being a soldier part, to at least create a little base to build up from over time.

He’d have to ask the kind librarians for some help, eventually.

[fuyuu-chan]

the sun have never shined this bright like yours - ft. solo leveling men

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Reader & Liu Zhigang x Reader (Separate) - also this is sunshine x sunshine protector trope (i hope i portrayed it well)

Fuyuu-chan: i feel like this was a bit of a mess, but i just really wanna write even tho there's no thought process :')

✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧

Sung Jinwoo:

• he's the embodiment of darkness and you being the literal definition of sunshine?

• perfect pair

• in his most darkest times were he thought he became the most horrible person (he felt guilty or is he? lol but it always goes through his mind when he killed those people), where he thought he lost his humanity completely

• you came in his life

• like a light shining, showing him the way

• you supported him and stayed with him

• he got to confide in you, rest in your arms where he felt the safest, and he wouldn't trade it for the world

• this is his most treasured and precious moments, with his beloved

• whether you're a hunter or not, he would protect you with his entire life

• he wanted you out of harm

• if you're not a hunter, that's better

• you can be safe, and be away from the dangers those dungeon has to offer, the horrible things that happens inside the dungeons too and he can be assured for sure about your safety

• it would be better for you to keep your innocence away from those, and can be happy and healthy all the time

• he promised to himself to never let your light or shine fade away, to not let anyone or anything change you the way you are

• and his children shadow soldiers are also more than willing to protect you too, you are their queen, mother, their king's most important person he treasured

• that jinwoo was willing to risk or sacrifice anything, anytime, for you

• he would always be your protector along with his soldiers

• and if you're ever away, he would always be a call away

• yes, his children is there to protect you, but he prefers to do it himself as he wants you to know just how much you are important to him

• he would never be too far to follow you, as one sign from his children he would be by your side in no time

• that's one of the reasons you are not afraid of the things that terrified you before, especially at night

• for you, nighttime, has never been this peaceful

• maybe bcs you know jinwoo would always be there and your babies who is there accompanying you while you enjoy your time

Liu Zhigang:

• all this man had ever known in life is being a hunter

• he never really thought of doing other things, other than his work and his hobbies

• but that's when you came in (out of nowhere, in his opinion he's not complaining tho)

• you caught his attention the moment he met you in the hunter's association

• he was intrigued, because you were literally smiling, so cheerful, greeting everyone who passed by with a small "hello" "hi" or a nod of acknowledgement

• he rarely sees that on hunters these days, normally they don't really bother with such trivial things unless its coming from an important person

• you were also very optimistic

• he was amused and interested to say the least

• he kept his eye on you for the next few days that passed

• you just never really seemed to run out of kindness or that cheerful personality of yours

• like sure some people smile all the time, but most of the time they were fake, only putting a facade to make a good impression

•  but yours ... it was far different, it looks genuine

•  like you actually pay attention to people, like actually being interested to them and giving some time to listen to them

•  that's a first...for him anyway

•  he got to talk to you here and there in short moments when he had free time, but he got to know you little by little 

•  it started off like that anyway

•  liu just grew to adore you, care for you and such (you seem to always lit up his mood too, and put up a smile on his face, a genuine one (like mirroring your expression but of course he never really got to, as you shine more and more each day))

•  bcs suddenly the moment he fell for you, all the soft songs out there about love that he don't used to like before, was suddenly all about him and you

•  but when he saw you so down one day, so sad, he felt his blood boil

•  what happened? who did this to you?

•  but that didn't matter right now

•  he comforted you, took you in his arms where you lean on him, just crying as he whisper comforting words, while he pats your back gently while his other hand brush your strands softly

•  in the end you fell asleep

•  he didn't let go of you, he just wanted you to rest and wants you to feel his presence, to let you know he would always be there to protect you

•  that he would always be there for you, for you to confide to him, for you to run to him whenever you might need someone

•  as for what happened on what made you sad ... he would either ask you the next day, or if he saw you don't wanna talk about it

•  he would contact someone, and make sure to find out about what might had happened, he wanted to take care of whatever had made you have that pained expression

•  he doesn't want to see you sad again, it pains him (probably more than you) more than he'd like to admit

•  he only wanted you to be happy, for you to shine brightly like how you usually do

•  liu only wants the best for you and it would always remain like that

•  ....

•  and since the two of you are famous as hunters, there would be reporters/paparazzi following the both of you whenever you are out in public

•  this man would either ignore those bcs he don't wanna waste his time on them and just wanted to focus on you

•  but if it makes you uncomfortable this man would sent a glare to those reporters/paparazzi who was hiding, thinking they wouldn't be seen

•  and if that won't do, he would threaten them (he would have done smth more but you were there and he would hate to ruin your mood and your date) and the same goes to jinwoo in this situation

ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ

Please do not copy, translate, repost to any other social media, Thank you.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Notice Me

Pairing: Highschool!Bucky x Highschool!Reader

Summary: After feeling overlooked for so long, you finally get asked out but no one other than Bucky Barnes.

Word Count: ~1k

Warnings: self-esteem issues; insecurity; sweet Bucky

Author’s Note: I'm sorry it this seems slightly rushed. But thank you for the request, my dear!! I hope you’ll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

They don’t really look at you.

They glance, sometimes. Pass by. Ask for notes or lab slides, ask if you’ve started the assignment, or if you can just, maybe, double-check their citations.

They are kind, most of them. You don’t mind. You’re good at slipping into corners. Good at folding yourself small. Quiet is easier than being misunderstood.

You exist like background music. Always there. Never quite heard.

So you never notice him noticing you. Not at first.

You know his name is Bucky. You know too, that he usually sits in the back and he listens. There is something about the way he watches the board, the professor, the world, as if he’s been absent from it and only just returned. His hands are always tense. He smiles as if he’s afraid it will hurt. But he’s kind. Surprisingly kind.

One time you dropped your pen in the aisle and he bent down to get it before you even noticed it was gone. He didn’t say anything when he handed it to you, just this soft half-nod and a look you couldn’t quite make out.

You never think about why he is always early to class.

You never think about why he always sits close enough to hear you speak when you rarely do.

You learn that his real name is James.

James Buchanan Barnes. He says it one day during a project when the professor’s taking attendance, and someone makes a joke about it being a mouthful.

You don’t laugh.

You like the way he says it. As if he’s reclaiming it from something.

He glances at you when he says it. You don’t know what that means.

You write his name down in your notebook and immediately scribble it out. You hope no one saw. Especially not him.

You catch him watching you three times before you start counting.

Once, when you were half-asleep during a film analysis.

Once, when you answered a question the professor had barely finished asking.

Once, in the hallway, while you were struggling with your scarf and your hands wouldn’t listen to your brain, and he stepped forward as if he was going to help and then didn’t.

He smiled instead. A small one.

You smiled back.

You think about that smile too much. More than you mean to.

It’s raining the day he asks.

The world smells like wet pavement and leaves. Everything is a little too loud, too soft, too much.

You’re clutching your bag to your chest, hurrying off. You think you hear your name but it’s hard to tell with the thunder.

But then your name comes again.

You turn.

To Bucky.

He looks as if he didn’t plan this, which means he probably did. He’s wearing a coat with the collar turned up, hair a little damp, hands in his pockets as if he doesn’t trust them to stay calm.

He says your name again, formulates it as a question, as if he’s checking if you’ll run.

You don’t.

“Hey,” he says. “Sorry- this is probably not- just, uh, I’ve been meaning to ask you- do you want to- go get coffee? Or tea? Or something?” A pause. “With me.”

You blink at him, a droplet of rain falling from your lashes.

You think you forgot your heartbeat somewhere on the walk here. It finds you again. Loud.

“I mean-” he rubs the back of his neck, and you see something strange in his eyes. Nerves. Hope. Fear. “Only if you want to. Obviously.”

God, you think of every time you told yourself no one noticed. Every time you melted into the background like wallpaper, like breath, like shadow.

And now he’s standing in front of you in the rain, looking at you as though you’re the only thing in color.

“I’d like that,” you answer, voice small but sincere.

His shoulders drop in relief. He beams.

And later, over coffee, you learn that he’s been wanting to ask you for weeks. Months, maybe. That he almost said something when you helped him format his paper. That he actually knew how to do it on his own. That he almost chickened out again this morning.

And it made you feel seen. Uncomfortably, carefully, exquisitely seen.

[cheeseatlantic]

SANCTIFIED

The church is quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the kind that invites peace, but the kind that feels like it’s holding its breath—like the walls know what’s about to happen and they’re choosing silence over judgment.

You shouldn’t be here.

Not like this. Not with him.

But the air is thick with incense and heat, and Simon Riley is looking at you like he’s already said a thousand Hail Marys and none of them worked.

His mask is half-off, the lower half of his face visible—cut jaw, bruised mouth, the cigarette he flicked out at the door still clinging to your taste.

“You’re late,” you whisper, breath ghosting like smoke in the cold chapel.

He steps into the shadows near the altar, boots loud on ancient stone. “Forgive me.”

“Do you even believe in forgiveness?”

Simon doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

He’s already in front of you, gloves off, hands rough as sin itself. He touches your throat like he’s blessing it. Or damning it. Maybe both. His thumb runs down your pulse.

“You came dressed like that on purpose,” he says, voice like gravel dragging across velvet.

You glance down—tight black clothes, no armor of modesty, just skin and intent. You let him look. Let him devour you with those hollowed-out eyes, like you’re the altar and he’s about to kneel.

“I came for you.”

That makes him pause. For a heartbeat. Maybe two.

Then—his hand fists in your shirt, and you’re being dragged back into the confessional.

⸻

The wood creaks.

Old, splintered, warped from centuries of whispered sin. It groans under the weight of what the two of you bring inside. He doesn’t sit on his side. He doesn’t keep distance. He pushes you into the tiny, dark booth, follows close behind, and the door clicks shut with the finality of something biblical.

“You gonna confess?” you ask, lips almost brushing his.

Simon’s breath is hot. Whiskey-scented. War-tainted.

“I don’t come here to be clean.”

He drags you down onto the bench. The space is too small, too tight, bodies pressed together like prayer beads clutched in desperation. His hand cups the back of your neck, firm and demanding.

“You think He’s watching?” you ask, voice a ghost.

Simon growls low. “Hope He is.”

And then his mouth is on yours—bruising, claiming, all teeth and tongue and violence disguised as worship. You clutch at his shirt like salvation, pull him deeper like the abyss has room for one more.

⸻

The stained glass above you casts red light through the booth.

Bloodlight.

Simon’s dog tags clink against your chest when he shifts, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

He kisses like he fights—hard, relentless, without mercy. His hands are on your hips, dragging you into his lap like you belong there, like he’s trying to fuse you to him. He groans against your throat when your teeth catch his skin.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters.

“Wrong place,” you breathe.

He huffs a dark laugh. “Exactly the right place.”

Because there’s something divine in the desecration. Something holy in how filthy this feels.

He palms your ass, grinds you down against him like the friction might absolve him. Like maybe if you moan for him loud enough, the saints in the glass will cover their eyes and leave him be for a night.

You arch under him, panting, sweat prickling your spine.

“Say it,” he commands.

“What?”

“That you want this.”

Your head thuds back against the wood.

“I want this.”

Louder. Bolder.

“I want you.”

He groans like that’s the first honest thing he’s heard in years.

⸻

You don’t know how long you stay like that, half-unmade, biting your tongue to keep quiet as his hands press reverence into your thighs, your chest, your hips. But the confessional smells like sex now. Like skin and sin and smoke and Simon.

He presses his forehead to yours afterward, panting.

“You ruin me,” he mutters, like a confession.

“No,” you whisper back. “You came ruined.”

He doesn’t deny it.

⸻

You exit the booth first.

Your lips are swollen. Your clothes are rumpled. The crucifix above the altar seems to watch as you pass, but you don’t bow your head. Not this time.

Simon follows a moment later, still masked, still unreadable—but his hands tremble when he lights another cigarette in the entryway.

He doesn’t look at you.

Just says, low and worn, “Same time next Sunday?”

You nod once, smile sharp.

“I’ll wear less.”

He stares.

Then smirks—wolfish, unrepentant.

“Good.”

didnt feel like going into deep smut today. sorry.

[pukefactory]

Hello! I was wondering if you could do Shadow the hedgehog x reader romantic headcanons? Like they’ve been together for about a year now and their anniversary is coming up? Thank you!!!!!

•───⋅☾⊱ HEAVEN’S NIGHT ⊰☽⋅───•

♱ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Shadow The Hedgehog X Reader Where He Plans For Your Anniversary

♱ Character(s): Shadow The Hedgehog (Sonic The Hedgehog)

♱ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

♱ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

♱ Image Credits: @schizsou

✮ Shadow doesn’t mark the passage of time like others do, but he remembers everything. He doesn’t say a word about the approaching anniversary—not because he forgot, but because he’s quietly planning. He’s memorized the date, the exact hour he met you, what you were wearing. His memory is infallible. When he finally brings it up, it’s brief and blunt: “Next week. I’m not making plans. I already have.” That’s Shadow’s version of asking you to clear your schedule.

✮ He doesn’t like parties. Too loud. Too many people. Too many eyes. But he crafts something else for the anniversary—a quiet evening in a place that means something. Somewhere sacred to him. The ruins of the ARK, cleaned and stabilized. A room that once overlooked the stars. “I wanted you to see where I began. If you’re going to stay… I want you to know everything.” It’s his version of a vow.

✮ He gives you a gift. Small. Heavy. Made by his hands. It’s a silver pendant, shaped like a Chaos Emerald, etched with your initials and his own. You watch him hand it over with hesitant fingers—he doesn’t look you in the eye as he does. “I didn’t know what to get. But I wanted it to be permanent.”

✮ He has remembered every single thing you’ve said in the past year that made your eyes light up. The scent you liked once in passing. The book you couldn’t find. The city you said you wanted to see under the stars. He stores them away like coordinates, and on your anniversary, he makes sure they all appear in the itinerary. No fuss. No grand declarations. Just: “Put this on. We’re going.”

✮ Shadow’s not good with affection, but he tries. On the anniversary night, he lets his hand stay wrapped around yours longer than usual. He doesn’t flinch when you kiss his cheek. And when you thank him for the day, he replies, voice low and still: “You’re welcome. I… like that you’re still here.” It’s the softest he’s ever sounded.

✮ He’s never forgotten Maria. He never will. But tonight, sitting beside you beneath a half-shattered moon, he quietly admits something he hasn’t told anyone else. “You’re the first person since her… that I’ve let close. You remind me what it’s like to be more than a weapon.” He doesn’t say he loves you. He doesn’t have to.

✮ In combat, he’s more ruthless now than ever. Because he knows you’re waiting for him. He’s started pulling punches less—because to get home safe, he has to make sure the battle ends fast. But he’ll never say it’s for you. He just brushes the blood off his gloves and mutters, “I’m not letting anything delay me tonight.”

✮ You once joked that he’d never make you breakfast. Shadow took it as a challenge. So for your anniversary morning, he somehow learns how to make something close to pancakes. They’re uneven. Slightly burned. He sets the plate down in front of you with his arms crossed, crimson eyes daring you to laugh. “Eat. It took too long to figure out the batter.”

✮ He wears something different. Just this once. Ditches the gloves. Doesn’t let you see him vulnerable often—but on this night, he lets his walls drop just enough. Lets you rest your head against his chest. Lets you hear the faint thrum of energy under his skin, like a heartbeat made of Chaos. “You’re the only one who gets this. The real me.”

✮ At the very end of the night, he speaks the words slowly—like each one is a weapon he’s disarming. “I thought I wasn’t capable of peace. That I didn’t deserve it. But this year has proven otherwise.” A long silence. Then: “Happy anniversary. I won’t ever let it be our last.”

[sunsetmade]

Early Pickup

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: After two long weeks apart, she finally comes home to Rafe. An early morning airport pickup turns into a whole day of soft kisses, warm cuddles, and the kind of love that makes everything feel right again.

She let out a soft yawn and turned her head to gaze out the window, the sky was still pitch black and the lights of the city took over. A small smile tugged at her lips. Finally. After two long weeks at her parents’ house, she was going home—back to Rafe.

They had talked every day, morning and night, never letting a day pass without hearing each other’s voices. If they weren’t calling, they were texting, even if the conversations were just comfortable silence. But none of it had been enough.

So to say she was excited would’ve been an understatement—she missed him. More than words could explain.

The plane taxied slowly, the hum of engines barely loud enough to cover the flutter in her chest. She tugged her hoodie tighter around her and leaned toward the window again, biting back another smile. Her fingers itched to text him—Just landed—but she knew he was already waiting. He wouldn’t miss this for the world.

Across the terminal, Rafe blinked hard against the overhead lights, yawning behind the sleeve of his hoodie. His baseball cap was pulled low over messy hair, hood up, sweatshirt wrinkled from where he’d clearly rolled out of bed and gone straight to the airport. He looked exhausted—but the moment the arrivals board updated, something lit behind his eyes.

He straightened in his seat, rubbing his hands together and pacing a few steps, practically vibrating with tired anticipation. Two weeks might not seem like much to anyone else, but it had felt like forever. Texts were fine. Calls helped. But nothing compared to having her right in front of him.

And then—there she was.

She walked out of her gate her eyes scanning the airport. His smile wide when their eyes met.

There he was.

Leaning against a pillar in arrivals, hoodie slouched, eyes heavy with sleep and a coffee in hand he probably forgot to drink. His cap was pulled low, casting a soft shadow over his eyes—but the second he saw her, everything about him changed. His face lit up, like just the sight of her had jump-started his entire morning.

She dropped her bag without thinking and hurried toward him, her steps quick, eyes bright despite how tired she looked. “Hey—”

She didn’t even finish her greeting before Rafe had her wrapped in his arms.

He pulled her in tightly, arms locking around her waist, lifting her a few inches off the ground. Her feet dangled for a second as she let out a surprised laugh, clutching his hoodie and hiding her face in the crook of his neck.

“Missed you,” he breathed, voice rough from sleep, muffled against her skin. “So much.”

“I missed you more,” she mumbled into his chest.

“No way,” he said quietly, still holding her like he never planned to let go.

She leaned back just a bit, hands sliding up to cup his face. His eyes were soft—tired, yes, but shining—and her thumb brushed under his jaw, slow and fond.

He dipped his head slightly, forehead resting against hers, and for a second they just stood there, surrounded by the low hum of the airport and the swirl of people passing by, totally lost in each other.

“You look so tired,” she whispered.

“You look so pretty,” he whispered back.

And then he kissed her.

It was warm and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world now that she was back. His lips moved slowly over hers, tender and familiar, his hands sliding up her back, holding her like a secret he finally had again. She melted into it with a quiet sigh, rising on her toes to get closer.

The kiss deepened just enough to make her dizzy, his thumb brushing under her jaw, anchoring her there like she was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

When they pulled apart, breathless and smiling, he rested his forehead against hers again and let out a low, content sigh.

“Took you long enough,” he mumbled.

She laughed, muffled in his shoulder. “You’re literally the one who told me to visit my parents.”

“Worst idea I’ve ever had,” he muttered, still not letting go. “Remind me not to be supportive ever again.”

She grinned and leaned back just enough to look at him. His hoodie was slouched on one side, and his eyes were definitely still heavy with sleep, but there was no mistaking the way he was smiling—quiet and lopsided and all for her.

“You look like you rolled out of bed and sleepwalked here.”

“I did,” he deadpanned. “For you.”

Her heart gave a dramatic little lurch.

“You didn’t have to come this early.”

“I did, actually. Had to make sure some guy in a suit didn’t try to flirt with you while you were waiting on your luggage.”

She laughed. “Rafe.”

“What? You look extra cute when you’re half-asleep.”

He grabbed her bag without asking, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. His other hand found hers, fingers lacing through easily like it was second nature.

They made their way toward the parking deck, his thumb gently rubbing across the back of her hand with every step.

“So,” he said after a yawn. “Did you bring me anything?”

“I brought myself.”

“Mm. Not bad.” He paused. “But a keychain or some chocolate wouldn’t have killed you.”

“I’ll remember next time.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. “There better not be a next time.”

“You’re clingy when you’re tired,” she teased.

“You think I’m clingy now? Wait ‘til we get home.”

⸻

The drive back was quiet in the sweetest way. Her head rested against the passenger window, eyes half-lidded, while Rafe kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting palm-up on the center console—just waiting for her fingers to find his again. Which they did, without hesitation.

He stole glances at her the whole way, and each time, a dumb little smile tugged at his lips. She was here. Finally. And it felt like his whole chest could breathe again.

By the time they pulled into the driveway, the sky had just started turning a soft, cotton-candy pink. The house looked still and sleepy, like it was waiting for them.

“Home,” he said quietly, cutting the engine.

She stretched with a soft groan, blinking sleepily at him. “It looks colder here.”

“Guess I’ll just have to keep you warm, huh?”

She gave him a look. “Smooth.”

He grinned, unbothered. “I try.”

Rafe grabbed her bag again even though she offered to carry it, and they padded up the porch steps together. The second the door shut behind them, she dropped her tote and kicked off her shoes with a sigh of relief.

“I missed this house,” she said, yawning.

Rafe dropped the bag beside hers and wrapped both arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Yeah? I missed you in this house.”

She melted into him, his warmth instantly grounding. “Can we go to bed?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

⸻

They barely made it to the bedroom before Rafe was tossing his hoodie off and pulling back the covers. She changed into one of his old t-shirts—soft and oversized—and slid under the blanket as he climbed in behind her.

The moment she settled, he pulled her against his chest, one leg slotting between hers and his arm wrapping tightly around her middle like he was afraid she’d vanish again.

“You good?” she murmured.

He pressed his nose into her hair. “Yeah. Just… better now.”

She turned in his arms so she could face him. His eyes were already falling shut, lashes brushing his cheeks.

“You didn’t have to wake up so early,” she whispered, brushing his hair off his forehead.

“I did,” he mumbled. “Needed you.”

She kissed the tip of his nose, and he scrunched it, sleepily smiling. “You’re stuck with me for the rest of the day, you know.”

“Good,” he murmured, pulling her closer. “Just wake me up if I start snoring.”

“You do snore.”

His eyes cracked open. “Lies.”

She giggled and kissed him again—just a soft, sleepy brush of lips.

Then they both let their eyes fall shut, wrapped in each other, the world outside fading away.

⸻

When she stirred, it was to the sound of slow breathing and the weight of a strong arm draped over her waist.

The room was quiet, lit only by a soft afternoon glow sneaking through the blinds. She blinked slowly, still half-asleep, and turned her head just enough to see Rafe beside her—his face relaxed, lips parted slightly, hair a complete mess. Still clinging to her like she might disappear again.

She smiled, heart melting.

“You’re staring,” he mumbled without opening his eyes.

“I missed your sleepy face,” she whispered, brushing her fingers through his hair.

He let out a low hum, eyes fluttering open just enough to look at her. “Might need to fall asleep more often if it gets me that kind of attention.”

“You already get all my attention.”

“Not enough,” he murmured, voice gravelly. He tugged her closer until their legs tangled again, his nose brushing hers. “Gonna keep you in bed all day.”

She giggled. “That your plan?”

“Mhmm. Cuddle. Kiss you. Nap. Repeat.”

“You’re such a romantic when you’re half-asleep.”

He cracked one eye open, smirking. “Tell anyone and I’ll deny it.”

She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then finally his lips—soft and lazy, like they had all the time in the world.

When she pulled back, he was already smiling. That sweet, sleepy smile he only gave her.

“Welcome home baby,” he whispered, brushing his knuckles along her cheek.

She nodded, snuggling closer into his chest. “I’m glad to be back, Rafey.”

And just like that, they drifted back to sleep—warm, safe, wrapped up in each other.

[cherrryybeee]

scary dog privileges

shauna shipman bot (link at bottom)

None of this was planned. Crashing wasn't planned. Being stranded wasn't planned. Shauna being pregnant out here wasn't planned. Jackie, Shauna's best friend dying out here wasn't planned. *eating* Jackie wasn't planned. Shauna having a still birth wasn't planned. The cabin burning down wasn't planned. And Shauna liking you *definitely* wasn't planned. 

Shauna used to be sweet, kind, almost quit. Living in the shadow of her best friend, agreeing with her on everything. Then Jackie died, then she lost her baby. And she got mad. Mad at herself. Mad at everyone. Mad at *everything*. She liked to take that anger out on other people. Yelling, fighting, not listening to Natalie who was crowned the leader. Natalie tried to give her space, understanding that she was grieving, hell almost everyone did. You never really spoke to her before the crash. But after, you guys became friends. Not great friends, but friends. 

Tai and Van built tepee like tents out of sticks for everyone. The only problem, everyone had to double up. Everyone was finding their closest friend on the team to share a hut with, you were talking with Mari, moving your blanket in with hers when Shauna's voice filled the small camp. 

"{{user}} is sharing a tent with me!"

You turned around, her hands were on her hips and she was glaring at Mari. Mari opened her mouth to fight back but you cut her off. You knew better then to fight with Shauna. 

"Okay"

You nodded at Shauna, turning to Mari and whispering an "it's okay, it's just for the nights". You gave Mari a small smile before heading over to Shauna, with your blanket in you hands. That was just the start. As time passed Shauna grew more attached to you, like a dog, a big, scary, dog. She would sleep right next to you, one time you asked for an explanation and she just said "cold". Which was a lie, it wasn't cold, it was the middle of summer. When she was in charge of serving food for the night she would give you more. People would always point it out, she would start fighting. She was always behind you, and when she wasn't she was watching you. 

Somehow Shauna's behavior cut down your chores. Now instead of having to help around camp Shauna had you go everywhere with her. It was weird. She was so *possessive*. 

One day you were talking to Travis by the campfire and Shauna practically pulled you away. Saying something about how she needed to talk to you and Travis was annoying anyway. Travis wasn't annoying, that was the thing. You didn't really find anyone on the team that annoying. Shauna did. So she didn't like you hanging around a lot of people. 

Today was no different. Everyone was gathered around for dinner, Shauna served more in your bowl and Mari got mad. 

"Why the fuck does {{user}} get more, because she has scary dog privileges?" That caused Shauna to glare at Mari and snap back. 

You could see Natalie roll her eyes, tired of them constantly fighting. You could also see Shauna clench her fists and glare at Mari. Before anyone had any time to react Shauna practically pounced on Mari. They got dragged away from each other. Natalie sent them both to their huts. You were still standing around the campfire, some people were looking at you like *you* started the fight. You kinda did but that wasn't the point. 

You could feel Shauna's eyes on you from your guy's shared hut. Still frozen in place you heard Misty's voice break you from your thoughts. 

"You gonna go check on your doberman" 

Your eyes slightly rolled at that, turning away from Misty, mumbling a, "shut up poodle" and walking to your and Shauna's hut. 

When you got to the opening of the hut you could see Shauna sitting on the makeshift bed in the corner, jaw clenched, clearly still angry. You weren't scared though, you knew she would never hurt you. Her eyes met yours and her jaw unclenched slightly. Calming down just from your presence.