#twelve days of coining

[bittersweetresilience]

there are twenty seven songs in my félix playlist which means a few more and i can do a monthly writing game. why am i saying this when i have several important wips i am meant to be doing? well, you see

[the-last-high-noon]

OGERPON IN POKEMON CAFE REMIX

[nizhspo]

forbidden fruit (miniseries).

boyish things.

m.list

synopsis: your little brother yuji's best friend, quiet and sweet and still growing into his smile-and you, the older sister who was never supposed to feel this way.

pairing: megumi fushiguro x f!reader

he’s always been a little quiet around you.

you used to think he just didn’t like you that much—megumi fushiguro, the dark-haired tagalong who hovered behind yuji like his own shadow. he was polite, always, but never eager. never loud. never sought you out. the most he ever said to you growing up was probably thanks or okay or goodnight.

he met your brother in the fourth grade, back when you were just starting sixth. freshly out of elementary school, convinced you were grown just because your homeroom was upstairs now. megumi was smaller back then, sharper around the eyes, always brooding, already quiet in a way most ten-year-olds weren’t. he’d gotten into his first fight within the first month of school and dragged your loudmouthed brother into it not long after. after that, they were inseparable.

you thought he was weird at first. too serious. kind of a jerk, honestly, never smiled, never said more than a few words to you, and always seemed to look through or over you like he was trying to forget you existed entirely. like acknowledging you would���ve cost him something. like he didn’t know what to do with you.

you weren’t close. not in any real way.

but he was always there. partly because his parents weren’t shit so much as absent, and partly because yuji wouldn’t let him be alone for too long. megumi became part of your household before any of you really noticed, sitting cross-legged on your living room floor, doing homework at your kitchen table, leaving a spare toothbrush in the cup by the sink without ever asking if it was okay.

family vacations? megumi came to every single one. yuji insisted on it, threw fits the one year your parents said no, and after that they just started booking rooms for five. made room in the backseat without thinking. learned to expect his sullen face in all the trip photos.

megumi was never talkative. never warm. but he was… thoughtful, in this strange, sideways kind of way.

he’d hand you his toothpaste at night when you forgot yours—you and yuji both always forgot, same sides of the easily distracted sibling coin. he’d press a waffle onto your plate in the hotel breakfast room when yours came out undercooked and floppy, and when yuji would pout, dramatic as ever, about not getting his swapped too, megumi would shoot him a look so sharp it could’ve sliced through the syrup packets.

he never said anything. not about the toothpaste. not about the waffles. just turned pink at the tips of his ears and went quiet, like the kindness embarrassed him. like he wished he could take it back.

but that was megumi. quiet, moody, always a little standoffish. not quite rude, but he avoided you in a way that always made you feel like you were too much. too loud, too nosy, too something.

you didn’t know what exactly to make of it, so you just assumed he didn’t like you.

then came quarantine—back when you were in eighth grade and they were in sixth. those long, stifling months where no one really knew what day it was and megumi was at your house more than he was at his own.

the air always smelled like cheetos and axe, and the background noise of your life became the sharp crackle of headset mics and the sound of gunfire from whatever game they were obsessed with that week. they stayed up until three, yelling over party chat, shoveling chips into their mouths, throwing shit over lag and kill counts. megumi was in your house so much you started seeing him in dreams.

this was back when he and yuji were in their full asshole era, unfiltered twelve-year-olds who hated everyone, including themselves. when you couldn’t even be in the kitchen for more than ten minutes without one of them judging something. your pajamas? ugly. your hair? looked like a mop. your little cake-decorating phase? “a frosting crime scene.”

you’d roll your eyes and stomp upstairs, muttering about how you were almost in high school anyway, and hop back on the phone with your friends. you told them everything, dramatic and loud, ranting about the gremlins living in your kitchen and how your brother and his emo little friend were probably plotting to steal your last fruit roll-up.

but then, one afternoon, yuji had the audacity to eat your entire doordash order. and instead of apologizing like a normal person, he made megumi knock on your door to ask if you wanted to play roblox.

because, and you found this out later, you were more likely to say yes to megumi than yuji.

so megumi, poor sixth-grade megumi, reluctantly trudged up the stairs like he was being sent to war. stood outside your door for a full ten seconds, psyching himself up, before finally knocking—twice, fast, like he didn’t want to be caught doing it.

you thought it was yuji, obviously. so you flung the door open in a sports bra and pajama shorts, half annoyed, ready to beat the shit out of your little brother.

and megumi?

he flinched like you slapped him. literally recoiled, eyes darting away so fast he nearly smacked his head on the doorframe. turned red instantly—cheeks, ears, neck, and lifted a hand over his face like that might help.

“uh,” he croaked, voice cracking once, twice, “did—did you wanna play roblox with me and yuji?”

you stared at him. completely deadpan. raised an eyebrow.

“…absolutely not.” you said, and slammed the door in his face.

he stood there for two minutes afterward, heart beating so fast it hurt, mind short-circuiting, cheeks burning. sixth-grade megumi, still too young to know what the hell was happening in his chest, but old enough to know he was already doomed.

you felt kinda bad after that.

because after, megumi talked to you even less—barely nodded when you said hi, practically sprinted in the opposite direction when you came downstairs, refused to meet your eyes in the kitchen.

it wasn’t particularly mean, just distant in a way that settled weird in your chest. awkward and stiff and careful, like he thought even breathing too loud in your presence might offend you somehow.

but you were starting high school. ninth and tenth grade were a whirlwind of new friends, new classes, new boys, and your world grew fast, full of dance practices and hallway crushes and group chats that never stopped buzzing.

you didn’t have time to worry about your brother and his brooding little best friend still stuck in middle school. they were background noise—annoying, loud, vaguely smelly background noise. you had better things to focus on. you barely even noticed when megumi stopped saying anything to you at all.

then came junior year.

you got your license. your mom handed you the keys to the family car with a big smile and even bigger expectations. and suddenly, driving megumi and your shithead brother to school became your new full-time job.

“why can’t they just take the bus like i did?” you groaned that first week, slumping over the steering wheel like it was killing you. “i’m driving two freshmen. do you know how embarrassing that is? do you know how sad my life is right now?”

your mom just smiled. “you’re being dramatic.”

but it was sad. tragic, even. instead of picking up your girls and blasting music and getting coffee before class like a normal junior, you were stuck carting around your little brother and his emotionally constipated best friend who said maybe three words a morning, max.

you dropped them off at your neighborhood like it was community service, barely waiting until they shut the door before speeding off to the mall or starbucks or anywhere that wasn’t soaked in freshman boy stench.

your friends didn’t see it that way, though. not when megumi started looking like that.

they’d nudge you in the food court, whisper in the bleachers at football games, their eyes tracking the way he stood by the vending machines in that same damn black hoodie, silent and unreadable.

“god, i wish he was in our grade,” one of them said, practically sighing. “he looks older than half the junior guys.”

“he’s so broody. it’s kinda hot.”

you gagged. physically gagged.

“that is genuinely so disgusting,” you muttered, hand to your chest. “i’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that to me.”

because you didn’t get it.

that was literally just megumi. yuji’s best friend.

the kid who wore the same hoodie three years in a row, who once got a nosebleed in your kitchen and bled all over the dish towel. you watched him go through his acne phase—were there the time he got a concussion playing football with yuji in the yard and your mom made him lie down with frozen peas over his head. he was always there. just there.

you drove him home sometimes with the windows down and your music too loud. he’d sit in the back, shoulder pressed to the door, barely speaking unless yuji dragged him into whatever dumb conversation was happening.

he didn’t feel older.

he felt younger. smaller. like a leftover piece of your childhood hanging around a little too long.

even when he passed your height in middle school and just kept going. even when his voice got lower and his hair got longer, and your mom started calling him handsome and gushing about how the girls were going to be all over her “two handsome young men.”

you laughed so hard that day you had tears in your eyes.

you pointed at megumi, who was pretending not to hear, earbuds jammed in like a lifeline.

“him?” you wheezed. “please. don’t gas him up like that. he’ll explode.”

it was a joke. just a throwaway line tossed into a sea of other ones—but megumi went red to the tips of his ears, and didn’t say a word. just kept his eyes on the floor, jaw tight, pretending the music in his ears was louder than you. like that could protect him from how deep the words landed.

you didn’t realize how that one stupid comment clung to him all day.

how he asked yuji later, casual as he could, if maybe they should start working out together. just for the cardio. just to keep in shape. how he went home and opened three different tabs titled “how to look more mature in high school,” and slammed his laptop shut twenty minutes later, heart hammering with shame, because it was pathetic, wasn’t it? thinking he even had a shot.

he laid in bed that night, hoodie pulled over his head, earbuds still in, music on repeat like it could drown out the echo of your voice. like it could smother the way you laughed, like he was a joke. like he wasn’t already trying so hard just to exist next to you.

he didn’t hate you for it, not really. but he couldn’t look at you for a week without flinching. because it wasn’t just a joke to him. it was proof that you weren’t looking at him the same way he was looking at you.

proof that maybe you never would.

and when megumi got his first girlfriend toward the end of freshman year—a sophomore, no less, you were honestly kind of stunned.

the girl was cute, popular, wore sparkly lip gloss and those dangly earrings that got stuck in the straps of her backpack. and she liked him. like, actually liked him. which… okay, maybe your mom had been right about him growing into his looks. you’d rolled your eyes all those years she fawned over her “two handsome young men,” but now you were starting to see what she meant.

megumi wasn’t just tall and broody anymore, he had that whole awkward, quiet confidence thing going for him, and apparently, the older girls were eating it up.

you found him in the living room one afternoon, slouched stiff on the couch like someone had poured concrete into his spine. he was in a hoodie and jeans, still too big on him in that freshman-boy way, but he was trying. a bouquet sat on the coffee table in front of him like a bomb waiting to go off.

“so,” you said, flopping down beside him, thigh bumping his as you stretched your legs out in front of you, “you’re really taking her to spring formal?”

he nodded once, eyes glued to the floor. tight grip on the hem of his hoodie. jaw set.

what you didn’t know—couldn’t know, was that asking this girl had been part of his desperate, humiliating, twenty-step plan to get over you. step twelve, to be exact.

he’d made the list at 2am two weeks ago. it was supposed to help. it wasn’t helping. not when you were this close to him, perfume soft and sharp in the air, your bare knee brushing against his jeans like it was nothing.

“you need help.”

his head snapped up, alarmed. “what?”

“with the date, megumi,” you snorted, rolling your eyes like he was the dense one here. “relax. you’re gonna look like a deer in headlights if you don’t know what to do. i’m trying to save you from complete humiliation.”

you grinned like it was a favor. like the idea of him with another girl didn’t shake something loose in your chest.

he stared at you for a second too long, trying to figure out if this was torture or a sign from the gods. you’d never sat this close to him before. never offered to help him impress someone else.

and all he could think was: you’re not making this easier. you’re not helping. you’re killing me.

he opened his mouth, probably to argue, but you were already halfway through your lecture. how to hold a girl’s waist when you danced—not like she’s diseased, please. where to walk if you’re walking her home—outside edge of the sidewalk, always. how to kiss her—light at first, don’t go full face vacuum, you’re not in a rom-com.

he didn’t say anything. didn’t even look at you. just kept his eyes on the armrest like it owed him money. his ears were red. so were his cheeks. his hands were clenched in his lap like he wasn’t sure if he was going to punch something or bolt.

from downstairs, yuji’s voice echoed up through the vents.

“oh my god, y/n—” a crash. a grunt. “will you please stop harassing my friend?!”

“he’s not gonna get good advice from you, ugly,” you shouted back. “someone’s gotta help him!”

you didn’t hear the rest of yuji’s response because he barreled up the stairs like a linebacker and tackled you off the couch. the next ten minutes were chaos, cushions flying, limbs flailing, the two of you locked in some deathmatch that ended with him pinned to the carpet, your arm around his neck as you rubbed your knuckles into his scalp.

“say you surrender!” you laughed, grinning wide.

“never!”

megumi sat on the couch the whole time, quiet.

but when you looked up, his face was pink, and his lips were twitching, like he was biting back the smile of someone who didn’t know how to show you what it meant.

but that’s just how things were. you were yuji’s older sister. and megumi was his best friend.

that was all it was.

but then came the aftermath.

the whispers in the hallway. the girls trailing behind him after practice, passing him folded notes during class. the same sophomore he took to spring formal stopped texting him two weeks after, and the rumor was that megumi fushiguro was just too nonchalant.

“emotionally unavailable,” someone had said in the girl’s bathroom once.

“he’s hot, but like… what’s the point if he doesn’t wanna do anything?”

it was kind of hilarious. so funny that you’d brought it up once, casually, like you weren’t poking at a beehive, on the way home from school. the windows were cracked, the music was up, and yuji had his crusty-ass sneakers kicked up on your dash like he paid the car note.

“feet down,” you snapped, swatting at him as you merged into traffic. “you’re not cute and this is not your car.”

he rolled his eyes and leaned back, fake pouting. megumi was in the backseat, as always, hoodie strings pulled tight, watching the strip malls blur past.

“so, mr. nonchalant,” you said, dragging the words with a little grin, peeking at megumi through the rearview mirror.

you reached over and pinched yuji’s cheek just to annoy him, and he slapped your hand away with a dramatic yelp.

“why don’t you teach yuji how to be more like that, huh? your boy’s been in love with yuko since before and after her glow-up and still hasn’t said a word.”

“shut up!” yuji cried, going red instantly.

megumi snorted.

“don’t laugh,” yuji shot back, voice rising. “last time i checked, you’ve been in love with the same girl since middle school.”

everything in the car went still for a second, and you blinked, glancing in the mirror.

megumi’s face had dropped. his shoulders went tense. eyes narrowed. and he turned toward yuji with this look—sharp, murderous, pure betrayal.

“wow, megumi,” you teased, laughing, “a secret admirer for four years without making a move? never took you for the type—”

but before you could finish, megumi lunged forward between the seats, wrapping an arm around yuji’s neck and dragging him back into a headlock.

“you’re dead,” he muttered, voice low.

“i’m sorry! i’m sorry! i’m so sorry!” yuji wheezed, laughing so hard he was nearly crying, face red and scrunched as he thrashed in the seat.

you were laughing too, harder than you had in weeks, one hand on the wheel and the other smacking your thigh as the two of them wrestled like kids in the back of your beat-up sedan.

and megumi, even while choking out your brother, looked up at you once, cheeks flushed, eyes flicking away the second yours caught his in the mirror.

he said nothing.

but you didn’t miss the way he sat back a little quieter than before. the way he kept his head down. the way yuji kept snickering under his breath and mouthing my bad when megumi wasn’t looking.

you didn’t know what to make of that, either.

and then came june.

the summer heat hit like punishment, thick, wet, and clinging to every surface like it was mad at you. the a.c. gave out right as the first real heatwave rolled in, and it felt like your house was actively trying to kill you. fans buzzed uselessly in every room, the upstairs windows were propped open with textbooks, and the air was so heavy you started sleeping in nothing but your lightest pajama shorts and a worn-in tank top that barely clung to your shoulders.

megumi, of course, was still around. always was. especially that summer, since school was out, and there was nothing else to do, yuji gaming late into the night and megumi silently tagging along, half-asleep on the couch or rummaging through your fridge like he lived there too.

and you… well.

you’d come downstairs, bleary-eyed and annoyed, already sweating before noon, legs bare and hair up, muttering about how you were gonna sue the electric company for emotional distress.

and megumi would always look away.

not in a creepy way. not gross or weird, either. just fast—too fast. like he was guilty. like he wasn’t supposed to see. his face would flush, neck too, and he’d suddenly become deeply invested in the texture of the couch cushions or the contents of the pantry, like eye contact might burn him alive.

yuji, naturally, had no shame.

“put some damn clothes on,” he’d groan, tossing a pillow at your head. “you’re gonna give my boy a heart attack.”

you’d roll your eyes, duck the pillow, stretch your arms over your head just to be annoying.

“this is my house,” you’d sing, smug, “he can literally leave if he wants.”

then, tossing a smirk over your shoulder—

“besides, megumi’s respectful. unlike the rest of your nasty little friends.”

you didn’t know. you didn’t see how megumi would go upstairs after that, quiet and red and visibly flustered, and lock himself in the bathroom for twenty whole minutes. how he’d run the sink the entire time, pressing cold water to the back of his neck, muttering curses under his breath, frantically tapping through his phone trying to find some obnoxiously loud fart app just to throw yuji off if he came knocking.

you didn’t know his hands shook a little. didn’t know how fast his heart was beating. didn’t know how long he’d been trying not to look at you like that.

because you were yuji’s sister. and he was just megumi. and that’s all it was supposed to be.

and then came senior year.

yuji and megumi weren’t any less them—still loud, still annoying, still always wrestling in the living room like puppies, but somewhere between freshman year and now, they got… easier. more tolerable. less stupid.

yuji started lying for you when you snuck out of the house, sneaking down at 1 a.m. to unlock the door without asking questions. megumi, if you batted your lashes just right, would do your math homework with a quiet sigh and a half-hearted, “this is the last time.” (it never was.)

they weren’t just your little brother and his weird, moody friend anymore. they were people. they were growing up.

you took them to the mall in the spring. said it was a makeover day. said it was part of your final act of charity before you left for college and couldn’t help them with girls anymore. yuji was all for it, trying on ridiculous sunglasses and posing like he was auditioning for a boy band. megumi sulked his way through three stores before finally letting you drag him into a fitting room at h&m.

and when he came out—

he looked good.

not just good in the way people look clean after a haircut. but good in the way that made you blink once, then again, like your brain had to recalibrate.

his hair was a little neater, pushed back from his face. the dark crewneck you picked out clung to his shoulders a little too well. and the jeans actually fit. like, fit fit.

he didn’t look like a kid anymore. not really.

and for the first time, you saw what people meant. what the girls at school whispered about in the halls, what your friends kept elbowing you over when you dropped him off.

you weren’t blind. he was tall now. sharper in the jaw. still quiet, still closed-off, but there was something behind his eyes now. something steadier.

but it didn’t like… do anything.

because he was still megumi, yuji’s best friend. the kid who used to avoid eye contact with you for months. the one who once asked if you wanted to play roblox with his face burning and his voice cracking.

and you? you were leaving. college boys. frat parties. new people, new everything.

but still, when you looked at him that day, standing by the mirror, hands shoved in his pockets, face unreadable except for the slight twitch of his mouth when you told him he looked nice—you saw him a little differently.

not in the oh my god i’m in love kind of way. just… like you’d missed something. like maybe he’d been changing this whole time. and you were only just starting to notice.

but you left for college anyway.

partied with guys who were actually older. kissed boys who knew how to flirt, who knew how to talk, who knew how to make you feel like the sun the second you walked into a room. you danced under dim lights, made out on balconies, cried in bathrooms over boys whose names you sometimes forgot. it was a blur in the way first semesters always are—new, fast, messy, addicting.

and megumi became one of those people you only saw on breaks. someone who hovered at the edges of your life again, taller now, quieter, a little harder to read. he’d pile into your backseat with yuji and a few of their friends when you were home, legs too long for the space, shoulders hunched as he looked out the window. said thank you when you dropped them off. never more than that.

christmas break came, and with it came sukuna.

your friend from college. the one who looked scarily like yuji—same eyes, same grin, same stupid laugh, but louder, sharper around the edges, mean in the way that made people laugh before they realized it stung. you called him your brother away from home; he called your mom a goddess every time she so much as handed him a plate.

“your mom is so fucking hot,” he mouthed one afternoon while she was stirring the soup, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe it.

you smacked him. he just laughed.

his family wasn’t… really a thing. and you had plenty to go around. so you brought him home. stayed up too late smoking on the porch with him. drove around the suburbs listening to bad remixes and yelling out the windows like you were sixteen again. it was fun. loud and light and easy.

until yuji knocked on your door one afternoon, pouty and dramatic.

“you never hang out with your real little brother anymore.”

you rolled your eyes but melted anyway. patted his head and dragged all the board games out of the hallway closet like it was 2012 again.

you, yuji, megumi, and sukuna played in the living room all night. yelling, arguing, laughing until your sides hurt. sukuna was the worst loser you’d ever met. foul-mouthed, spiteful, ruthless in uno. he called yuji a “slippery little worm” and tried to flip the board twice. megumi sat with his arms crossed, amused, occasionally offering dry commentary that made you snort into your sleeve.

halfway through risk, everyone was too tired to keep arguing about army placement.

you padded upstairs, cheeks sore from smiling. sukuna flopped down on the air mattress beside your bed like he owned the place. the lights were off, just the blue glow from your charger lighting the room faintly.

he turned onto his side.

“bro,” he whispered, voice slurred with sleep, “the emo one is literally in love with you.”

you blinked at the ceiling. furrowed your brows.

“megumi?”

“obviously.” he yawned. “you didn’t see it? he was staring the whole time. dude was purposely losing risk just to give you more territory. it was pathetic.”

you snorted. tossed your pillow at him.

“just because you think everyone is in love with you doesn’t mean I do.”

he groaned dramatically, buried his face in the blanket. “okay, fine. die oblivious.”

you laughed.

but the thought… stuck. and for the rest of break, you couldn’t not notice it. the way megumi’s eyes would flick up when you walked in the room. how he’d hover near the edge of conversations, always listening, always there. the way he always remembered your order when yuji forgot it. the way he smiled at your jokes like he didn’t want to. how he didn’t meet your eyes when you caught him looking.

maybe he was just like that. maybe he always had been.

but for the first time, you wondered if sukuna had a point.

then one day, the fall of your sophomore year, megumi asked how you liked your school.

it was casual. quiet. you were back home for a long weekend, still shaking off the hangover from the night before, curled into the couch with a mug of your mom’s chamomile tea. he stood in the kitchen like he didn’t know whether to sit down or keep leaning against the counter.

“how’s college?” he asked.

you blinked over the rim of your mug. “good. why?”

he shrugged. looked away. “thinking about applying.”

you didn’t think much of it. didn’t catch the way he said your school. didn’t realize his voice was a little steadier than usual, like maybe he’d been planning to ask.

you just smiled, stood, ruffled his hair on your way to the sink. he ducked out from under your touch, cheeks pink.

“it’s a great place,” you said. “i’ll give you a tour if you ever come visit.”

and then he did.

he came in late winter with his dad toji, still all rough edges and too-wide smirks, who smiled at your mom like they’d been neighbors for years. he looked at you like you were someone reliable, someone important to his kid, and you smiled back because you knew better than to let him see otherwise.

you picked them up in your roommate’s beat-up corolla, music low and windows down. gave them the tour—pointed out the dining halls, the quiet library floor, the rec center where you maybe worked out twice a month, the big oak tree that turned bright gold every spring and blew up your instagram feed like clockwork.

megumi stayed quiet the whole time, nodding now and then, hands in his pockets. looking, but not talking. soaking it in.

when you met up with your roommate later that day before a party, megumi stood in the hall, talking to yuji on the phone.

your roommate raised a brow. “is that your boyfriend?”

you almost choked on your gum. “what? no. that’s megumi. he’s my little brother’s best friend.”

“he wishes he was, though,” sukuna said from beside you, smirking.

you elbowed him in the stomach so hard he wheezed.

but you did offer to take megumi to a party. just a small one. nothing wild. off-campus, backyard string lights and thumping bass and too many people packed onto the porch. you held his wrist as you led him through the crowd, his pulse fluttering under your fingers. handed him one of your drinks and told him, “don’t chug. sip. there’s more.”

he nodded. listened. did exactly what you said.

he followed you through the haze of it all, watched the way you laughed with your friends, danced under the colored lights, worked the room like you’d built it. he played cup pong on your team, tried not to stare when you leaned into him, grinned when you talked trash to the other team.

and when he made the winning shot, your drink in one hand and a curl falling into your eyes, you ran to him without thinking.

hugged him.

tight. arms around his neck. warm and laughing and saying we’re so good, oh my god.

he barely breathed.

you didn’t see his face when you dropped him off. didn’t notice how quiet he got when you pulled away in your tank top and cutoff shorts, the car packed with friends, the windows down, your laughter still echoing as you turned the corner.

but he remembered. he remembered all of it. so when decision day came, when the acceptance letter landed and yuji was still deadset on a different campus, loud and excited about new cities and fresh starts—

megumi chose yours.

not just for you. but…

he couldn’t stop thinking about the way your voice had sounded when you said i’ll give you a tour. the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the quad in spring. the way your laugh sounded in a backyard full of strangers. the way you didn’t even realize you’d reached for his hand during cup pong, how you never noticed him looking.

he said yes to your school because maybe, he just wanted to keep being near you. even if you’d never see him the same way. even if you never noticed. but maybe someday, you would.

now it’s spring semester of your junior year. the air feels swollen, hot, damp, clinging to your skin like breath. campus is blooming with that pre-summer haze where everything smells like cut grass, cheap beer, and someone’s lingering perfume.

megumi’s more than adjusted by now. he’s no longer the shadow trailing behind yuji anymore, he’s carved out his own orbit, and people notice him when he walks into a room. you’ve heard plenty about him since the year started. especially during halloweekend.

you’d never known megumi was like that. not the boy you used to tease for hiding behind his bangs. not the boy who wouldn’t even meet your eyes when you asked him a question.

you tried not to think about it.

but now there’s this rooftop lounge party. music loud, sky soft and purple overhead, string lights tangled above and below like constellations too drunk to hold shape. you’re in the kitchen, half-leaning against the counter with a solo cup in your hand, laughing at something sukuna said that probably shouldn’t be funny.

and then your eyes drift.

megumi’s on the couch across the room, sprawled out between two guys you vaguely recognize from intramural soccer. dark jeans, a plain black t-shirt that’s snug across his shoulders, solo cup lazily dangling in one hand. head tilted back, smile lazy and faint, like he’s only half-listening to whatever’s being said.

he looks good. confident. like he belongs.

he looks… older.

you blink and look away. shake your head. maybe it’s the beer. maybe it’s the heat. maybe it’s the way your shirt keeps sticking to your spine and you can’t tell if your heart’s racing from the music or the fact that you’ve looked at him twice now.

“never took you as the cougar type,” sukuna mutters next to you, sipping from his cup with a shit-eating grin.

you whip around. glare. “kuna—oh my god, i don’t even know, okay? i swear he didn’t look like that before.”

sukuna shrugs, leans against the fridge. “well, he does now. and you know he’d go for it.”

“okay, but like—i feel like that’s morally wrong on some level. he’s literally my little brother’s best friend.”

“and last time i checked, you’re both consenting adults. the brat doesn’t have to know.”

you groan, pressing your cold cup to your cheek. “you’re an ass.”

“mmhm.” he pinches the bridge of his nose, already half-bored with you. “i don’t even know why i’m standing here entertaining this when i could be getting laid right now.”

he gives you a firm pat on the back. “good luck repressing that, though.”

he disappears out of the kitchen, and you are left standing there, very much not repressing it.

you swear you’re not going to fuck your brother’s best friend. you are not going to fuck your brother’s best friend. you are—god, he’s looking this way again.

later, on the back patio, it’s quieter. the bass thuds inside but out here it’s more breath than beat. megumi’s leaning against the railing, solo cup in one hand, the other shoved in his pocket. cheeks pink. not drunk, but soft. relaxed in a way you’re not used to seeing.

you sidle up beside him, the heat making your skin stick to the wood railing. you can smell the beer on him. the fabric softener. he’s still wearing that cologne that’s barely there until you’re close enough for it to matter.

“damn,” you say, shoulder bumping his. “you’re drinking like you’ve been here for years.”

he huffs a laugh. “maybe i’m catching up.”

“you’re still a baby,” you tease, voice light, fingers curling to reach up, instinctive, like muscle memory.

but he catches your wrist before you can tap his nose, firm and warm fingers wrapping around your skin, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist.

your breath stutters, just a little as his eyes meet yours.

“i’m not a kid,” he says. and his voice is low. not joking. not teasing. something else curling beneath it.

you blink. laugh, maybe to cover the flip in your stomach. “oh yeah?”

his grip doesn’t tighten, but he doesn’t let go either. “you really don’t see it, do you?”

his voice is soft, but not gentle. it lands like a stone dropped in still water, controlled, but full of weight.

you blink, shift your cup from one hand to the other.

“see what, fushiguro?” you say, trying to laugh a little, make it into a joke. because the look in his eyes right now is not a joke.

he watches you. his thumb taps once against the plastic of his solo cup. then he says—

“that you’ve had me wrapped around your finger since i was thirteen.”

you still.

the silence hangs between you, electric and close, and something in your throat tightens. but you raise your eyebrows, scoffing like you’re not suddenly very, very aware of how warm your skin feels. “oh, please—”

but megumi cuts you off, sharp and low.

“i literally cried back in middle school when you got your first boyfriend.”

you freeze.

he huffs a bitter laugh and shakes his head, not looking at you anymore, but looking out over the railing, like he can’t believe he’s actually saying it.

“eighth grade. you kissed him behind the gym. yuji told me, thought he was being funny.” he scoffs again, quieter. “i locked myself in the bathroom for an hour. told him it was allergies.”

you’re staring now. heart loud. ears hot.

“you think i offered to do your math homework out of the kindness of my heart?” he goes on, voice a little hoarse now, a little less steady. “you smiled at me once in the kitchen, called me smart, said please, and i would’ve rewritten the whole textbook for you.”

he runs a hand through his hair. swallows hard.

“or you remember when my dad was being a dick every other week? and i’d stay over for days at a time?”

your stomach flips.

“you used to take me and yuji out for ice cream. you’d sneak extra blankets into the guest room without saying anything. you’d say dumb shit like ‘our house has better cereal anyway’ just to make me feel like—like i wasn’t some fucked-up kid with nowhere to go.”

he’s looking at the ground now, voice low.

“you made it feel like your house was mine too. like i belonged there. like i mattered.”

his fingers flex around the cup.

“and i don’t think you ever realized how much that meant. how much you meant.”

you don’t say anything. you can’t. your mouth’s gone dry and your chest is so tight it aches.

and megumi finally looks at you again.

his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, open, exposed, steady in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“so yeah,” he says, jaw tense. “and now i’m eighteen. in college. not some kid anymore.” his gaze doesn’t falter. “and you’re still talking to me like i’m your little brother’s friend. like i’m still that quiet kid on your couch.”

your breath hitches.

your cup is sweating in your hand. or maybe you are. maybe it’s the heat. the beer. the way the air between you suddenly feels thick enough to choke on.

megumi takes one step closer—not close enough to touch, but enough that you feel it. that shift. that pull.

“i’m not him anymore,” he says, quieter now. “and i think you know that.”

he’s just standing there, waiting, eyes dark, unreadable. sure. he’s waiting for you to do something about it.

your heart’s hammering in your ears.

everything in you says this is a little wrong—morally questionable at best. yuji’s best friend. two years younger. you’ve seen this boy sneeze milk out his nose.

but he’s also not a boy anymore.

he’s standing there in the warm dark, the string lights casting soft shadows across his face. hair messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times tonight. jaw sharp, lips slightly parted, collar of his black t-shirt just a little stretched. his arms look stronger now, veins along his forearms catching the light as he flexes his fingers around his cup.

his eyes don’t waver. not like they used to, and you tilt your head, breath catching just behind your tongue.

“prove it.”

his whole body stills. the corner of his mouth twitches, once, twice, like he doesn’t quite believe you said it. like maybe he’s giving you the chance to take it back.

but you don’t. you just stare back.

and slowly, megumi sets the solo cup down. deliberate. careful. then he steps closer.

close enough that your knees almost brush. close enough to smell the faint trace of whatever cologne he always wears now, clean, subtle, something warm that clings to the back of your throat.

“you sure?” he asks, voice low. strained, even now. he doesn’t want to fuck this up. doesn’t want to get it wrong.

your breath is shallow. your skin’s burning. you nod, and your voice is soft, almost a whisper. “i’m sure.”

he leans in, and everything else goes quiet.

his lips touch yours, soft, at first. gentle, almost tentative. but steady. sure.

and it’s not the kiss you expected.

it’s not fumbling or shy or awkward the way first touches sometimes are. it’s intentional. slow but firm, the kind of kiss that comes from someone who’s thought about it—a lot. someone who’s replayed the moment in his head a hundred times, waiting, imagining, hoping.

his hand slides up, fingers curling behind your neck, thumb brushing just beneath your ear. his other arm anchors low, warm against the curve of your waist, pulling you just a little closer as his mouth moves with yours, measured, deliberate. he kisses you like he’s memorizing it. like he’s not in a rush because he’s waited this long already.

when he pulls back, it’s only for a breath—just long enough to tilt his head, press his mouth to the corner of yours, then your jaw, then lower, slower, to the base of your neck.

you inhale sharply, knees nearly buckling when his lips drag across your pulse point, sucking with just enough pressure to make your stomach flip, to make your head tilt back on instinct, your hand curling in the fabric of his shirt.

his mouth is hot. open. he kisses your neck like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and maybe he does.

maybe you were wrong to ever think he was just some quiet, awkward boy.

because the way he pulls you into him, the way he murmurs something low against your skin, half curse, half praise, something like finally, makes you feel drunk. dizzy. wrecked in the most exquisite way.

he kisses you like he’s been waiting years. because he has.

and no one ever found out what happened when you went back to his dorm that night.

well—technically, no one.

you never said anything. if anyone asked, you’d just laugh under your breath and say, “he sure as hell wasn’t a kid. and he definitely wasn’t little.”

and if someone asked him, he’d just grin, slow and lazy, and shrug like it was nothing. “i think you could ask the people sleeping next door,” he’d say. “they probably heard most of it.”

but no, that’s not the story you and megumi ended up telling at your wedding.

the one you told in your vows was something polished, and sweet. about timing and friendship and love that grows in silence. the version where you reconnected over late-night walks and bad cafeteria coffee, where you gradually fell into each other.

and it was true, in a way.

but the rest—the real beginning? the part that didn’t happen at a party, or in a hallway, or under flickering dance lights, where megumi had you breathless, nails digging into his shoulders, voice wrecked from how many times you moaned his name like it was the only one that ever mattered?

where you were grasping at the sheets like they were the only thing tethering you to earth, eyes glassy, thighs shaking, damn near in tears from how good he was—how slow, how attentive, how intentional he was with every touch?

yeah, that was yours.

just you and him. just the two of you, in that quiet room, in that breathless moment, where his mouth was warm, his fingers coaxing sounds out of you like a secret he’d always known.

that was the real beginning. the part you still think about, when the world goes quiet. and when he looks at you now, that’s what he’s remembering too.

but there were some people who came pretty damn close to knowing what happened.

like whoever roomed next door, who definitely heard more than they meant to through thin walls and cheap drywall.

or the people who stumbled out onto the balcony when you were still making out, his hands under your shirt, your mouth on his neck, both of you too far gone to care.

or yuji, who was there before it turned into anything real, who saw the tension building year by year, who caught his best friend staring one too many times.

and sukuna, who smelled smoke before either of you even struck the match. who fanned the flames when you were too scared to light them. who leaned back in his chair during that reception toast, halfway through a glass of scotch, and nearly spilled the beans in front of both your families.

“remember the time at that party—”

“sukuna.”

he just smirked. lifted his glass.

but none of them would’ve got it right. not really. not like megumi did. not like you remembered. not like the way he looked at you that night, under the hazy porchlight, your arms draped over his shoulders, his fingers laced in your hair, eyes dark and full and sure.

like you’d always been his. and he’d just been waiting for you to notice.

[ageingfangirl2]

Imagine Being Bonten's Receptionist (Bonten x F Reader) - Tokyo Revengers

PART 3: WHO TOOK HER SMILE?

ONE TWO FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN

It had become a daily routine for the members of Bonten to come into the office, be greeted with a smile, have a friendly conversation, and have their mail and schedules organised with care and attention. It made the hardened criminals feel a bit more grounded in reality and able to step away from their criminal activities, even briefly. 

However, today was different. The whole atmosphere in the office felt off, like something was brewing under the surface, just waiting to snap and engulf everyone in its path. And the person making the atmosphere off was none other than the usual friendly, happy receptionist. Today, you’re quiet, withdrawn, and just mechanically going through the motions.

Mikey might be silent, but he notices instantly. Stops mid-step, eyes locked on you. Doesn’t say a word but lingers a second longer than usual before walking past after taking the few pieces of mail she handed to him. Later that day, you find your favorite drink on your desk. No note. But he was the only one in the building who left that morning to get his mid-morning snack.

Sanzu is shocked and does a doubletake, ‘Whoa. No sunshine today?’ he says with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. When you don’t react, his smile fades just a bit. He circles back later, leans on the counter and says, ‘C’mon, who pissed off our girl?’ It’s half-teasing, half-protective. He doesn't like the silence — it reminds him too much of old ghosts. He pats down his pockets, pulls out a simple coin and places it on your desk. You stare at him dumbfounded, but he says nothing and walks off.

Ran raises an eyebrow when you don’t greet him. ‘Damn. You okay, sweetheart?’ You just handed him his envelope in silence. He walks off, leaving the office even though he’d just arrived, but comes back ten minutes later with some stupid shiny trinket from the gift shop down the street. ‘Looks like something you’d like,’ he mutters, tossing it onto your desk like it means nothing. It means something.

Rindou freezes. You don’t even make eye contact. It messes with his routine more than he thought it would. He stands there awkwardly, almost says something, then just walks away with a tight jaw. Later, he sends a food delivery to the front desk under an alias. You figured out it was him because not many people knew about your allergies and lists of food you didn’t like.

Kakucho is the most emotionally mature of the bunch. Notices immediately, lowers his voice and asks, ‘Rough morning?’ You nod but say nothing. He doesn’t press. But the next time he walks by, he leaves a small wrapped pastry and says, ‘You don’t always have to smile for us. Take a break if you need one.’ This is why sometimes you couldn’t quite believe he was in a dangerous criminal organisation. 

Koko notices but pretends not to — at first. His fingers twitch when you don’t say good morning. Around lunch, he casually drops a new pen set on your desk. ‘Saw your old one was running out,’ he says. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but the concern is loud in his silence.

Mochi frowns. ‘Where’s that bubbly attitude today, huh?’ he asks, voice a little too loud. You look up, and he sees your eyes are a little red. ‘Shit,’ he mutters, embarrassed. ‘Uh... don’t let these assholes get to you, alright?’ It’s clumsy, but it’s the most heartfelt thing you’ve heard all day.

Akashi scoffs lightly. ‘What, cat got your tongue today?’ But you don’t even fake a smile, and that shuts him up fast. He walks away, frowning. Later, you find a cup of fancy coffee on your desk with your name spelled perfectly on it. He never says a word about it. But he knew your exact coffee order, right down to how many pumps of syrups you liked. 

Each of them hates how much your little greetings meant — until they’re gone. They’ll never admit they care. But they all do, in their own weird, twisted way. But throughout the day, the members take note of you using, eating or drinking their little gifts. 

Mikey, he’s walking by, eyes distant as usual, when he sees the half-empty drink on your desk — the one he left you. Your posture’s still tired, but you look a little calmer. He slows for a second, his gaze lingering. Doesn’t say anything, but a flicker of satisfaction crosses his face. He disappears without a word, but the next day, he shows up five minutes earlier — just to catch your smile.

Sanzu spots you fiddling with the little trinket he tossed at you like a joke. You’re turning it over in your hands while quietly answering a phone call. He grins, wide and a little manic, but there’s real warmth in his eyes. ‘So she does like it,’ he mutters to himself, watching you out of the corner of his eye. Doesn’t say anything directly, but he starts leaving weirder, funnier gifts — just to see if you keep them.

Ran catches you slipping the shiny little charm into your pocket like it means something. He was halfway out the door, but seeing that stops him cold. His smirk comes back slowly — less teasing this time. ‘Guess I’m not completely useless,’ he mutters. That night, he casually brings up the idea of getting ‘matching office décor’ like it’s a joke. It’s not.

Rindou sees you eating the takeout he ordered — the specific dish he remembered you mentioning once. You’re sitting a little straighter, even humming again. He watches you from a distance, expression unreadable, then quietly turns back to his laptop. For the rest of the day, he seems oddly relaxed. The next time you forget lunch, her favorite is already on your desk.

Kakucho watches you quietly munching on the pastry he left, looking out the window like you’re trying to shake off a bad thought. He passes by and doesn’t even stop — but you catch the soft nod he gives, like an unspoken you’re okay now. Later, you find a sticky note on a folder he left: Let me know if you need more of those. Or just a moment of peace.

Koko notices you using the new pen set, even organizing your desk with them. You even clicked one thoughtfully while you answered a call. He says nothing, but something shifts in his expression — less guarded, more thoughtful. That afternoon, you get an envelope of high-end stationary with no name attached. You know it’s from him. He pretends not to notice your little thank-you smile.

Akashi walks by and sees yoy sipping the coffee he dropped off — no hesitation, like you trusted it completely. You looked less tense. Less brittle. He pauses, lets out a quiet exhale like he didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. ‘Guess the old man’s still got a touch,’ he mutters, smirking faintly to himself as he lights a cigarette.

Mochi catches her laughing at something on her phone a few hours later, that moody weight gone from her shoulders. He watches from the hallway, arms crossed, and just nods once. ‘That’s better,’ he murmured. And then yells at one of the guys for breathing too loud — just to cover the fact that he felt something.

It’s all very not-a-big-deal in classic Bonten fashion — no one says what they mean, but the care leaks out anyway.

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

THE HISTORY BOOK ON THE SHELF. ( HOTD x Reader )

AUTHOR NOTE! Thanks for all the love. <3 pairing: King Aegon ii Targaryen x Targaryen! Little Sister! Reader prompt: When the small council plans to marry off once again, you turn to your older brother for help. word count: 1, 000+ words

You were the youngest and third daughter of Alicent and Viserys. A few months younger than Helaena and Aegon's little shadow in your childhood. Your older brother at first hated it, the way you cling onto him and gawk at him with an innocent awe.

It was your ninth name day, your Father had not paid much attention to it, but your Mother had ordered a celebration for it. You had trailed after him, babbling about nonsense as he tried to lose you. It was at dinner that night that everything had boiled over. Instead of receiving gifts, you had taken to giving everyone a gift.

He had not expected anything. He hadn't been the most kind to you. But was surprised when you had gifted him an embroidered cloth with Sunfyre on it. It was not the best and some threads were loose, but you proudly had told him you learned embroidery for him. Seeing those big doe eyes of yours his opinion changed. He adored you. You were the only one in the family that did not care about his worsening reputation. You just...adored your big brother, flaws and all.

It was why it killed him on your eleventh name day you were shipped off to the Reach, married off to a Lord as old as your Grandsire. He was haunted by your wails, of the way you clung onto Helaena and Aemond, the two of them wailing as Ser Cole carried you off to the carriage.

His young sister, the only one in the family who truly cared, was sold off like a piece of cattle. Not even your cold Grandsire was able to protest the marriage as politically it was a good match and good enough reasoning for the small council to approve it. 

As years ticked by, you gave birth to two children, a stillborn daughter and a healthy son. Your husband kept you away in the Reach, so no one in your family had seen you since you were twelve and given birth to your only surviving son.

He remembered the look in your eyes, so void and almost dead. Of how you tried to stay positive. Saying, "Tis' not so bad. He mostly ignores me, except when he wishes to bed me. But even then tis' not so bad, he finishes quickly."

When he became King, he swiftly ordered you to return home, regardless of your husband's wishes. No one would take his baby sister away from him. Not whilst he was still alive and had the crown placed upon his head.

Watching you bounce your son on your lap, he attempts to pay some attention to the small council, but his eyes keep straying back to you. It was odd to think that you were now a Mother and all grown up. Snapping out of his little daze, he glances back at the small council, each member arguing intently. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Ser Criston slides a piece of parchment in front of him, an uncomfortable look on his face. Raising a brow at what he had just returned to, he glances at the parchment, reading the words quickly. 

Your cunt of a husband was dead, finally croaked in his sleep. There was no reason for you to go back to the Reach. You could stay here in King’s Landing once more. Softly smiling at the good news, he goes to speak up when Lord Lannister stands up from his chair, slamming his hands down on the table. His face red from anger, his eyes wild like an untamable beast, and voice booming loud enough that it would make a dragon’s roar put to shame.

“To speak of the Princess in such a manner is dishonorable, I will see to it personally that your tongue is removed, Lord Wydle.” 

“The girl is of age, she has proven she can bear heirs, healthy heirs. To not give her hand to another Lord would be foolish.” 

“We need allies, the common folk are starving and soon the coin will run out. Surely as Master of Coin you can see reason, Lord Lannister.”

“Your grace, please, listen to reason we should⎯”

It takes a moment to realize what they had been discussing so intently. Then it clicks, they were speaking of having you remarry. 

"What?" He whispers, his voice shaky and full of disbelief.

"No, Aegon, please don't make me do this again. Please." You whisper, tears building up in your eyes.

"It would be best to have your sister marry someone⎯"

"Think of the war, your grace⎯"

Seeing the tears building up in your eyes, it reminded him of all those years ago when you were whisked away to the Reach. Struggling to speak up and dismiss their suggestions, you kneel in front of his chair, gripping onto breeches as you beg and plead for clemency to their plans. Your son starts to wail on the other side of his chair, making motions with his hands to be picked up. 

Feeling his heart break a little at the sight, he shifts his gaze from you then your wailing son then back to the small council. Everything is hectic and he doesn’t know who or what to focus his attention on. Does he console you? Does he tend to your wailing son? Does he handle the small council? Struggling to find his voice, he just stays frozen in his chair. 

“Please, please, do not make me do this again, Aegon.” You beg, “I did what was asked of me before. Please do not ask this of me again.”

“We need allies, your grace. The Princess is still desired by many men, men who will look past her past marriage and son. Think of the kingdom⎯”

“Send treaties, then!”

“Please, Aegon. I ask as your sister, not a member of the Court. Please do not make me do this again. I do not wish to marry again. Please do not send me away again.” You beg, your voice cracking. 

Watching as the tears begin to fall from your eyes, he clenches his jaw tightly, anger boiling up at the sight of you. His precious little sister, the one person in all of the Realm that he truly cared for, was crying by his small council's hand. Slamming his hands down hard on the table, the room goes deadly silent, minus the soft sniffles of you and your son. 

“There will be no marrying off my sister! If you wish for such alliances as much as you claim, do offer your daughters instead, for I will not be doing the same to my sister nor my daughter.” 

“Your grace, if you would just⎯”

“I am King, no?” He snaps back, “There will be no questioning of my decision. The matter is settled.”

----

@fragileheartbeats

@danytar

@nightvers

[whirlybirbs]

marinating on the idea of you and roronoa zoro being at each other’s throats every single day. bickering, insults, eye rolls. he’s too “bullheaded” and you’re too “stubborn” — two sides of the same coin.

but, it’s completely different when the two of you are drunk.

drunk!zoro being the epitome of “she’s a pain in the ass but she’s MY pain in the ass”.

drunk!zoro is suddenly chummy as all hell with you when he’s three beers deep.

drunk!zoro blindly agreeing to whatever you’re saying, nodding along to your own drunken critique of another pirate crew in the same port as the straw hats. zoro 🤝 you when it comes to hating everyone else

drunk!zoro and you, off at some table talking about the finer points of swordsmanship — you have no fucking idea what he’s talking about, you can’t even see straight but he’s smiling and it’s cute— and the others are like ??????? are they gonna kill each other or what ??????

drunk!zoro’s mask of irritation is gone because he doesn’t really hate you — he’s just got no fuckin’ idea what that tight feeling in his chest is when you’re around. heartburn? indigestion? gas? a crush?????? pffft, please. what is he, twelve?

drunk!zoro caving and agreeing to join in on one song (holds his finger up, wags it in your face — “one. only one.”) because you practically beg on your hands and knees for him to join you and the others while spouting some slurred babble about “i love our family” and the our really gets to him.

drunk!zoro and you screaming the words to some stupid shanty in each other’s faces in the middle of the tavern while the others are like………. what the fuck is going on, why are they smiling, are they flirting

drunk!zoro and you, arm in arm, as you both are slapped with the reality of drinking too much. neither of you can see straight, can’t walk straight. it’s the blind leading the blind out here, and you’re both teetering on the sidewalk, laughing, heading back to port.

and then, the next morning, it’s like none of it ever happened. yelling and fighting on the deck and all of it done with a hangover — as if zoro hadn’t passed out at the foot of your bed the night before like a loyal guard dog and you hadn’t tucked him in.

[cheralith]

PLEASE MORE OF CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND KAISER 🙏🙏

childhood bestfriend!kaiser who, at age nine, manages to find a spare coin on the ground and decides, for the fun of it, to use it on a nearby capsule machine as he waits for you to finish up inside the convenience store. it contains mini capsules of what seems to be cheap jewelry, and though kaiser cannot be bothered to wear any himself, he decides for the fun of it to just give it a spin since the other machines don't seem worth his money.

he ends up with what looks like a cheap nickel ring with a plastic deep blue gem glued onto its little divot. it's... actually not bad for something so cheap, but it's still cheap enough to notice some flawed intricacies and some irregularities in its pattern surrounding the band of the ring. he attempts to try it on some of his fingers, but it refuses to budge past half of most of them.

you manage to finally finish up paying for your stuff at the register, meeting him outside where you find him squatting down in front of a couple of capsule machines arranging from some quick candy to disposable toys. he holds something shiny between his two fingers as he examines it closely, his concentration on the item making you giggle lightly. that's when he notices you and you ask him what he's holding as you shuffle up next to him.

"a ring," he states simply, letting you hold it between your fingers to let you analyze the toy. "i think it's a little small for me though."

you hum lightly before gently trying it on your left ring finger. to yours and kaiser's mild surprise, it fits quite snugly. "hey, look at that!"

you show off your hand to him, where the ocean blue gem glimmers along the silver band. kaiser stares at it for a minute, taking a liking to how well it goes together with your hand—like it's meant to be there.

he tucks his head away from you, the tips of his ears blushing a light pink. quietly, he mumbles, "... you can have it, then... if you want."

"really?!" you exclaim, clearly delighted. you grin widely, clenching and unclenching your fist when he nods shyly again in affirmation.

he watches you from the corner of his eye, witnessing you glimmer in admiration at the cheap ring, as if it was an actually well-crafted piece made with love and care and thought and not some mass-produced, cheap toy that would most likely break in a couple of days.

so it's surprising how long the little toy has lasted after all these years. there eventually came an age where it could no longer fit any of your fingers without it getting stuck, so you had opted for creating it into a necklace with a matching silver chain. when you had proudly showed off your creation to kaiser at age twelve, his lips purse in bashfulness fronted as confusion. he knew you had worn it for quite a while after he gave it to you, given how he always would steal a glance at your hand to see if you were still wearing it, but to see you go to a length to preserve such a small gift made kaiser feel like he was on top of the world.

you wore the simple necklace for a long time—essentially every day and never took it off unless you were showering or going to bed. even despite the strict "no jewelry" rule at your school, you always had tucked it inside your shirt in secret, feeling like you were carrying a piece of kaiser every where you went since you and him went to different schools (what institution he went to, you didn't know. every time you asked him what school to see if it sounded familiar, he'd just simply reply, "school.")

so when kaiser disappeared from your life for three years, after he had gotten arrested at thirteen for apparently robbing a store (you would shout at the others who rumored about the subject that he'd do no such thing), the piece of metal felt heavier around your neck at times. it felt sore at times, but you still insisted on wearing it every day in hopes that he'd still be somewhere nearby, waiting for you to hand him spare pieces of your dad's bread rolls behind his bakery.

you'd fiddle with it at times while waiting at his bus stop, while you waited on the swings at the nearby park, while you sat on the stairs of your father's bakery... just waiting in hopes of seeing a familiar blonde to hopefully appear before you. you don't know how much time you had wasted in the first year and a half attempting to continue a routine that you didn't know ended without your knowledge... just simply waiting and staring into the open distance while your fingers fiddled with the toy ring strung around your neck.

you stopped waiting for the figment of someone you used to know after the seventeenth month. winter was upon you now and you knew it was getting harder to withstand the chilled air as you waited, waited, and waited. as you swung lightly on the swings that you and kaiser used to eat too much candy with bought with your dad's spare cash, you eventually let the sugar dissolve on your tongue one last time before heading home as the snow began to fall.

you were eighteen, visiting home from the big city on a holiday weekend when you saw him for the first time in years. just shy of the end of your first semester at university, you saw a familiar head of blonde (with now blue tips) hair descending down to the shared tunnel of the subway, face just barely visible from the scarf he wore. you were on the opposite side and had just gotten off at the same platform, and the whiplash you had given yourself at the moment to double check if the person wrapped in a dark blue scarf was actually someone that had disappeared from your life years ago was truly there could've snapped your neck.

suitcase trailing behind you, you had forgotten all about your connecting train and swiftly trailed down the stairs in desperation to see a familiar face you yearned to see for the past few years. you probably looked like a psychopath, but you didn't care, not when you spotted the familiar choppy locks of white gold just a few meters away.

when you called out his name, you proved yourself right given how the figure in front of you freezes when you shout his last name.

kaiser remembers stiffening up at the sound of a melody all too familiar to him just before he transferred through the turnstile to the other station. he slowly turned around to see a face he had spent a good portion of the beginning of his life around, a face that unlike most people in his life, he didn't dread to see with a flow of contempt. but he still felt the apprehension fill his nerves, similar in the way that it did just before a big match.

and it felt nearly impossible to control such a feeling—especially when he spots the shrewd ring still hanging around your neck on a thin, silver chain, its dark plastic gem still glistening at him with a knowing wink in its glimmer.

a/n ; some more of childhood bestfriend!kaiser here, here, and here (yandere warning for the last one). comments and reblogs always noticed and endlessly appreciated :]

[s-sh-ne]

there are worse games to play [1] - bucky barnes x f!reader (hunger games au)

Bucky didn’t expect this. Not the house. Not the woman who had a gun raised to his head one second and was inviting him to dinner the other. Certainly not the smell of homemade stew wafting from her opened windows.

warnings: cozy dystopia, implied hunger games violence, angst, very hurt/comfort, allusions to suicide, implied past deaths, trauma, bucky barnes needs several hugs in every universe, kinda MCU x Hunger Games crossover but I try to really just keep it subtle as I don't like massive crossovers (mentions of Katniss & the gang, but mainly background stuff)

w/c: 4.1k

a/n: this came to me after reading so so so many bucky fics (without even being a marvel girl its insane!) I'm a hunger games super fan and i absolutely adore bucky so when I pictured traumatized!victor! bucky i just had to pump out an entire fic! this is still a wip since it was supposed to be a one shot n then i hit the 10k word mark not even halfway through so i was like this is now a mini series lol enjoy <3333

-> big kudos to so so many bucky fic writers for getting me into this lovely lovely man (including but not limited to @artficlly @fckmebarnes & @marvelstoriesepic <3333 i love your work so much, inspired me to start writing for this man)

-> main masterlist -> tawgtp masterlist

there are worse games to play, james newton howard

The train that once ran from the Capitol to District Twelve had long since been put out of commission, stopping in the bleak station of Six. This district was still bustling with activity but transportation to Twelve was impossible, or so the locals kept repeating. The proof was there, long abandoned freight cars on their side discarded at the station.

“Twelve’s long gone,” They’d said, nodding their head towards the east. Destroyed by the Capitol over four years ago, when everything happened. If people were still there, they lived off their own resources, with no link to any other district. The more Bucky Barnes asked around, the more he realized he’d have to find another way to his destination. He prayed he wouldn’t have to go on foot, hell, he’d beg on his knees not to – not in this heat. Though he’d take the boiling weather over freezing temperatures anytime. 

The air was sweltering, the peak of the summer bearing down on his already sweaty back. Why he’d decided to move across the continent in the middle of the hottest season in Panem, he couldn’t find an answer. Maybe it was because the Capitol was emptier than ever, or maybe because he realized nothing was left back for him in Seven. No matter the reason, he was now dragging his exhausted body across Six’s district center looking for even the smallest mode of transportation he could use. He had money, a lot of it, but it was most likely worthless here. Only a few places accepted dollars after everything. Most of the districts traded, and Bucky had some trinkets leftover from his days in the Capitol, though he supposed the locals could melt the coins down. 

Bucky eventually found an old man willing to trade his old motorbike for a few dollars and silverware. The thing was rusted, old, but would do for the couple days separating him from Twelve. Might be nice to feel the wind against his skin. Might even give him a second to think about what he was gonna do once there. Because yeah, he might’ve planned to leave the Capitol, take little to nothing with him, and travel his way across the country, but he sure as hell hadn’t planned what he was going to do there. 

Maybe the wind would whisper the answers on the road, or maybe he wouldn’t even find them in Twelve. It was a grim thought, but it was the only thing he had going for him, other than returning to the shell of his old life. And returning to that? That was something Bucky Barnes would never, ever, do. 

-

Scorching mornings always made you want to stay in bed, in the soft linens Natasha had just cleaned for you a day prior. The heatwave was brutal this year, so many of your flowers wilted under the unrelenting rays of the sun. Yet, it wasn’t anything you couldn’t survive; your home always got like this during the summer, ever since you were a child. 

You pushed your sheets out of the way, peeking out your small window. The same view you’d seen your entire life greeted you, the overgrown garden your mother had planted decades ago, the tall trees offering the flowers some respite from the sun. The house next door, a small dilapidated thing with daffodil yellow curtains, still stood there, though abandoned for a few years now. Your blue curtains still rustled in the soft summer breeze, wafting in the scent you could only describe as purely District Twelve. 

Iron, flowers, and coal, all mixed together into a perfume you wish you could bottle and cherish for eternity. Because with every passing day since Twelve was destroyed, you could smell the iron and coal slowly leaving the mix, and though the scent of only flowers was lovely, it wasn't home. That prickling, nose-wrinkling smell of coal was home, sticking to everything, to your father’s coat when he came home, to the tools that stuck by the hearth, to even your mother and brother. 

You guessed that was the future now, after everything. 

With one last wistful look outside, you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. You had a long day ahead of you. You had to make soap for all the inhabitants of your community (all eight of you), stop by Victor’s Village for bread, and tend to your garden before the heat killed it. With a deep breath, you made quick work of braiding your hair and threw on a simple dress, before tying an apron around yourself. Soap-making may be therapeutic to you but you had no intention of getting oil all over your dress. It was hard enough to clean out regular grime with no running water, and the last time you had sheepishly handed your oil-stained clothes to Natasha, she had almost popped a vein in her forehead. 

The warm rays felt like honey on your arms as you opened all the windows in your small kitchen/workspace, letting the fresh breeze in. You gathered your ingredients – the lard Sam had dropped off last week, the lye, the massive jar of dried petals – and got to work. It wasn’t terrible hard work but you still had to heat the fat with the lye for hours before even thinking of the final result.

Your morning was spent wiping sweat from your brow and stirring every so often. The chirping of the birds accompanied your work, the only sound in your small home, the crackling of the fire and your humming. Stray wisps of your hair were stuck to your forehead as you wiped the counters clean, the sun now high in the sky. The soap still had to boil for the better part of the next two days so you made sure your house wasn’t in any risk of catching fire during your absence and covered your large pot. 

You pinned your messy braids atop your head before shrugging off your apron. With a satisfied sigh, you locked your door and set out for the afternoon, the smell of freshly baked bread wafting from down the dirt path and the sun beating down on your head. 

-

Bucky’d been riding for the last two days, stopping once to rest against the rusted bike as the moon started to rise. He didn’t get much sleep. The heat was just as unbearable during the night and the dirt wasn’t the most comfortable place he’d slept, but there was a sort of freedom to it. No cage disguised as a gilded penthouse in the Capitol, no relic of a president breathing down his neck. Just him, the hunk of junk he was leaning against, and the stars. When the sun rose, he was already on the bike, kicking up dust as he rode. He passed by the old border compound, separating Six from Twelve, his eyes fixed on the road as dilapidated buildings raced by. 

The roads had deteriorated since the last time he’d been to Twelve, over fifteen years ago now.  There was no sign of through traffic, just cracked concrete with small flowers poking through. He’d planned on stopping in the old District center, if it was still standing. For all he knew no one was there anymore, just a pile of rocks and bones. He still wasn’t sure just what he was doing here, but he was determined to find something. There was nothing left for him in Seven, even less in the Capitol. Hell, he’d ride up to Thirteen if it meant getting the furthest away. 

He drove on for another few hours before the center came into view. It was a grim sight, the image of destroyed buildings and rubble growing as he sped closer. His breath caught as he stopped his bike, looking out at the remains. There was nothing left of the main town square, nothing of the stage he’d once stood on, rattling on about dead tributes. 

Twelve was already a bleak district, but this was beyond dismal. Bucky could see bones sticking out from piles of destroyed concrete, even animals chewing on long decayed bodies. 

“Fuck,” he breathed out, his eyes scanning the carnage for something, anything that might make this pointless trek of his mean something. He’d heard rumors of people settling back here but there was so much gone that he wasn’t sure he believed them now. He turned his eyes away, his heart in his throat. He’d seen death, he’d lived it even, but this was where he was supposed to find life. To find whoever he was outside of the Capitol’s influence. Outside of the damn grip Snow had on him for years. 

His metal hand gripped the handlebars tightly, running his other hand through his hair. He could go back, live the rest of his life in Seven, with people who didn’t even recognize him anymore. Or he could go back to the Capitol. Alone in his penthouse, mostly destroyed from the rebel attacks, until he couldn’t stand it anymore and ended it. That was how most of his life plans looked like anyways, ever since those damn Games. 

Bucky’s thoughts flickered back to seventeen years ago, standing on that podium. He was just a goddamn kid. He remembered vividly looking at the other tributes, with no clue that they’d all die and he’d live to remember their faces. At that moment, he envied them. He envied them for dying, because he wished he was in their place. Dead before he could experience what the Capitol did, or before everything came crashing down and he was left with nothing. Before he drove all the way across the country to find more fucking death. 

Come on Barnes, snap out of it. You haven’t even seen the rest. Someone’s probably out there somewhere. 

He took a deep breath, lifting his head again to scan the debris. That’s when he spotted a small dirt path leading down a small hill. Better than nothing. He kicked up dust as the engine started and he sped to the road. His heart leaped in his chest at the sight of tire tracks deeply imprinted in the dust, like the road had been used recently. He rode for another minute before two houses came into view. They were small, nothing fancy, just colorful curtains hanging from each window. He turned off his engine, scanning further down the road. There wasn’t anything in his immediate view, but the tire tracks kept going. Maybe if he went further, he’d find something. 

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear her approach. Just heard the sound of a rifle cocking behind him. 

“You got about ten seconds to tell me what the hell you’re doin’ here before I shoot.”

-

You heard the incessant rumble of the engine before you saw it. You’d recently come home from picking up the bread from Peeta and a drink at Sarah’s place, checking on the soap to see how far along it was. The late afternoon was quiet, just the buzz of insects outside your window and the distant call of an elk somewhere deep in the forest. You were washing potatoes for supper, enjoying the cool afternoon breeze when it happened. 

It was low at first but grew louder as you looked out of your window. This wasn’t a normal occurrence, especially not coming from the city center. The only person who had a vehicle in your small community was Steve and it sure as hell didn’t sound like whatever you were hearing. Your mind raced. It could be the settlement out west but when did they ever come from the city center? Nobody came from there anymore. You were the only ones this close to it, and the last person to arrive was Steve three years ago. 

Your hands trembled as you reached for your father’s rifle leaned against the wall next to you. The roar grew louder and the source came into view, finally. You quickly shut the curtains, leaving just a sliver of light for you to peek out. The sound sputtered to a stop as the person parked in front of the neighbouring house, the one with the yellow curtains. Your eyes caught the silhouette of a broad man atop a motorbike, his eyes scanning his surroundings. You couldn’t see much of him, but caught a glint of silver as he stretched out his arms. A fucking metal arm? Oh wonderful. 

Your fingers tightened on your gun, quietly moving to the door, nudging it open with your foot. He was looking down the road leading to Victor’s Village, his eyes fixed away from you, and you took the opportunity to approach him quietly. You cringed slightly as your door squeaked to a close behind you but he didn’t budge. You were able to get right behind him, your eyes scanning the strong planes of his back under his shirt, the metal of his arm shining in the sun. You held your breath, cocked the rifle. Aimed straight at his head.

“You got about ten seconds to tell me what the hell you’re doin’ here before I shoot,” you threatened, and prayed he couldn’t hear the tremble in your voice. His back straightened, his broad shoulders tensing. He slowly raised his arms, still facing away from you. You scanned his back for any weapons, noticing the way his brown hair curled at the base of his nape. He had a single knife strapped to his leg, so you tightened your grip on the gun, your knuckles white. 

“Just passing through,” the man replied carefully. “Didn’t think anyone was left here.” His voice was rough, like it hadn’t been used in days. You stayed silent for a beat longer, fingers twitching against the trigger. 

“Well, there is.” You didn’t say more, just kept the gun aimed at him. His arms still raised, he twisted on the bike to face you. You were met with the bluest eyes you’d ever seen, steadily looking you over. He had heavy dark circles underneath his eyes, betraying exhaustion, and he squinted as he faced the sun. 

“Didn’t mean to cause trouble.” You shakily lowered the gun, but kept your finger on the trigger. Just in case. He looked like he could easily bring you to the ground with a sweep of his legs. 

“Who’re you?” You asked, jerking your chin towards him. He lowered his arms, slowly swinging a leg over the bike to get off. His movements were slow and calculated as if you were a wild animal. 

“Name’s Bucky, ‘m just looking for a place to crash.” ‘Bucky’ said, and your eyes narrowed with familiarity. You couldn’t place it but you were sure you’d seen his face before. Maybe a Peacekeeper? One of the rebels Katniss had fought with? 

“Where’re you from?” You pushed further, still skeptical. His metal arm flexed lightly in the sun and he averted his eyes. 

“Seven” 

“Why'd you come here then?”

“Isn't anything left for me there, “ he shrugged. 

You took a few more seconds to assess him. He could’ve hurt you already if he really wanted to. Bucky answered your questions, didn’t budge unless you’d made the first move, didn’t seem aggressive. Aside from that silver arm. With a sigh, you fully aimed the gun at the ground. You nodded your head towards the house next to yours. 

“That one’s been empty, you can stay there for as long as you need,” you offered. 

He seemed surprised at your switch in attitudes and looked over at the yellow curtains, before shifting his eyes back to yours. 

“It’s fully furnished,” you added. “Last folks didn’ take much when they left.” He gave you a strange look, like he didn’t trust the offer. “Seriously, it’s fine. Ain’t the first newcomer we’ve had.” 

“Alright,” Bucky rested the bike against the rickety fence between the two houses and swung a small pack over his shoulder.

“Travelled all the way from Seven with only that thing?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. Seven was the furthest district from yours, on the west coast of the country. You walked down your own pathway, through the wildflowers, still looking at him over the fence. 

“Long story,” He said simply, striding towards the door. You’d reached your door as well, twisting the knob. 

“Tell me about it over dinner.” When he froze at the door and frowned at you, you laughed quietly. “If there’s food in there, it’s cans of beans from twenty years ago. I’m makin’ potato stew, jus’ come over in an hour.” 

Bucky held your stare for a second longer, an unreadable look in his eyes. Then he grunted, nodded, and pushed the door open. Before he stepped through though, he looked back at you.

“Thanks. By the way. Didn't think I’d be sleeping in an actual bed tonight.”

You just smiled at him and closed the door behind you. 

-

Bucky didn’t expect this. Not the house. Not the woman who had a gun raised to his head one second and was inviting him to dinner the other. Certainly not the smell of homemade stew wafting from her opened windows. He was standing outside her door, the sun low in the sky, his metal fingers flexing against his leg. He wasn’t sure if he should knock, call out (he hadn’t even caught her name) or just walk in. That last one seemed like a quick way of getting a bullet in his groin though.

He settled for a knock. Just a soft rap of his knuckles against the worn wood. 

“Just come in! S’open!” her voice called from inside, so casually. Like he wasn’t a total stranger. 

He pushed open the door, walking into the small space. He’d thrown on one of his black shirts, still clinging with sweat and dust, but it was the nicer one of the bunch. He hadn’t expected this level of hospitality, especially not in a spot so desolate as this. 

She was facing away from him, humming a tune he couldn’t place. There was a large pot next to the smaller one she was stirring. The air smelled like flowers, and he quickly located the source of it. Dozens of bouquets were hung upside down in a shadowed corner of the small room, dried and preserved. She turned back to smile at him, as if welcoming a friend. 

“Sit wherever you like, I’ll be with you in a tick.” 

Bucky sat down on a small rickety stool at her table. More flowers spread out on the surface. It was so small in here he felt like he was towering over the whole place, but it was comfortable. Lived in. It had a soul, unlike most places he’d seen and lived in. They sat in silence for a few minutes longer before he cleared his throat and asked for her name. She laughed and answered him, still stirring the stew. The comfortable quiet settled over them once more. He could hear the evening birds chirping, the wind rustling the trees outside. 

“You’re kind.” He stated, breaking the silence once more when she turned to set the pot of stew on the table. She stilled for a second, looking over at him, her lips quirked.

“Well, ain’t much to gain by being rude. My ma taught me that.” 

A bowl of food was pushed towards him, a fresh loaf of bread next to it.

“I guess not,” He waited for her to sit and take the first bite before he grabbed his spoon. He watched her swallow cautiously, old instincts still around to haunt him.  . 

“It’s not poisoned, Bucky,” she teased, her eyes glinting with amusement. His name left her lips for the first time and he felt his lips stretch into a small smile – his first one in weeks. He finally took a bite. It wasn’t very flavorful, but damn, it was the best thing he’d tasted in months. He let out a quiet groan and took another bite. Another chuckle escaped her and she pushed the loaf towards him. 

“Have some, it’s fresh from today.” 

He obliged, tearing himself a piece. They ate in silence, like they weren’t complete strangers. She was still humming, smelling the bread every time she took a bite. The setting sun’s rays were golden, casting a warm glow over the small kitchen. When they both finished, the woman took both their bowls, putting them in the large copper sink under the window. 

“Let me help,” He stood quickly, knocking the stool over. He muttered an apology and she laughed. God, she always laughed. It was a soft sound, quiet but still melodious. 

“I wish you could, but ain’t no runnin’ water in these parts anymore. I’ll go down to the river tomorrow.”

He sat back down, lifting the stool, as she took a seat across from him again. 

“So, Bucky. What’s your story?” She rested her head on her palm, looking over at him expectantly. 

“Not much to say. I came from the Capitol after everything went to shit.”

“Thought you said you were from Seven?”

“Originally.”

Her mouth opened in a small ‘ah’ and urged him to go on. He pretended not to notice her eyes flicking down to his left arm curiously. 

“There’s seriously not much else. I left ‘cause there was nothing back there for me.” As kind as she was, he wasn’t gonna go and tell his entire life story to this woman he’d just met. Her eyes narrowed slightly but she let him off easy. 

“A’right.” 

“There more of you?” He asked after a beat. The grin that had slipped away from her took back its place. 

“Yeah, seven more,” she started, waving vaguely towards the east. “There’s more little settlements all over Twelve but ours is the closest to the District center. Whatever’s left of it, I suppose.”

“Saw it on the way in. I really thought I wasn’t gonna find anyone out here.” 

She sighed, a hand running through her hair. 

“Most of us this close grew up ‘round here. This,” she gestured at the space around them “is where I grew up. Down the road, Sam and Sarah live in their grandparents’ house. Even further down, in Victor’s Village, Peeta, Katniss and Haymitch kinda just live together.”

He knit his eyebrows together at the mention of the last three. Victors, like him. Rebels, unlike him. They’d actually done something against the Capitol’s treatment, while he sat and took it all. 

“What about the other two?” He asked, his voice tight. 

“Natasha and Steve aren’t from Twelve. Tash came down from Thirteen, and Steve’s from Two. Won the 64th Hunger Games.” 

His throat clenched. Another Victor, just a year after his own games. He’d heard in passing Steve Rogers’ victory, but he’d been so deep in his own trauma that he didn’t even acknowledge it. 

“We all live on by relyin’ on each other.” she kept going, not noticing or merely not pressing his discomfort. “Katniss, Tash, and Steve hunt; Sam cures the meat and gives me lard for my soap; I make said soap and some ointments; Peeta bakes;” She pointed at the half-eaten loaf. “Sara and Katniss skin and tan the fur. Then Haymitch stops by for a crude comment or two, and moonshine. Doen’t drink it though, he swore that off years ago, jus’ makes it now.” And with a small smirk, “Finally, we got Red, Sam and Sara’s goat. Got a real attitude that one.”

“You make soap?” Bucky’s eyes darted to the massive pot still heating behind her. 

“Mhm, ever since I was a girl. My daddy was a coal miner, so my ma made soap for him all the time. So she could see his handsome face, she’d say.” 

A rough laugh escaped him. For a woman he’d just met mere hours ago, she was so kind to him. He’d known acknowledgement, camaraderie even on his way over, but this was genuine warmth. Homeliness. Something he hadn’t had in decades. 

“You should go down to Tash’s place tomorrow. She takes care of our cleaning, believe it or not, swears the forest’s water’s cleaner than the creek behind our houses.” 

“You sayin’ I stink?” She snickered again, rolling her eyes. 

“I’m sayin’, your shirt’s dustier than my shed, I think you could use some clean clothes.”

The rest of the evening was filled with quiet laughter, fresh bread, and even fruit from her garden, before Bucky left her home with the second half of the bread. As he walked the short path to his doorstep, he looked up at the stars that kept him company during his lonely travels, and smiled to himself. An entire community, built on respect and sharing. Maybe he’d find something here. Something worth sticking around for. 

-

deep in the meadow, under the willow next chapter

[fnzktn]

weightless

idol!hanni pham x collegestudent!fem!reader

angst, fluff, comfort, slowburn, classmates to lovers(?)

synopsis: with the case against ador dragging on with no clear end in sight, hanni steps away from everything and quietly enrolls in a university abroad. taking on a new name and leaving her old life behind, she meets you.

contains: burnout, yearning, longing, slow burn ;) story is set in the philippines

word count: 16.2k

a/n: loosely inspired by hanni's song 'weightless'! (and also a comment i saw regarding njz's recent court hearing. someone said that they should pursue higher education since it look likes neither sides are going to back down </3)

it takes you exactly one hour to get to campus on a good day.

you wake up at four-thirty, not because you're a morning person, but because anything later means the lrt will be packed, and the jeepneys will start skipping your stop if you wait too long. you brush your teeth with cold water from a low-pressure faucet, boil a single egg while your slippers stick to the kitchen floor, and pack your things in the canvas tote that’s starting to tear at the corners.

you don’t bother with makeup. not on school days. not when your walk to the station already leaves a sweat stain on your back.

outside, the sky’s still deciding what kind of day it wants to be. the air is thick — not yet hot, but heavy, like it knows something you don’t. tricycles hum in the distance. someone’s radio plays a distorted love song two houses down. you tuck a folded twenty into the side pocket of your bag and start walking.

it takes ten minutes to reach the jeepney stop. twelve, if you avoid the shortcut through the alley because the ground’s still wet and you’re wearing the thin-soled sneakers again. the jeep is already half-full when you get on. you keep your head down, whisper “bayad po,” and pass the coin forward.

by the time you get off and walk to the lrt station, your legs already ache.

the train ride is cramped and metallic. you keep your arm pressed tight to your side, holding your bag close. there’s a toddler crying in the corner, two college boys sharing earphones, and a woman applying eyeliner using the reflection in the window. you stare at your shoes and pretend you're anywhere else.

you switch lines at doroteo jose. the crowd shuffles like it’s been doing this forever — no eye contact, no space, just muscle memory. the rhythm of survival. 

by the time you get off at katipunan, it’s been fifty-two minutes since you left the house. another jeep to get to campus. you walk the last leg of the trip slowly, dragging your feet not out of laziness, but because they hurt. everything hurts a little more these days.

your english class is in an old building near the back of campus. the kind that smells like chalk dust and flickering lights. you arrive early, like always — not because you’re trying to impress anyone, but because the classroom is air-conditioned, and the silence feels cleaner than home.

room 208 is unlocked. the lights are off, but the sun comes in through the window, stretching across the tiled floor in strips.

you’re not the first one there.

a girl sits in the third row, center seat. hood up, hands folded neatly on her desk. there’s a coffee cup beside her elbow and a notebook she hasn’t written in.

you pause. then sit beside her.

not one seat away — beside. it surprises you a little, but you’re too tired to second-guess it.

she doesn’t look up. doesn’t flinch. only nods slightly, like your presence was expected.

you take your pen out. flip open your notebook. try to read the paragraph you’ve read three times already. but your pen skips again. ink gone. you sigh, soft.

"pwede po ba makihiram ng ballpen?"

she looks up. she blinks once, then says,

"i’m sorry—could you say that again?"

the accent is soft, but unmistakable. australian. your brain clicks into place.

"oh," you say, switching to english. "sorry. i asked if i could borrow a pen. mine’s dead."

she gives the faintest laugh — not at you, but at the situation. like the day’s just a little ridiculous already.

"yeah. here," she says, reaching into her pencil case. her fingers are careful. deliberate. she hands you a gel pen. navy blue, uncapped.

"thanks," you say. "i’ll give it back after class."

"no rush." she smiles, polite but not forced.

you open your notebook again, trying not to overthink how she pronounced “no rush.”

"you’re not from here?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

she pauses, then shrugs lightly. “not really. just moved.”

you nod. “australia?”

“yeah.”

“i figured.”

the professor arrives.

roll call begins. names echo softly across the room, some familiar, some not. when it’s her turn, the girl beside you lifts her head a little and says:

“cherry?”

“present.”

you return your eyes to the board.

the professor is halfway through discussing behavioral conditioning, gesturing vaguely at the slides, but the words float somewhere above your head. like smoke. like static.

your notebook lies open in front of you, blank. the pen cherry lent you rests lightly in your grip. you turn it once, twice between your fingers. click it once, quietly.

beside you, she hasn’t moved much.

her hood’s still up. her arms are crossed now, elbows tucked into her sides like she’s trying to disappear. but she’s watching. not the professor. not her notes.

just the window.

you steal another glance at her when you're sure she’s not looking. her features are sharper up close — soft-edged but deliberate. the kind of face people might mistake as unreadable, even though you’re starting to think it’s not that at all. she just… observes.

you wonder if she feels out of place here. if she’s used to sitting like this — a little apart from the world.

you know that feeling. it clings to your clothes, too.

the room is quiet enough that you can hear the soft hum of the air conditioning unit kicking in and out. the sound of fingers tapping against a keyboard three rows behind you. the faint shuffle of feet from the corridor outside.

cherry shifts a little in her seat, just enough that her sleeve brushes yours.

you flinch—not from shock, just from how it surprises you that someone else is that close. she pulls her arm in slightly. not apologetically, just…aware.

you turn your head a fraction. her face is still turned toward the window, but she’s not watching anything in particular. just the light filtering in — pale, barely reaching the tiled floor.

you look away again.

the professor begins handing out something. printed packets, maybe. there's some shuffling, a few students standing to pass things back. you sit forward slightly as the paper makes its way down the row.

when it gets to cherry, she pauses before passing you yours. like she isn’t sure if she should hand it directly or just slide it to the edge of your desk.

she chooses the latter. your fingers brush the corner of the paper just as she lets go. she doesn’t pull her hand away too quickly. doesn’t say anything.

but for a second — just one second — she tilts her head toward you, eyes flicking down to your notebook. still blank.

then, softly, almost like it’s not meant to be heard:

“do you need a copy of the notes?”

you blink. look up.

she doesn’t sound nosy. doesn’t even sound like she cares about the answer. it’s more like she noticed. and decided to say something about it.

you shake your head lightly. “no, i’m okay. i have a good memory.”

she nods once. doesn't press.

the class goes on. it stretches.

at one point, the projector blinks out and someone groans. the professor sighs and starts writing on the board instead. your pen finally touches paper — but only for a line or two, half-hearted scribbles that you’ll probably rewrite later.

you don’t really notice how close your elbow is to cherry’s until she shifts again — to stretch, maybe. her sweater rides up slightly at the wrist, exposing pale skin and a black hair tie she wears like a bracelet.

you look away, then down at your lap. your left shoe has a new scratch across the middle. you trace it idly with your thumb.

when the professor finally dismisses the class, it’s not loud — just the sound of people beginning to breathe again.

chairs scrape. someone jokes about lunch. someone else yawns.

you stay seated.

so does she.

your things are still out, and so are hers.

neither of you moves right away. like there's no need to rush into the next part of the day. like the silence here is softer than whatever waits outside.

you finally start packing up — notebook, pen, crumpled handout. cherry does the same. you wonder if she’ll ask for the pen back. she doesn’t.

instead, once her bag’s zipped and over one shoulder, she stands. so do you.

she glances at you. not for long. just enough that you meet her eyes again.

“see you,” she says.

quiet. casual.

you nod. “yeah. see you.”

and then she walks off. not fast. not slow. just steady. hood still up. steps light.

you watch her leave without meaning to. and you realize:

she didn’t look unsure when she said her name earlier. that was just how she talks.

you eat lunch under the big tree near the back of the humanities building — same spot as always.

it’s quiet here. there’s a cement bench stained from rainwater and rust, and an old metal trash can that tilts slightly to the left. the ground is cracked in places, little weeds peeking through like they’ve been trying to say something for years.

your best friend is already there when you arrive. she’s cross-legged on the bench, picking at the foil lid of her yakult bottle like it said something wrong.

“you’re late,” she says without looking up.

“you’re early,” you shoot back, setting your lunch down beside her.

she grins. “got bored. my prof ended class twenty minutes early. i figured i’d wait.”

you sit beside her, tucking your legs up slightly. the concrete’s still warm from the sun.

your lunch is simple. rice, egg, and heated up adobo from last night. you offer her a bite, and she takes it without hesitation, like always.

you’ve known her since fourth year. same math teacher. same experience of hating her guts. she was the first person you told when you passed the entrance exam here. when she did too, you both swore it meant the universe hadn’t forgotten you.

she talks most of the time — about a bad quiz, about how she tripped walking up the stairs in the library, about how the canteen’s pancit has been getting worse every semester. you listen, chew slowly, laugh at the right parts.

it’s easy with her.

you don’t have to think too much. don’t have to measure every word before you say it. the silences aren’t awkward. they just… exist.

at one point, she asks if you want to hang out later after your last class. maybe find a cheap café or sneak into the library’s AV room again.

by the time your last class is over, the rain has already settled in. not a sudden burst, but the kind that starts soft, unnoticed, until the windows grow pale and gray and the sound of the world beyond begins to disappear beneath the hush of water and wind.

the lecture ends earlier than usual, but no one rushes to leave. everyone hesitates, staring out at the silvery sheets falling just beyond the door, the kind of rain that soaks your socks through your shoes before you’ve even made it halfway across the road. you gather your things slower than usual, not because you’re tired, but because the thought of walking out into it, into the damp and weight of it, just makes your limbs feel heavier than they already are.

cherry is still in her seat, a few steps ahead, the hood of her jacket already pulled over her hair. she doesn’t look at you as you fall into step beside her, but she doesn’t move away either. she just stands there, hands tucked into the front pocket of her hoodie, eyes fixed out beyond the corridor as if watching the rain might help her outwait it.

you don’t say anything. neither does she.

the hallway is half-empty now, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above. you can hear the occasional squeak of wet shoes against the tiles from students who decided to brave it anyway. there’s a trash can near the door that someone pushed closer to catch the leaking drip from the ceiling. it’s already half-full with cloudy water. you stare at it a little too long.

beside you, cherry shifts. it’s barely anything — just the rustle of her sleeve, the creak of her zipper — but then she pulls something out of the front pocket of her bag. a granola bar. nothing fancy, just one of those store-bought, plastic-wrapped ones with a red label and a slightly smudged expiry date. she doesn’t look at you when she holds it out. just tilts it slightly in your direction.

“almond and sea salt,” she says, like that’s enough explanation.

you blink at it for a second. you hadn’t realized your stomach was empty until now, but there’s a quiet, hollow ache in your middle that agrees with the offering. you take it with both hands — not because it’s expensive, not because you can’t afford one yourself, but because the gesture is so out-of-nowhere it feels delicate. like if you don’t accept it properly, it might fold in on itself and vanish.

“thanks,” you say, voice lower than usual. she only nods once, short and quick, like she was never waiting for you to respond anyway.

you both stand there a little longer, the silence not uncomfortable but strangely intact, like neither of you is trying to fill it. just waiting. the granola bar sits in your hand, still unopened.

eventually, the rain softens — not stops, but fades, turning from a downpour to a steady drizzle. not quite safe, but passable. cherry’s the first to step forward. you follow, bags slung over your shoulders, heads slightly bowed to keep the rain from your faces. you pull your tote bag over your head, but it’s already soaked through from where you’d dropped it against the floor earlier. your notebook’s corners curl from the damp. cherry’s jacket hangs low over her frame, water catching at the hem like it’s been through this before.

you don’t speak until you’re a few steps past the side entrance, where the drainage is too shallow and the sidewalk dips slightly. the water rises over your shoes, cold and unwelcome, and you wince without meaning to. cherry glances sideways, not saying anything, but her steps slow a little so you’re side by side again.

“you take the train home?” she asks eventually, her voice casual but not careless.

you nod before remembering she’s not looking at you. “yeah. lrt from katipunan. then a jeep, then i walk the rest.”

she lets out a low exhale, not quite a laugh. “how long does that take?”

you shift your grip on your bag. “an hour. if i catch everything on time.”

she whistles under her breath, quiet and almost to herself. “that’s commitment.”

you glance at her then. she’s watching the road ahead, but her eyebrows are drawn just slightly. not pity — something else. curiosity, maybe. or respect. you’re not sure which makes your chest feel tighter.

“you live far?” you ask, more out of politeness than genuine expectation. cherry doesn’t talk much about herself. you’ve noticed that.

“close,” she says. “like… a ten-minute walk.”

you don’t say anything at first, letting that settle. there’s something about the way she answers — flat but not dismissive, like she’s used to keeping things brief. you wonder if she’s always been like that, or if it’s something she picked up more recently, like a habit turned instinct.

you nod, more to yourself than to her. “that’s nice. being close.”

she hums in agreement but doesn’t add more. the path splits up ahead — one road leading back toward the main avenue and jeepney stops, the other curling off toward the gated subdivision near campus. it’s where she’ll go, you assume. where she disappears to every time.

you stop walking when you reach the intersection, feet dragging slightly against the wet concrete. cherry slows too, as if she’d been timing her steps to yours all along. you turn slightly, enough to see her from the corner of your eye. her hood’s slipped back a little, exposing a few strands of damp hair that cling to her cheek. her lips are parted slightly like she might say something, but the words don’t come.

instead, she offers you a nod. not a wave, not a smile — just that. quiet. restrained. easy to miss if you weren’t looking.

“see you,” she says, like the words are lighter than they feel.

you nod back. “yeah. see you.”

she turns away first. walks down the path without looking over her shoulder.

you watch until she’s out of sight, the rain thickening again just enough to blur her outline in the distance. your fingers are cold. the granola bar’s still in your hand, unopened.

you slip it into your bag and start the long way home, shoes sloshing through shallow water, clothes sticking damply to your skin. and yet, somehow, it doesn’t feel as heavy as it usually does.

you get to class earlier than usual that morning, but not on purpose.

the lrt was running smoother today, less crowded, with no abrupt stops that jarred your spine or knocked your elbow into strangers. you even managed to squeeze into a corner seat for once. after that, the jeep you took from the station to campus arrived almost as soon as you stepped off the platform, its blue and white paint faded like most of the others that pass through that route. the driver skipped the usual corner that floods when it rains, and even the walk from the gate to the building felt a little less steep than it usually does when you’re running late and your shoes are too thin for the gravel.

it’s still hot. the kind of heat that sticks to your neck and softens your bangs, but you’re used to that. what surprises you more is how empty the room is when you arrive — only two students at the back, eyes glued to their phones, legs stretched like they’re trying to take up more space than they need. the windows are cracked open, letting in a faint breeze that does nothing to move the heat, and the fan overhead clicks with a tired rhythm, as if it’s sighing with every rotation.

you head to your usual seat out of habit, but pause halfway.

cherry’s already here.

she’s sitting in the same row, two spots away from where you normally sit, her bag on the floor beside her, a paperback open in front of her that she doesn’t seem to be actively reading. she’s wearing a loose white long-sleeved top that looks like it was folded for too long in a suitcase, creases still faintly visible down the front. her hair is tied back loosely today, not in a ponytail exactly, just enough to keep it off her face. you can see the slope of her neck, pale against the fabric.

there’s something still about her. not rigid, not frozen — just… deliberately quiet. like she doesn’t want to take up more space than she already does.

she lifts her head when she senses you approaching. doesn’t smile, but there’s recognition in her expression. not warm, but not indifferent either. just a look that says: i’ve seen you before. and you’ve seen me.

you nod. she nods back.

you glance at the seat beside her — not your usual one, but close enough. close enough to hear her if she speaks.

you take it.

the chair scrapes a little against the floor, the sound too loud in the stillness, but cherry doesn’t flinch. she glances once at you, then back to her book.

you settle your bag onto your lap. the silence isn’t awkward — just… uncertain. waiting for shape.

“what are you reading?” you ask, low and careful, like the question might be too much.

she looks down at her book, then over at you again. “a novel we’ll probably be assigned later. might as well get ahead.”

you nod, glancing at the cover. the spine’s creased in a way that suggests she’s either halfway through or just keeps going back to the beginning. “english major?”

“yeah.” she says it with a small exhale, like it’s both a fact and a shrug. “you?”

you nod. “same block, i think.”

“figures,” she says. then after a short pause, she tilts her head slightly, studying you — not in a rude way, more like she’s genuinely curious. 

“you speak really good english,” she says after a beat, like she’s only just realized it. “i mean, like… native-level fluent.”

“thanks,” you say. “it’s 'cause i’ve been chronically online since i was eight.”

cherry raises a brow, like she’s not sure if you’re joking. “that’s… valid, actually.”

you laugh under your breath. “it’s how i learned everything. forums, fanfics, twitter threads, youtube commentary videos. you pick up sentence rhythm and tone without even noticing.”

“better than any formal curriculum, probably,” she says, and this time the edge of her mouth lifts just enough to count as a smile.

you return it, smaller. “yeah. internet literacy turned academic muscle. kind of pathetic, kind of efficient.”

she hums, thoughtful. “i wouldn’t call it pathetic. just… modern.”

there’s a pause. cherry doesn’t smile, exactly, but something around her eyes softens. she closes the book gently and rests it flat on the desk, not looking away.

“people usually assume i’m a bitch because i don’t talk to them,” she says.

you tilt your head.

“I can’t understand them, i don’t speak tagalog,” she adds, not sheepishly, just plainly. “i mean, i understand bits of it. not enough to be useful, though.”

you nod slowly. “makes sense.”

“i’m from melbourne.”

“that also makes sense.”

cherry exhales a laugh through her nose, brief and quiet. “you’re one of the few who didn’t look confused when i said something in class.”

“guess i passed your test then.”

she looks at you, then — really looks. “yeah. you did.”

there’s something about the way she says it that makes you feel like you’ve done something right. even if you’re not sure what.

you both sit there a little longer, not talking, but not needing to. her elbow brushes the edge of your desk once when she shifts, and she murmurs a soft “sorry” that doesn’t feel awkward, just automatic. you don’t mind.

it’s the first time you’ve spoken this much. and it didn’t feel like a conversation you had to push through — it just… happened. like rain slowly starting against a window.

the professor walks in not long after. cherry straightens in her seat, eyes on the front. you open your notebook, pen poised, but your thoughts still drift slightly sideways, to the girl beside you. to the way her accent bends the shape of her words. 

you don’t expect anything else from her that day. but when you both stand to leave after class, she waits for you. doesn’t say she will. just… waits.

you walk out together.

the commute stretches the way it always does. tricycle to the station since you had extra cash. lrt ride that smells faintly of metal and sweat. you hold onto the straps above your head, sway with the movement of the train, press yourself into the corner when the car fills up past capacity. another jeepney from the terminal to the edge of campus, your arm braced against the metal rail, wind pushing strands of your hair into your mouth. then the walk — ten minutes through the side street with the cracked pavement, past the taho vendor you sometimes wave to, up the sloping path that leads to your building.

you’re used to all of it. none of it feels remarkable. just the rhythm of surviving.

but today, cherry is already in class again when you arrive.

this time, there’s no book on her desk. her arms are crossed on the table, cheek resting lightly against her sleeve, eyes half-lidded like she’s just barely awake. she blinks slowly when you walk in, like it takes a second to register that you’re real.

“morning,” you say, voice a little scratchy from not speaking all morning.

she nods, then shifts slightly, sitting up straighter. her hair is loose again today, the front pieces tucked behind her ears. there’s a tiny crease on her cheek where she must’ve been leaning against her bag strap.

you sit beside her. there’s no hesitation in it anymore.

you’re pulling out your notes when you hear the soft rustle of plastic. cherry reaches into her bag and places a small, warm paper-wrapped bundle on your desk — a rice cake, the kind sold in the canteen downstairs.

you blink at it, then at her.

“i grabbed two,” she says simply. “wasn’t sure if you ate breakfast.”

your first instinct is to say no — to say you’re fine, that she doesn’t have to. but the smell of warm sticky rice and coconut milk is comforting in a way that aches a little. you hadn’t realized how empty your stomach was until just now.

“thanks,” you murmur. your fingers brush hers briefly as you take it.

she doesn’t say anything else, and neither do you. you both sit there quietly, the soft crinkle of paper between you as you eat, the rest of the room slowly filling with the sound of other students arriving, dragging chairs, coughing, murmuring greetings to each other.

you glance at cherry once, halfway through your breakfast. she’s watching the door, but there’s a softness to her profile, like she’s not fully present. like her mind is elsewhere, hovering in that space between sleep and thought.

you think about asking her how long she’s been in the country. how different it is from melbourne. whether she misses home. but you don’t.

instead, you let the silence stretch comfortably between you. unhurried. undemanding.

it’s not a conversation. it’s just a moment.

and somehow, it feels like enough.

you don’t expect to see her after class.

usually, cherry’s the first one out the door. she moves quietly, deliberately, almost like she’s trying not to leave a trail. sometimes you catch the swing of her bag disappearing into the hall while you're still packing up your things, her steps already faded into the low murmur of campus life.

but today, she lingers.

you’re halfway through stuffing your folder into your tote when you notice her by the door, leaned against the frame, not scrolling through her phone, not looking at anyone in particular. just… waiting.

for a second, you hesitate, wondering if she’s waiting for someone else. but her eyes catch yours — not with urgency, but with a kind of steady calm — and you feel something shift, quiet and certain.

you walk to the door, and she falls into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you don’t speak right away. neither does she.

the hallway buzzes with students, some already rushing to their next classes, others taking their time. the two of you drift through the crowd without much effort, the noise muffled by your own silence. outside, the sky is overcast but dry, and there’s a faint breeze that pulls at the edges of your shirt.

you don’t realize you’re walking toward the bench near the old humanities building until you’re already there. it’s quieter on this side of campus — just a few stray cats lounging near the steps, a couple of upperclassmen reviewing notes, and the hum of distant traffic beyond the stone wall that lines the perimeter.

cherry sits first, dropping her bag to her side with a soft thud. you follow, a careful space between you, though not enough to feel distant.

she exhales, gaze on the jacaranda tree across the path. the branches sway gently, purple flowers fluttering in the wind like pieces of paper caught mid-air.

you don’t know how long you sit like that — maybe a minute, maybe more — before she speaks.

“is it always this loud?”

you blink. “what?”

“campus,” she says. “everyone’s talking over each other all the time. even when they’re not saying anything.”

you let out a soft laugh, surprised. “yeah. welcome to a filipino university.”

she nods, like she expected the answer, but needed to ask anyway. “it’s not bad. just… different.”

you look over at her. “different from what?”

“home.” she picks at a thread on her sleeve. “it’s quieter where i’m from. not silent, just… less of this.” she gestures vaguely toward the buildings, the students passing by in clusters, the sudden bark of laughter from somewhere near the library steps.

you glance around, and for a moment, you hear it the way she does — the constant churn of voices, footsteps, the overlapping of stories that don’t quite reach you but still fill the air.

“i think i stopped noticing it,” you admit. “like white noise.”

“lucky you,” she murmurs, but there’s no malice in it. just a wry kind of amusement.

you tuck your legs underneath the bench, fingers idly tracing the rough grain of the wood beneath you. “you miss melbourne?”

“always,” she says, and then adds, “my family's there.”

you nod slowly. not sure how to respond, but not feeling pressured to.

the breeze picks up again, pushing a few leaves across the path. one of them brushes your ankle, dry and curled in on itself. you press it under your shoe without thinking.

“you don’t talk much in class,” cherry says after a while.

you glance sideways. “neither do you.”

“true,” she says. “but i thought you would.”

“why?”

she shrugs. “you’re observant.”

you blink, surprised. “how would you know that?”

“you notice things,” she says, tone matter-of-fact. “like the professor’s tells when he’s about to quiz us. or which readings aren’t actually required even when they’re on the syllabus. and you always look at people before you speak, like you’re trying to read them.”

you’re quiet for a moment, caught off-guard by the precision of it. not in a bad way. just… you hadn’t realized she was watching.

“guess i just don’t like wasting words,” you say finally.

“same.”

you both lapse into silence again, but this one feels fuller, like the kind of silence you can rest inside.

a few more students pass by in front of you. one of them waves at cherry — or maybe at you — but neither of you waves back. the afternoon light is soft, slanting through the branches, painting faint shadows over her face. you realize, distantly, that you could sit like this a little longer.

not because there’s anything important to say.

but because it feels like something is building here, slowly. patiently. in the quiet between conversations. in the space between two people who don’t speak often, but notice everything.

you’re still packing your things when you hear her say your name again.

it’s quiet, almost like a thought spoken aloud — not hesitant, but careful. you glance up to find cherry standing beside your desk instead of near the door. there’s a soft crease between her brows like she’s figuring out what to say next, even though she already got your attention.

“you heading out?” she asks.

you nod. “yeah, just finished.”

she shifts her weight, gaze flicking toward the hallway, then back to you. “do you wanna… walk for a bit?”

the words are simple. but her tone — it’s the kind that asks without demanding, that leaves room for you to say no. like she’s not used to initiating, but she’s trying.

you blink once, twice, then sling your tote over your shoulder. “sure.”

and just like that, the shape of your afternoon changes.

you don’t take the usual shortcut out of campus.

instead, you let cherry lead. she doesn’t say where she’s headed, and you don’t ask. there’s no real destination. only the rhythm of your steps syncing up, and the quiet sounds of campus starting to thin out as students scatter for the day.

eventually, you both settle back into the same bench near the humanities building — your usual spot now, unspoken but understood. the space between you is narrower than it used to be. not enough to draw attention, but enough to notice.

a group of students passes by. one of them says something in tagalog — a meme that has been growing viral. cherry doesn’t react.

you glance at her.

“you still don’t understand tagalog, huh?”

she shakes her head. “not yet.”

you hum. “you’ll pick it up eventually.”

“maybe,” she says. “if i don't leave right away.”

you don’t ask what she means by that. instead, you glance down at your hands, then up at her again — noticing, just now, how the sunlight catches on the small hairs on her arm, how the wind pulls a strand of hair across her cheek.

you reach over without thinking and tuck it behind her ear.

a small gesture. barely even a second. but she looks at you — really looks at you — like she wasn’t expecting it.

“you had something on your face,” you say quickly.

she smiles, just a little. “thanks.”

neither of you speaks right away.

you listen to the wind catching in the trees, the scrape of a tricycle passing just outside the perimeter wall, the lazy purr of a cat curled under the bench.

“i used to hate quiet,” cherry says suddenly.

you glance sideways, curious.

“not silence,” she clarifies, gaze on the jacaranda tree across the path. “just… quiet. the kind that makes you feel like something’s missing.”

you don’t say anything yet. you wait.

“back home, things were loud,” she continues. “not noisy, exactly. just full. the kitchen, the tv, my sister’s music, someone always talking. even when i was alone, i could hear everything.”

you picture it — a house full of overlapping sounds. the hum of domestic life. the kind of background noise that makes you feel like you belong somewhere without trying.

“when i first got here,” she adds, voice lower now, “everything felt… still. too still.”

you nod slowly. “i know that feeling.”

she looks at you, eyes calm. “do you?”

“yeah,” you say, fingers grazing a rough patch of the bench’s wood. “but it was the opposite for me. i grew up with silence. too much of it, sometimes. so when i got here, all the noise felt… overwhelming.”

her mouth quirks into something like a smile — not amused, but understanding.

“funny,” she says. “we ended up in the same place anyway.”

you glance at her.

the sun’s beginning to lower behind the rooftops, casting a faint gold across her hair. her expression is softer today. less guarded. like the edges of her have dulled a bit, but not in a way that makes her dimmer — just more real.

“do you like it here now?” you ask.

she’s quiet for a beat. then, “i’m still figuring that out.”

you hum. “same.”

a breeze drifts past, lifting the edge of your shirt. somewhere nearby, someone calls out in tagalog, laughing as they disappear behind the main building. cherry doesn’t react, and you don’t point it out.

you lean back against the bench.

she stays forward, arms on her knees, but her shoulder is a little closer to yours this time. she doesn’t move away. neither do you.

you think about how quiet it is between you — not the awkward kind, but the kind that lets you breathe a little deeper.

not silence.

just… stillness.

a kind of quiet that doesn’t feel like something’s missing anymore.

the air’s shifting now. dusk settles like a film over the rooftop, soft and gold-tinted, the kind of light that makes even the chipped cement and rusted railings look gentler somehow. you’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting up here with her, but it’s been long enough that your elbows are sore from leaning against the ledge, and the breeze has tugged strands of hair loose across your cheeks.

you feel her shift beside you, barely a movement, but you notice. cherry always fidgets like she’s carrying a thought too big for words. like she’s editing herself in real time. her fingers curl at the edges of her hoodie sleeve, picking at loose thread.

“you know when you’re so tired, but it’s not the kind of tired sleep fixes?” she says suddenly. her voice is quiet, half-lost in the air. she doesn’t look at you.

you hum, soft and low, encouraging her to keep going without pushing. she always talks like she’s not sure the world will listen.

“i used to be in a really... high-pressure environment,” she says, a little slower now. “i didn’t realize it at first. thought it was just how things worked. you get tired, you suck it up. keep going. pretend it’s fine.”

you say nothing, but your chest tightens at the edges. not because you know exactly what she means—you're not sure anyone could—but because you know what it feels like to carry something silently for so long it begins to shape you.

“i thought i could handle it,” she says. “that if i smiled enough, performed well enough, no one would see how close i was to burning out.”

you glance at her. her jaw’s tense, her eyes on the skyline like it might offer a different version of herself. the one she used to be. or the one she’s running from.

“but they didn’t notice,” you say quietly, more a statement than a question.

“no,” she says. her voice is steady, but something behind it slips. a small fracture. “they didn’t.”

the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. it stretches between you like something you’re both willing to hold, a kind of mutual understanding that doesn’t need filling. far below, the city’s alive with light and sound, jeepneys crawling through traffic, headlights flickering like insects. you blink, thinking how strange it is that the world just... keeps going.

“you sound like you were living someone else’s life,” you say.

she doesn’t even pause. “i was. and people loved that version. they just didn’t know how far it was from the real me.”

you glance down at your knees, fingers resting against the denim of your jeans, suddenly aware of the weight of your own mask. the one you wear in crowded classrooms, on public transportation, at scholarship meetings. the one you’ve trained so well, it almost feels real now.

“must’ve been hard. keeping it up,” you murmur.

“it was exhausting,” she says. the honesty in her voice stings a little. like hearing your own thoughts said out loud by someone else.

you think about telling her. about the early mornings, the hour-long commute through train stations and jeep stops and broken sidewalks. about how you barely have time to eat most mornings, and how you always walk into class pretending you didn’t cry in the bathroom just last week over a low score. about how being on scholarship means you constantly have to prove you’re worth the slot.

“you ever think about starting over?” you ask instead.

“all the time.”

you nod, your shoulder brushing against hers just slightly. she doesn’t move away.

you sit in the quiet a bit longer, not because you’re afraid of the silence, but because it feels sacred somehow—like something shared instead of avoided. she’s still watching the skyline when she speaks again, but her voice is softer now.

“isn’t it weird how the world keeps going even when you feel like you’re not in it anymore?”

you look at her then, and something in your chest pulls tight. she doesn’t say it like she wants an answer. she says it like it’s been circling her mind for days.

“do you ever feel like… you don’t know who you are outside of what people expect you to be?” she adds.

you don’t hesitate. you nod. your voice comes out quietly, but firm. “every day.”

you rest your chin on your knees.

“when i was younger, i thought everything would make sense once i got into college,” you say. “i thought... once i was here, all the sacrifices would finally feel worth it.”

you exhale through your nose. the memory tastes bitter.

“but now i’m here, and i’m still exhausted. still commuting. still calculating change for jeep fare. i’m behind on readings, i miss meals sometimes, and half my professors assume we all have good internet at home.”

she looks at you, her brows slightly furrowed, not pitying—just listening.

“i’m not ungrateful,” you add quickly. “i know i’m lucky to be here. i just... i thought it would feel more like arriving and less like continuing to survive.”

she’s quiet, but you feel her presence beside you like a steady heartbeat.

“it’s hard,” she says after a while, “when your whole life becomes about proving you deserve to be where you are.”

you glance at her again. she’s leaned back now, arms braced behind her, legs stretched forward. the tension’s shifted. not gone, but different. like she’s opened something she doesn’t usually let people see.

“yeah,” you say. “it is.”

she exhales, head tilted back toward the sky.

“i got so used to people expecting me to be okay that i stopped letting myself not be.”

you understand more than you want to. you’re not a public figure, not part of any industry, but you know that performance. the smiling, the showing up, the acting fine. the way you start to disappear behind it.

“what happens when you’re not okay?” you ask.

she tilts her head to the side. “you perform anyway.”

you don’t ask what she means by “perform.” maybe it’s literal. maybe it’s not. it doesn’t matter. you get it either way.

you sit there for a while longer, not looking at her, but not looking away either.

and then, without meaning to, you say, “you’re allowed to stop. even just for a little while.”

you’re not sure where it comes from. maybe for her. maybe for yourself.

but she turns, and her expression softens in that small, startling way that tells you she heard it. that she might even believe it.

it’s strange how things feel different, even when they don’t look different at all.

the morning still begins the same way: sunlight spilling lazily through the uneven curtains of your small room, the faint sound of dogs barking from outside, the distant buzz of a neighbor’s radio playing a morning talk show you never really listen to. you still wake up before five, still move quietly as you get dressed, still pack your bag with the day’s readings and the same pen you always worry about losing. breakfast is a piece of leftover pandesal and whatever instant coffee you can scrape from the bottom of the jar. there’s nothing new in the routine, not really.

but your chest feels lighter today.

the walk to the station still takes ten minutes. you still board the same crowded train, the same shoulder-to-shoulder silence as strangers sway with every turn. you still transfer to the jeep near the underpass with the chipped blue paint and the fruit vendor who always yells a little too loudly about her mangoes. your commute is still nearly an hour long, same as it’s been since the semester started.

but you keep thinking about the rooftop.

about how she looked when she tilted her face toward the sky, eyes soft in that way you’re starting to recognize as vulnerable. how she didn’t flinch when you said you were tired too. how her voice didn’t waver when she admitted the weight she carries, even without naming it.

you keep thinking about how she listened to you like you weren’t being dramatic or ungrateful, just honest. like she understood.

you walk onto campus before your first class and the breeze carries the smell of dust and food stalls and a little bit of cigarette smoke from the parking area. students move around you, some half-asleep, some laughing too loudly, some glued to their phones. it’s nothing new. it’s always like this.

you wonder if she’ll be early again today.

you don’t expect her to be—not really. but you find yourself slowing your steps a little on the path to the building. not waiting. just... giving space for something familiar.

and there she is.

same hoodie, same backpack slung over one shoulder. she’s sitting on the stone ledge near the classroom window, knees tucked up, earphones in, but one of them hangs loosely, like she’s not really listening to anything. when she sees you, she doesn’t smile right away. just meets your eyes with something quiet. something steady.

you sit beside her, not too close, not too far. your bags touch.

“morning,” you say.

“morning,” she says back. her voice is softer than usual, but there’s no edge to it. no hesitation.

there’s a pause. not awkward—just shared.

you dig into your bag and offer her a piece of candy you forgot was there. you don’t even remember buying it. she takes it wordlessly, unwraps it carefully, and pops it into her mouth.

“thanks,” she says, a beat later.

you shrug. “was probably gonna melt in my bag anyway.”

she smiles at that, just the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth. and that’s new.

your professor arrives early and unlocks the room. people shuffle in around you, but you and cherry are the last ones to stand. you walk into class together, and when you slide into your usual seats—side by side again—it’s unspoken, like this is just how it is now.

and maybe it is.

she doesn’t say anything as the lecture begins, but you catch her glancing at you when you answer a question about literary tone. not in a surprised way. more like she expected it. like she’s learning to read you, too.

at one point, you lean toward her slightly and whisper something sarcastic about the professor’s handwriting. she stifles a laugh, covers her mouth, and your shoulders bump. you don’t move away.

it’s not a big change. nothing dramatic. just... warmth.

something about the way she sits closer. the way she listens when you talk. the way you offer her the extra page of notes without her needing to ask.

it’s not closeness exactly. not yet.

but it’s not distance anymore either.

the class ends before you realize it. not because it was particularly engaging—your professor had a habit of pacing in circles and explaining the same point three different ways—but because you were paying more attention to the sound of cherry’s pen scratching softly beside you, the way her fingers curled around the edge of her notebook, the quiet huff she let out when her pencil rolled off the desk and you picked it up without saying a word.

when the final slide flickers off and everyone begins packing up, you move slowly. not stalling, not exactly. just... not rushing.

cherry doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t leave either. you’re both quiet as you gather your things. your bag feels heavier than usual—not from books, but from the kind of weight you don’t name.

“are you—” she starts, then stops. “do you have another class right after this?”

you glance at her. “not until two.”

“same.”

you don’t make a decision out loud. you just fall into step beside her when she exits the room, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

the afternoon heat is softer today, filtered through a sky that’s half-cloud, half-sun. the quad isn’t crowded, but there’s still enough noise to fill the air: footsteps over gravel, distant chatter from a student org booth, someone playing music from a Bluetooth speaker a few meters away. your shoes scuff against the concrete as you walk side by side, not talking yet, but not uncomfortable.

“i still don’t understand how he expects us to remember three different theories with nearly the same title,” you say finally.

cherry lets out a breathy laugh. “i don’t think he understands it either.”

you grin. “he kept calling the author ‘what’s-his-name’ halfway through.”

“and then cited the wrong book.”

“again.”

the both of you laugh at the same time—quiet, barely above a chuckle—but it hangs in the air longer than anything else you’ve shared before. not the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt. the kind that settles in your chest like something warm.

you pass by the shaded path behind the old admin building, your footsteps echoing in tandem. cherry reaches into her bag and pulls out a small water bottle, then offers it to you wordlessly. you blink, surprised, but take it anyway. the plastic is cool against your palm.

“thanks.”

“you gave me candy earlier,” she says simply, like that’s the entire equation.

you take a sip and hand it back.

“so,” she says slowly, “can i ask something kind of... personal?”

you nod before she even finishes.

“why english?” she asks. “as a major, i mean.”

you glance ahead. the pathway curves toward the library steps. you’re not sure why the question makes your chest tighten a little—it’s not hard to answer. it’s just... something you don’t say out loud very often.

“i grew up around stories,” you say. “not the expensive kind. just... internet forums, fanfiction, weird essays people post online at 2 a.m. that no one reads but me.”

she glances at you, interested. “you read fanfiction?”

you raise an eyebrow. “doesn’t everyone?”

she grins, then quickly presses her lips together like she hadn’t meant to.

you continue. “i didn’t have a lot growing up. but stories made it feel like there was more out there. more than just... commuting. budgeting. surviving.”

you shrug. “so yeah. english felt right.”

she nods. “makes sense.”

“you?”

her smile falters just slightly. “same, i guess. i’ve spent so much time being told what to say, how to sound. english was the first thing that felt like mine.”

you pause.

there’s something in the way she says it. not dramatic, not confessional. just honest.

you study her profile as you walk—how the breeze catches the edge of her hair, how her gaze flickers to the ground like she’s measuring every word she’s letting slip.

“do you write?” you ask.

“i used to,” she says. “songs. poems. nothing that great.”

you tilt your head. “you stopped?”

“kind of had to.”

you want to ask why, but you don’t. you already know it’s more complicated than she wants to explain.

“i think it’s still in you,” you say instead.

she looks at you, startled. like she hadn’t expected that. like maybe she hadn’t believed it herself until now.

“you think so?”

you nod. “yeah.”

you walk a bit more in silence, but this time it’s charged. not awkward, not heavy. just... full. like there’s something between you now that wasn’t there yesterday. a quiet recognition.

you reach the steps of the library and sit together under the shade. your knees bump when you shift, and neither of you pull away.

she stretches her legs out in front of her, arms resting behind her for balance. the sun glints off her shoes. her voice is quieter when she speaks again.

“i keep thinking about what i said the other day,” she says. “on the rooftop.”

you don’t say anything yet. you let her have the space to say it first.

“about not knowing who i am outside of what people expect. it’s still true,” she says. “but lately, it’s been less loud. like the pressure’s still there, but... not as tight around my ribs.”

you glance at her. her voice isn’t heavy. it’s careful.

“is that because of school?” you ask. “or being away from... whatever it was?”

she shrugs, a little helpless. “maybe. or maybe it’s just you.”

you blink.

she doesn’t look at you when she says it. just picks at the hem of her sleeve. “you don’t expect anything from me. not the right answers. not a perfect version of who i’m supposed to be.”

you swallow. “i never needed you to be anything else.”

it’s quiet for a moment, but the quiet feels different now. like neither of you are waiting for the other to speak. like just sitting here is enough.

“i think that’s why i’ve stopped feeling like i’m disappearing all the time,” she adds, softer this time. “not because everything’s fixed. just because i don’t feel invisible when i’m with you.”

you let that sit between you. you feel it settle into your spine, your throat, the space behind your eyes.

“funny,” you murmur. “i’ve been trying to feel visible for years.”

“have you?”

you nod. “i’m always moving. always tired. no one really notices unless i’m falling apart.”

she turns her head then, finally looking at you. her gaze isn’t intense. it’s warm. open. “i notice.”

and somehow, it’s not a confession. it’s a comfort.

you let your shoulder rest lightly against hers. not by accident this time.

you don’t remember the exact moment cherry became part of your life in a way that stuck.

there’s no big turning point, no montage of epiphanies or sudden realizations. it’s not like a movie, not even close. it happens gradually. impossibly slow. like rain soaking into the edges of your shoes before you even realize you’re wet.

what starts as quiet company after class becomes a shared corner in the library. then it’s coffee left on your desk, without a word. snacks passed over without asking. messages exchanged about readings, then about nothing at all. until one day, she sends you a photo of her sketchbook filled with scribbles and asks, “do you ever write just to remember how it feels to feel something?”

you reply with an old paragraph from a forgotten draft, and you don’t talk about it again. but from then on, you send each other fragments when the mood hits—unfinished sentences, lines without context, words that make no sense outside your heads but always seem to be understood anyway.

her presence becomes steady, familiar. she’s there when your professors drag through long lectures, when your LRT ride leaves you drained and aching, when your lunch budget consists of whatever street vendor is still open after noon. she doesn’t ask about the bags under your eyes or the way you sometimes stop mid-thought to catch your breath. she doesn’t need to.

she’s just there.

and slowly, you let yourself be there too.

she starts opening up more. not dramatically, not all at once. just in pieces. she tells you she hates crowds, that she gets overwhelmed easily. that she used to sing, but it made her chest feel too tight. she never explains further. and you don’t pry. you just listen.

in return, you find yourself telling her about the nights you couldn’t sleep as a kid, scrolling endlessly through message boards and story threads and playlists you weren’t old enough to understand. about how being chronically online gave you the words to survive things you couldn’t name. about how writing was never about being read—it was about not disappearing.

sometimes she looks at you like she knows exactly what that means. like she’s felt it too.

by now, your classmates know to find you both together. not in an obvious way. it’s subtle. you take the same seats, move in sync without thinking. she waits for you when you're late. you cover for her when she forgets deadlines. your routines fold into each other.

still, there’s space. always a little space. you don’t ask for more. neither does she.

but sometimes you wonder if she notices the way you watch her when she speaks—how her accent softens when she’s tired, how her voice falters slightly when she reads aloud. sometimes you catch her watching you too, like she’s memorizing something.

the semester passes like that. not fast. not slow. just steady. and before you know it, it’s the middle of november and the city is drowning again.

rain falls without warning that afternoon. not the soft kind. not drizzle. it’s the kind that turns sidewalks into mirrors and umbrellas into necessities. you hadn’t brought one. neither had half the class. but cherry had.

you find her standing just under the overhang, her jacket zipped halfway, one hand gripping the handle of her umbrella, the other stuffed in her pocket. she looks up when you approach, and wordlessly shifts the umbrella to cover you too.

you say nothing as you begin walking. the sound of the rain fills the silence. it’s loud enough to wrap around you like a wall, but quiet enough that you hear the soft tap of your shoes against the pavement, the occasional rush of a car through a puddle.

you don’t know why it feels different today. maybe it’s the weather. maybe it’s the weight of the semester pressing in. maybe it’s just her.

the streetlights cast gold onto the wet ground. she holds the umbrella between you, the angle tilting slightly toward you as if instinctively, her shoulder barely brushing yours with every step.

and then, somewhere between the second intersection and the footbridge, she says it. her voice is low, barely rising above the sound of the rain.

“if i asked you to meet me again in another life…” she pauses. “would you still wait for me to speak first?”

you stop walking.

not abruptly. just... slowly. like the question catches your legs before your thoughts do.

you look at her. really look.

her hair is damp at the edges. the umbrella is dripping. there’s a tiny tremble in her fingers that she probably thinks you can’t see. her eyes are focused forward, not on you.

but she’s waiting.

and something about that—about her finally asking something she’s never dared to—makes your heart ache.

the question sinks deep into your chest before your mind even catches up to it.

you don’t answer right away.

because part of you wants to ask why another life? why not this one?

but instead, you just say, “i think… i’d know it was you. even then.”

she holds your gaze for a second too long.

and then she exhales—like she’s been holding her breath all semester. and she smiles—not the polite kind, not the practiced one—but something tired and full of relief.

you start walking again. slower than before. still under the same umbrella.

neither of you say anything else. but you feel it in the space between your steps. in the shared quiet. in the way the city disappears around you, leaving only the two of you and the sound of the rain.

the semester has started to wilt at the edges.

there are reminders of it everywhere—professors talking faster, projects piling, the hallways crowded and anxious, like the campus itself is holding its breath. you’ve been tired lately. not just the i-haven’t-slept kind of tired, but the quieter kind. the kind that sinks deep into your ribs and settles.

cherry’s been tired too, though she never says it outright.

you see it in the way she leans her cheek against her hand more often during lectures. the way she stops sketching in the margins of her notebook. the way her smiles take longer to arrive, but when they do, they still reach her eyes.

you’ve grown used to her presence the same way you’ve grown used to the little things about your days—waking up before the sun, counting your coins before boarding the jeep, waiting for the second train because the first one’s too full. everything in your life takes a little more effort. you don’t resent it; it’s just what it is.

somehow, cherry has folded herself into your routine without disrupting it. you still leave your neighborhood by 5:45 every morning. still take the same jeepney, still walk the last ten minutes up that cracked sidewalk toward the faculty building. but she’s there now, always—waiting outside your classroom or sitting beside you before you’ve even unpacked your things. she doesn’t talk much during the first few minutes of the day. neither do you. it’s enough that you both are there.

on a thursday afternoon, your group decides to stay behind in the library to finalize your presentation. cherry tags along. you don’t ask why. she doesn’t explain. it’s just understood now.

you sit in the quietest part of the third floor, where the windows are cracked open slightly and the light comes in muted through dusty glass. your group spreads out across the table, voices low as you type and highlight and mutter feedback under your breaths.

cherry sits next to you, legs crossed, her own laptop open but mostly idle. she helps where she can—rephrasing awkward transitions, suggesting word choices—but mostly, she watches. sometimes you. sometimes the people around you.

you lean in, shoulder brushing hers slightly, and whisper, “you okay?”

she nods. a little too quickly. “yeah. just… out of it.”

you don’t press.

halfway through the session, you get up to find a book from the nearby shelves. something cited in your groupmate’s notes. you trail your fingers along the spines, reading titles half-familiar from class, until you spot it—dusty, thick, slightly worn at the corners.

when you turn to return, you pause.

a group of students are standing near the end of the aisle. three of them. first-years, maybe. giggling softly, heads tilted over a phone screen. at first, it’s harmless. just idle chatter.

but then:

“wait—wait, hold on. doesn’t that look like hanni? from njz?”

you freeze.

a second voice follows. “what? oh my god. right? she’s got the same nose. same eyes.”

you can’t see cherry from where you’re standing, but you feel your pulse pick up.

“guys, seriously,” the third girl says, louder now. “it’s her. look at the video. literally her voice, too.”

you step forward before you really know what you’re doing.

“hi,” you say, voice calm, but firm. “can you not crowd the aisle?”

they blink at you. their phones lower slowly.

“uh, sorry,” one of them mumbles, eyes still flicking past you, toward where cherry sits.

they walk away eventually, their voices trailing behind them like static.

you stay there a second longer.

then you walk back, book clutched in your hand a little too tightly.

cherry’s still in the same spot. laptop open, cursor blinking, untouched. but her body has changed. you can tell. her shoulders pulled tight, hands clasped in her lap, jaw stiff like she’s holding something in.

you sit down beside her again. carefully.

do, she’s no longer looking at her laptop. she’s staring at her hands, fingers clasped tightly together, knuckles pale.

“cherry,” you say, slowly, “is everything okay?”

she doesn’t answer at first.

then, finally, she lifts her head.

there’s something in her eyes—something you haven’t seen before. not fear exactly. not regret. it’s more fragile than either of those things.

resignation.

“you heard them, didn’t you?” her voice is soft. steady, but only barely.

you nod.

“so,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, “now you know.”

you don’t say anything right away. not because you don’t know what to say, but because the part of you that does is still rearranging itself, reeling from the weight of what this means—who she is.

you sit down next to her. not rushed. not dramatic. just close enough that your knees brush again.

you look at her, really look.

same girl. same hoodie. same sketchbook in her backpack. same half-finished thought saved in your messages from last night.

“okay,” you say. quiet. calm.

her brow creases. “okay?”

you nod. “yeah. i mean… it doesn’t change anything.”

her eyes search yours. maybe waiting for the shift. maybe bracing for it.

you don’t let it come.

“you’re still cherry,” you say. “the one who steals half my fries and never finishes her coffee. the person who listens when i ramble about my stupid commute. who gives me that look when my professor mispronounces another english theorist’s name. who makes me feel seen. not… tolerated. seen.”

her shoulders shake once—not from crying, not yet. but close.

“you’re not mad?” she asks, almost like she doesn’t believe it.

you shake your head. “why would i be? you never owed me anything. especially not your real name.”

she looks down again, but this time, when her fingers tighten around the fabric of your hoodie, it’s not to ground herself. it’s to feel something real.

you offer her your hand. not for comfort. not for answers. just to hold.

she takes it.

and in that moment, even with the truth out in the open, she doesn’t feel further away.

she feels closer than ever.

the days start bleeding into each other.

classes taper off. professors become gentler, a little kinder with their deadlines, as if they can feel it too—that strange, heavy air of finality that always comes before a break. papers get shorter. attendance feels optional. the halls aren’t as crowded now, not because people have disappeared, but because they’ve started leaving slowly, quietly, like steam from a mug of coffee left too long.

you’re tired. but not in the way you used to be, not in the kind of tired that came from chasing jeepneys and skipping breakfast because the lines at the LRT were too long and the fishballs near the tricycle terminal weren’t filling enough. this is a softer tired. the kind you feel when your heart starts to loosen its grip on something it’s not ready to let go of.

you see her every day now.

she still insists on being called cherry. you’ve never asked why. maybe you don’t want to know.

it’s become a routine—not rigid, not even predictable, but there. solid in its own quiet way. you see her slouched over her desk during your first class, see her hair tucked into a beanie she rotates with two different designs. you share drinks now. she always insists on paying for the milk tea but sneaks the straw into your hand without making eye contact. when she walks beside you, she walks close enough that your arms brush. sometimes her fingers graze yours when she hands you something and neither of you says anything.

you don’t talk about what this is.

you don’t think you need to.

you find out the day before the final long test in your intro to literary theory class.

you’re sitting on a curb just outside the library, your lunch untouched, your phone buzzing quietly in your pocket. the sun’s too bright. everything feels too much—the smell of the hot asphalt, the hum of tricycles weaving through the entrance, the sharp sound of someone kicking a stone too far down the sidewalk.

you pull your phone out to check the time, and that’s when you see it.

a post. retweeted into your feed.

“NJZ wins lawsuit against ADOR. Court grants group exclusive rights to continue under independent management.”

you stare at it. blink.

you see her again after two missed classes, a message left on read, and a silent kind of knowing that lingered between you like smoke.

you find her in the same place she always returns to when the world feels like too much—just behind the arts building, where the noise of the campus thins and the breeze carries the scent of leaves rather than exhaust. she’s sitting on the low concrete ledge, head tilted back, hands shoved into the sleeves of her hoodie. there’s no cap today. just her.

you don’t hesitate when you walk toward her. but your heart does. it thuds harder with every step, like it knows something you haven’t said out loud.

when she sees you, she doesn’t smile.

she just shifts slightly, giving you space to sit beside her, like always.

you lower yourself onto the ledge, legs brushing. the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. it just feels heavy. expectant.

you break it first.

"so it’s official.”

she doesn’t pretend not to know what you mean.

“yeah.” her voice is thin. barely audible. “it’s done. we won.”

the words hang there for a beat too long.

you nod slowly. “i’m happy for you.”

she turns her head toward you, brows pinched just slightly. like she’s unsure if you mean it.

you do.

but that doesn’t make this easier.

she exhales, slow and quiet, as if bracing herself. “they want us back in seoul by next week. press conference. restructuring. everything.”

you hum. your gaze falls to your hands. your fingers twitch, like they want to reach for hers but don’t quite know if they’re allowed to anymore.

“and you?”

she looks away. “i don’t know.”

there’s silence again. longer, heavier.

then she says it. the thing you were both avoiding.

“i didn’t mean to fall for you.”

you freeze.

but only for a second.

because your heart was already waiting.

you meet her gaze, and yours softens. “but you did.”

“i don’t know when it started,” she whispers. “but it’s real.”

you smile, but it trembles. “i know. i did too.”

she breathes out like she’s breaking. “if things were different—”

“but they’re not,” you cut in gently. “and that’s okay.”

“you have to go,” you say. not a question. not an accusation. just the truth between two people who cared too much and met at the wrong time.

she swallows. her jaw clenches. “i don’t want to.”

“but you will.”

“because i have to,” she says, finally. “because it’s not just about music. it’s the girls. the team. the years we fought for this. i can’t walk away now.”

you nod.

and then, gently, “because this is your calling.”

she looks at you, eyes wide.

“you were born for this,” you continue. “even before i knew who you really were… i knew there was something different about you. the way you carried yourself. the way you felt things so deeply but never let it show. you’re meant to be on a stage.”

her lips part, like she wants to deny it. but there’s nothing to deny.

instead, she whispers, “so that’s it?”

you don’t answer right away.

you’re still looking at your hands.

“i don’t want you to stay for me,” you say. “and i don’t want to become someone you’ll resent later. for making you choose.”

she shakes her head quickly, too quickly. “i wouldn’t—”

“you might,” you cut in, softly. “and that would ruin everything.”

she goes silent again.

when she speaks next, it’s barely a breath. “i didn’t think falling for someone would feel like this.”

your heart twists. “like what?”

“like a goodbye i never wanted to say.”

you close your eyes.

because you know.

you know that if you let yourself fall apart here, she might stay. she might choose you. and then hate herself for it later.

so you open them again, and meet her gaze.

“promise me something?” you ask.

she nods, tears glassy but not falling.

“when we meet again,” you say, voice breaking just slightly, “you’ll read my heart this time instead.”

her shoulders shake.

you don’t touch her.

you just let the words settle.

because this isn’t about clinging. this is about letting go with grace, and loving someone enough to not ask them to stay.

when she stands, you stand with her.

she leans forward like she’s going to kiss you. but instead, she presses her forehead to yours. holds it there. breathes you in.

and then she walks away.

you don’t watch her go.

you just sit back down on that ledge and let yourself feel everything.

and maybe—just maybe—that’s love too.

you never got a proper ending.

there was no goodbye—just a quiet shift in the air, like the sound of something closing, slowly, and without warning. a faint change in the texture of your days. like the absence of wind on a hot day, or the way certain streets feel different after dark. she was just… gone. not suddenly, not loudly. just absent. like the sun slipping behind a cloud and forgetting how to come back.

you kept telling yourself that she’d text. that maybe she was busy, or overwhelmed, or needed space. but days turned into weeks. and weeks blurred into months. and eventually, you stopped waiting. or at least you tried to.

life kept moving. because it always does.

you still wake up at dawn, still ride the same lrt line where you count the chipped paint on the train handles, still take that short walk past the sari-sari store with the torn tarpaulin sign. you still drink cheap 3-in-1 coffee from the campus coop while pretending it doesn’t taste like powdered regret. your friends joke with you about thesis deadlines and sleep deprivation, about graduation plans and what’s next—but your laughs feel rehearsed now, like a script you memorized a long time ago and never got the chance to revise.

and when you pass by the bench where you and cherry used to sit, where she once gave you a granola bar and said you had tired eyes in a way that wasn’t an insult—you look away. because it aches. it still aches.

you never stopped thinking about her. but you learned how to pretend.

you graduated on stage, just like you dreamed you would. under the sweltering heat of the university's covered court, surrounded by the rustling of togas and the hum of excited families, you walked when your name was called. you remember how the president mispronounced your surname a little, how the sash scratched at your neck, how your parents waved from the bleachers with proud, tearful eyes. you smiled for the photo with the dean. you held your diploma like it meant everything.

and maybe it did. because that moment, though brief, was years in the making—borne from morning commutes that spanned nearly an hour each way, across jeepney terminals, crowded LRTs, and sidewalks that burned in the noon sun. you worked for this. you bled for this. your lower-middle-class upbringing didn’t hand you much, but it taught you how to keep going. and you did. not for the applause, but for the quiet relief of having made it.

now, almost a year later, you’ve taken the next step. a new city, a new degree, and a version of yourself you’re still trying to figure out. you’re in korea now, pursuing a master’s in english literature at yonsei university—one of the best. the scholarship that brought you here feels like a miracle, and even after two semesters, there are nights you wake up wondering if it’s real. the weather’s colder here. the sidewalks cleaner. your apartment’s still small—barely big enough for a single mattress and a desk—but the walls don’t leak and the water runs warm. you’ve found rhythm in the unfamiliar. early mornings with instant coffee. lectures in quiet halls. translating your thoughts into essays that feel like unraveling yourself in another language. you’ve grown used to the silence.

you haven’t thought of her in a while—not really. there are too many other things to focus on: deadlines, group work, the occasional late shift tutoring freshmen. but sometimes, when the bus passes a billboard with her face on it, you look. not long. not hard. just long enough to remember. she’s still everywhere. hanni pham. she came back stronger—glossier, almost untouchable. njz won the case, and she returned to her world of music and cameras and curated vulnerability. you never told anyone you knew her before all that. what would you even say?

you spot her before she sees you.

it’s just outside the café you’d bookmarked on your first week in seoul—one of the quieter places tucked near sinchon, far enough from campus to avoid the crowd, but still close enough to feel familiar. the kind of place where you could blend in with the noise of machines and low conversations and the hum of the city just outside the glass.

you hadn't expected to see her at all, let alone here. standing in line, her coat draped over one arm, hair pulled loosely into a low ponytail like it always used to be when she didn’t feel like trying. she hasn’t changed much—at least not on the outside. same posture, same calm expression, same way her eyes scan the menu like she doesn’t already know what she’s going to get.

you think about walking away. just turning and pretending you never saw her. it wouldn’t be hard. she probably wouldn’t even look up.

but your legs move forward before your head catches up.

when she turns, it’s with that same soft awareness that used to come just before she said your name.

and for a second—just a second—her entire expression falters.

she doesn’t say anything. neither do you.

the silence stretches between you. not awkward, not exactly. but heavy. filled with all the things you never got to say.

then—finally—she speaks. her voice is low, quieter than you remember, like she’s unsure if this is real. “hey.”

you swallow. “hi.”

it’s nothing, really. just a greeting. but it’s the first word exchanged in over three years.

“you look…” she trails off, eyes flicking over you quickly before settling back on your face. “you look good.”

“can we sit?” she asks.

you don’t say anything, just gesture to the empty table by the window behind her. the one you always liked. she walks ahead, like muscle memory, and you follow a few steps behind, heart rattling against your ribs.

once you’ve both sat down, your coats in a pile beside you and two untouched drinks between you, the silence shifts again. still heavy, but different now. less shocked. more careful.

“so,” she says finally, fingers brushing against the sleeve of her cup, “you’re in korea now.”

“yeah,” you reply. “yonsei. literature. masters.”

“wow.” she nods slowly. “that’s… that’s incredible.”

you shrug, a little uncomfortable with the way she says it. like she’s proud of you. like she still has the right to be.

“you’ve been here the whole time?”

she nods. “yeah. not at first, but after… everything, we came back.”

right. after everything. the court case. the public silence. the sudden disappearance from the stage. and then the even more sudden return.

you had tried not to look. tried not to follow the headlines. but some part of you always knew. even when she wasn’t saying anything, her name never really left your orbit.

“how long have you been here?” she asks.

“just this semester. moved a few months ago.”

“do you like it?”

you pause. “i’m still adjusting. it’s… different.”

she watches you carefully. “you always said you wanted to live somewhere colder.”

you blink at her. “you remember that?”

her smile this time is faint but real. “i remember a lot of things.”

you don’t know what to say to that. or maybe you do, but none of it feels right anymore.

the server brings your drinks, placing them down between you with a quick bow. you thank her in soft korean, and you catch cherry—no, hanni—looking at you again.

“your accent’s good,” she says. “i mean, your english was always perfect, but your korean’s not bad either.”

“thanks,” you say, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “i’m still learning.”

“you’re doing great.”

it’s quiet for a moment again, both of you sipping your drinks like strangers trying to pretend they weren’t once anything but.

“i didn’t think i’d see you again,” she says eventually, voice soft. “not like this.”

you look at her then. really look. and she looks tired. not in a dramatic way—but in the way someone does when they’ve been carrying something too long.

“me neither.”

you don’t ask why she’s here. you don’t ask if she planned this, or if it’s coincidence. maybe that conversation will come later. maybe not.

for now, the air between you holds everything it needs to.

she lifts her cup again, fingers delicate against the porcelain. “so,” she says, trying for lightness, “do they still make bad cookies here?”

you raise an eyebrow. “still terrible.”

she huffs a quiet laugh. “some things never change.”

and neither of you say what you’re really thinking: but we did.

you both sit there for a while longer, letting the buzz of the café fill in the silences. she doesn’t touch her drink much, just holds it, palms wrapped loosely around the warmth like it might anchor her to this moment. you sip yours in slow intervals, not because it’s good—it isn’t—but because it gives you something to do.

it’s still strange, seeing her like this. so close. so real. she had become a kind of ghost to you over the years—something that lived in memories and old songs and an occasional article you didn’t mean to read. you had built your life around the fact that she was gone. and now she’s here, like the years between you haven’t passed, like she never left.

you glance up and catch her already looking at you. she doesn’t look away.

“you ever think about that place?” she asks suddenly, voice soft. “where we used to sit. by the old engineering building. on the stairs.”

you blink. “you remember that?”

“of course i do,” she says. “that was one of my favorite parts of the day.”

your chest tightens. you don’t know what to do with that kind of honesty. “i thought you forgot about all of it.”

her lips twitch, not quite a smile. “i tried. for a while. it was easier to act like it didn’t matter.”

“and now?”

“now i think i was lying to myself.”

you want to say something. anything. but your throat tightens around every word that comes to mind.

“i didn’t approach you to throw everything back at you,” she says, quietly. “i know it’s been a long time. and i know you’ve moved on. probably have this whole life now—people, routines, dreams i’m not a part of. i don’t expect anything. i just—”

you interrupt before you can stop yourself. “why now?”

she looks down at her drink. the faint clink of ice shifting. “because you were always the only person who saw me like a person. not a product. not an image. just me.”

you let that sit. let it sink in. let it ache in the quiet way it does when something you didn’t let yourself want starts to feel possible again.

“you could’ve called,” you say, not accusing, just tired.

“i almost did,” she replies. “so many times. but every time i picked up the phone, i didn’t know what i’d even say.”

you nod slowly. “i waited. for a while.”

“i know.” her voice cracks a little. “i hated that i made you do that.”

you stare out the window. a soft drizzle has started outside, painting the sidewalk in uneven patches. it’s almost cruel, how easily the world goes on.

“i thought about you,” you admit. “a lot more than i wanted to.”

“same.”

there’s something fragile between you now, something that feels too new to name. it isn’t closure. not yet. but it’s the beginning of something—maybe a second chance, maybe just understanding. whatever it is, it’s enough for today.

you glance at her again, at the way her fingers tighten slightly around the cup, like she’s holding on for dear life.

“do you have time?” you ask.

she tilts her head. “now?”

“yeah. just… for a walk. or something.”

she smiles then, small and tired but real. “i always have time for you.”

and just like that, you rise from the table together. not as strangers, not yet as lovers again, but as something delicate and real and beginning.

you don’t touch. not yet. but you walk side by side into the gray stretch of the afternoon, and it feels a little like forgiveness.

you end up walking for hours.

neither of you say much at first. it’s not an awkward silence—it’s something else. a silence that feels earned. stretched across years and stitched back together in cautious glances and the occasional brush of a coat sleeve. the air is damp but not cold, just thick enough to make the world feel smaller. more contained. like for once, there’s nothing outside of it you need to be.

you pass tiny bookshops and old women selling chestnuts in folded wax paper. she pauses by a window displaying old records and gently nudges your elbow, pointing to one of the sleeves. you don’t recognize the artist, but the look on her face—soft, nostalgic—is enough for you to nod and smile.

the world feels slower with her. not paused, exactly. just quieter. manageable.

when she finally walks you back to your apartment—the temporary one in sinchon, cramped and loud and too close to the street—you hesitate before unlocking the gate. she stands behind you, hands in her coat pockets, a little breathless from the walk, from the conversation, from being near you again.

“thanks for today,” she says, voice quiet.

you turn to her, blinking. “you don’t have to thank me.”

she shrugs lightly. “i do. i really do.”

you want to say more. but you don’t. not yet. so you give her a small nod and step inside, heart pounding. she doesn’t follow. she doesn’t ask to come in. she just watches you disappear behind the door.

—

for the next few weeks, you wait.

you tell yourself you won’t, but you do.

you go to class, annotate papers, prepare your thesis proposal. you bury yourself in academic readings so dense they give you headaches. but still—when your phone buzzes, you hope it’s her. and sometimes it is.

short messages at first. “are you free?” “want to grab coffee?” “there’s this spot near hongdae, i think you’d like it.”

and the thing is—she makes time. despite everything, despite her schedule, her rehearsals, her name being whispered in every corner of the internet, she carves out space for you.

at first, you’re skeptical. you’ve seen this before—in different ways, with different people. you know what it’s like to be someone’s momentary peace, someone’s escape. you tell yourself not to get attached again.

but she doesn’t treat you like an escape.

she treats you like home.

she meets you after your classes, sometimes in a hoodie and mask, sometimes just in an old cap pulled low over her eyes. you share meals in quiet corners of seoul, sit on benches near the han river when it’s too crowded to go anywhere else. and when she talks, it’s never about fame or work or pressure—it’s always about you. what books you’re reading. how your thesis is going. whether or not you’ve finally learned to cook anything besides eggs and instant noodles.

you don’t mean to fall back into this rhythm with her. but it’s easy. dangerously easy.

you’re not sure when it shifts—maybe one night in november, when you meet her outside a closed gallery because she remembered once, months ago, that you liked paintings of empty rooms. or maybe it’s when she walks you home in the rain again, no umbrella this time, and you both laugh like you used to, soaked and weightless.

but it happens. the shift.

and one night—after dinner at a tiny restaurant where the server clearly recognized her but said nothing—she walks you back to the subway, stops just before the entrance, and turns to you with a look that makes your breath catch.

“i’ve been trying to say this right,” she starts. “and maybe this isn’t the right moment, but...”

you freeze.

she laughs, barely. “god, i’m so bad at this. you’d think after performing in front of thousands of people, this would be easy.”

“it’s not supposed to be easy,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

she nods, swallows hard. “okay. then... here it is. i like you. not as a memory. not as someone i used to know. i like who you are now. who you’ve become. and i want to be a part of it, if you’ll let me.”

“do you hear yourself right now?” you ask, and this time there’s something sharper behind the words. not anger—just disbelief, tired from carrying the weight of what-ifs. “you’re… you. and i'm just—”

“don’t say ‘just,’” she interrupts gently. “you were never just anything.”

“you have a whole world. fans. stages. a life people would kill to live. and me? i write essays in the middle of the night. i worry about whether i can survive another semester.”

you shake your head, laughing a little, though there’s no humor in it. “what would that even look like? you, flying out for another tour, and me, buried in thesis deadlines. what happens when your manager calls? when the cameras come back? i’m not made for that world, hanni.”

she doesn’t flinch. she takes your words like she expected them. like she’s spent nights answering them herself before she ever said a thing.

“i’m not asking you to live in my world,” she says, soft but steady. “i’m asking if you’ll let me live in yours. even just a little. i know what my life looks like from the outside—glamorous, fast, impossible—but you know it’s not all that. you saw me when you asked for a pen, wearing a name that wasn’t mine. you saw me before anyone else did.”

you cross your arms, not defensive, just overwhelmed. “and what happens if it all crashes? if it becomes too much? we’re not even in the same orbit, hanni.”

she steps a little closer, still keeping the space respectful, but you feel the warmth of her presence all the same. “then we figure it out. together. i’m not promising a fairytale, but i’m not here to pretend either. i’ve lived years being everything everyone needed me to be. this is the first time i’m choosing something for myself. and i’m choosing you.”

your chest tightens at that. it’s too much and not enough all at once.

“and what if i can’t give you what you need?” you say, voice smaller now. “what if this version of me—the one who takes the long way home to save on fare, who still borrows books from the library because she can’t afford her own copies, who’s just trying to survive grad school and keep herself from unraveling— isn’t enough?”

you try to laugh it off, but it cracks halfway through. because the truth is, you’ve carried this fear long before her. she just made you feel brave enough to say it out loud.

she smiles gently, like you’ve said something beautiful instead of tragic. “then i’ll wait. i’ll stay. i’ll remind you every day that you’ve always been enough. even when we barely spoke, i carried you with me. i’d hear something and think, ‘y/n would love this.’ i’d read something and wish i could send it to you. you were the only thing that ever felt… quiet. real.”

you blink at her, throat tight. “i don’t want to hold you back.”

“you won’t,” she says immediately. “you never did. if anything, you grounded me. you reminded me that there’s a life outside the lights and scripts. a life where someone sees me—not hanni of njz, not ‘her,’ but me.”

and then, quieter, more vulnerable: “even after everything, after the silence, the distance... i kept thinking about you. about the version of me that existed when i was with you. she felt real. she felt... possible.”

you don’t realize you’re crying until you feel the tear trail down your cheek. you wipe it away, frustrated and moved and scared. “i don’t want to get hurt.”

“i know,” she says. “me neither.”

“then why?”

“because even if it hurts,” she says, “i’d rather feel everything with you than feel nothing without.”

you look at her—really look—and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like you’re standing at the edge of a cliff. it feels like you're at the beginning of a road. maybe it’ll twist. maybe it’ll break. but maybe, just maybe, it’ll take you somewhere you never thought you’d reach.

“i’m scared,” you admit, not hiding anymore.

“me too,” she says, “but I’m here anyway. and I’ll keep showing up for as long as you’ll let me. even if all you can give me right now is a small piece of your life. i’ll treasure that.”

you breathe in slowly. it’s not a leap. it’s a step. small, careful, but forward.

“okay,” you whisper. “okay.”

and she smiles—like she’s been holding her breath for years and has finally been allowed to let go.

you don’t remember the exact moment things stopped being impossible. maybe it was after that conversation, in the cold, dim glow of streetlights near your building, where she looked at you like she hadn’t in years—like she was still the girl you sat beside in class, like all the weight she carried hadn’t made her forget how to want something for herself. maybe it was the quiet days that followed, where nothing had to be said, yet everything shifted. it didn’t happen all at once, but slowly—like water warming around your skin before you realized you’d stopped shivering.

it wasn’t easy. loving someone like her meant understanding that your time together would never look ordinary. sometimes she belonged to stages, to cameras, to fans who would never know your name. sometimes she was halfway across the world, dancing under lights you could only see through a screen. and you—you belonged to books, deadlines, and cold library corners at yonsei that she used to tease you about. your lives didn’t naturally fit together.

but she made it work.

she tried in all the ways that mattered, and even in the ones that didn’t. she rescheduled shoots just to be there when you presented your research proposal, waited on long calls until you finished class, memorized your schedule more religiously than her tour dates. she sent pictures of dim rehearsal rooms with captions like, “wish you were here. not for the show. just… here.” she called after concerts, voice hoarse but soft, asking about your day like it was the only thing that could ground her. she left sticky notes in your thesis drafts—half jokes, half love letters—highlighting things she didn’t understand but loved anyway.

you never asked her to do any of it. but she did it because she wanted to. because she meant it when she said she wanted to belong somewhere without performing.

there were still moments when you doubted. when the distance between your worlds felt like more than just miles. when your chest ached with the fear that one day, she'd choose the life that made more sense—the one with global schedules, velvet stages, and the roar of a crowd. but every time those thoughts surfaced, she caught them. gently. with small reassurances, like the way her hand would find yours in the dark, or how she'd whisper, “i'm not going anywhere,” like it was a promise she’d already sewn into her bones.

she came to your graduation, even though she wasn’t supposed to. masked, hoodie pulled low, fingers twitching from nerves she hadn’t felt in years. she sat in the back, next to your high school best friend, and clapped just a little too loudly when they called your name. you found her later, just outside the crowd, tears still clinging to her lashes. “i didn’t want to miss it,” she said. “not this. not you.”

you didn’t say anything then. just hugged her like the world stopped spinning for a second. and maybe, just maybe, it had.

after that, the rhythm you built wasn’t perfect—but it was yours.

she studied your thesis more intently than her choreography sometimes, sending you texts like “wait explain the part about metafiction again?? i want to sound smart when i brag about you.”

you’d told her once—half-laughing, half-serious—that you’d never really imagined a relationship where the other person’s job included international fame and twelve-hour rehearsals. she’d nodded, eyes soft. “me neither,” she’d said, fingers tracing slow circles against your palm. “but then i met you. and suddenly, i wanted to try.”

you studied. she toured. you had late-night calls filled with half-asleep voices and laughter so quiet it felt like a secret. sometimes you flew to her. sometimes she flew to you. and in the rare spaces in between, when neither of you belonged anywhere else, you’d meet somewhere small and quiet and pretend, just for a moment, that the world only existed for the two of you.

you asked her once—during one of those fleeting weekends—if she ever regretted it. if the choice to try again, to risk all of it, ever felt like too much.

she looked at you like she couldn’t believe you’d even ask. “you made me feel like a person again,” she said. “not an idol. not a symbol. just... a girl. who likes english lit. who hates cafeteria food. who fell in love with someone that reminded her how to breathe.”

and you believed her. because you saw it—in the way she made time, in the way she kept choosing you, in the way she held your hand without needing to hide anymore.

so no, it wasn’t a fairytale. it wasn’t easy. but it was real. and it was enough.

you loved her. and she loved you.

and this time, neither of you had to walk away.

[themerlinrewrite]

kilgharrah: a half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole… you and arthur are two sides of the same coin… he is your destiny

merlin, who hasn’t slept in three days and is currently wanted dead by twelve different people: stop fucking calling me gay

[apricot-blossomss]

On my knees begging for hermes x f reader

you ask and you shall receive...

☛ hermes way of flirting with you is stealing your shit

☛ sfw, fluff, minor goddess!fem!reader, reader is mentioned to be shorter than hermes

The moment you entered your quarters, you slumped into your favorite plushy armchair, placed your godly symbol on the floor next to it and breathed a sigh of relief. Some of these days kept you real busy, even though you were only a minor diety. The whole day you had been looking forward to letting yourself be consumed by the soft cushion and your novel- that you thought you had placed on the small table next to it.

Irritated, you sat up to make sure, but, clear as day, your book wasn't where you had left it. You checked the ground next to it and under the armchair but it wasn't to be found. Maybe you hadn't put it on the table after all? Though you thought you distinctly remembered doing that. But it wouldn't surprise you if your mind had been playing tricks on you again. Over the course of the last few months, you had managed to lose a bracelet, earrings, two books, a pillow, a hairbrush and several pens. though you weren't as willing to stock it up to your forgetfulness as you once were.

Case in point, your book wasn't in the shelf either and you begrudgingly settled for another one to snuggle into your armchair with. The crazy thing, you thought to yourself while opening the first page, was that some of the items had been in your bag or directly from your skin without you noticing losing them. If they really were just lost, some mortal woman was probably overjoyed with finding you divinely forged jewelry right now. But if this was some sort of trick... Hermes was the god of tricksters. Could it be...?

No. Why would Hermes have anything to do with this? You were only a minor goddess while he was one of the twelve olympians. Why would he be stealing from you? Still, you found it to be harder and harder to believe that you had misplaced all of these items.

With a sigh, you chose to postpone your speculation and concentrate on your novel. The day had worn you down, even gods could get exhausted. So it was no wonder you were slipping into peaceful stumbler only a few minutes after. Your book dropping to the ground didn't wake you, having fallen asleep in your comfortable armchair.

From the lights inside your quarters and the open windows, Hermes had concluded that you had to still be awake, making the thrill of snatching something else away straight from under your nose even more exciting. Giddily, he entered your living room through the window when his eyes fell on you, curled up in your armchair, an open book on the floor before it, sleeping peacefully.

Careful not to make a sound, he stalked over to you and looked down on your peaceful face. Every time you huffed out a breath, you made a cute little sighing sound and a loose strand of hair moved away from your mouth, only to settle back on your face when you breathed in. Bewitched by the enthralling sight, he couldn't do anything but look for a few seconds. Then, his eyes wandered to your godly symbol next to your seat. Your most priced possession. Was there anything better to steal to get your attention?

In under a minute, he had picked up your symbol, stored it in his pocket and pulled out a winged coin out of its depths that he carefully placed on your palm. Though you didn't wake up, you mumbled something incoherent in your sleep when his fingers closed yours around his coin. Your hands were warm, cute. Before he left the way he had come, he picked up a blanket off your couch and draped it on top of your sleeping form. Tucking you in, he laughed to himself when you gripped his coin tighter in your sleep and left through the window.

🪽

Enough was enough. This was the last straw.

When you had woken up this morning, ecstatic at the prospect of your free day and strangely warm given the fact that you didn't remember having a blanket the night before, your first instinct had been to pick up your godly symbol. But it was gone. And it was not to be found anywhere in the house. In its place, you only found a coin. A coin you very distinctly recognized.

So now here you were. In the divine gardens of a fellow god where you knew the object of your ire stopped everyday on his errands to steal himself some apples. A little nervous, you picked your fingernails. Without your godly symbol, you felt vulnerable, and your nerves weren't soothed by the fact that you were about to confront the thief, who just happened to be your long time crush.

But enough was enough. This wasn't just some playful prank anymore. The loss of your symbol directly impacted your godly duties. And he had been messing with you for far too long. You shouldn't be surprised- who but him could steal the earrings from your ears without you even noticing? What had you confused was- why? Hermes was known to steal to his hearts content from his fellow major gods, even their godly symbols, but you were a quite a few levels under that in terms of importance.

A rustling pulled you out of your contemplation and you quickly hid behind a tree. None other than the god of trickery lowered himself to the ground just a few feet from you, you could hear rustling when he searched the trees for ripe fruit.

"Eriounios!" you called him by his epithet, and he turned to you with feigned surprise when you emerged from behind the tree, hands on your hips and not at all dying inside from the sly smile he gave you.

He greeted you with your name and wiggled an apple in your direction. "Want one? I hear they are the most delicious on the whole of Olympus, so they must be almost as sweet as you, honey."

The pet name had your cheeks flaring up but you didn't budge. "No thank you. I am no thief." Since he made no effort to close the distance between you two, you did, until you were only about a foot apart. Hermes would never admit it, but he couldn't help but ogle your chest when your crossed your arms and glared up at him.

He smiled down at you calmly in return and took a bite out of his apple. "Shame." His flirtatious wink almost managed to distract you, but you stood your ground and contemplated how to approach the issue the best. It was no good to be overly angry, but it had to be firm.

"Give it back, Hermes."

"What are you talking about?" he munched innocently and twirled around the apple in his hand. But the way his eyes sparkled with a hidden amusement at your predicament, you knew this was his doing.

Your exasperated sigh only made his smile widen. "My godly symbol. You took it. Not only that, but you have been stealing from me for months now. I thought I was going crazy, but it was all you, wasn't it?" You realized you were rambling and raging and took a long breath to calm down. "Look, I get it, this is what you do, but you went too far with that last one. I need my godly symbol, can I please have it back? You can keep the rest."

"Hey, I don't know what or who took your symbol, but I had nothing to do with it," Hermes grinned and discarded the rest of the apple. "And I really have to get back to work now, honey, though I would love to continue this conversation another day-"

Before he could run, you grabbed his arm and stood on your toes to face him. Still, he loomed over you and if the teasing look on his face was any indication, he found your efforts to be more cute than anything. "Quit playing. Please," you huffed in frustration and poked his chest with your index finger. "I know that it was you who took them, where are they?"

"You look very pretty when you're angry," Hermes flirted, but you didn't let yourself be softened by his charming words. You were about to throw another plea at him, or a threat, or a demand, when the trickster god gently took your wrist and leaned close to you. "Alright, if you can solve this riddle, I miiight give you a hint."

"No riddles," you retorted, not quite sure where you found the courage to talk to a major olympian god like this. "No games."

"Just one?" Since he didn't budge, you gave him a reluctant nod but freed your wrist to cross your arms once more.

He leaned down regardless, until his mouth was brushing your ear, as if he was telling you a secret. "It holds your power, strong and bright, But in my hands, it’s out of sight. Return it I might, if you can guess, Where does it rest? Take a wild guess!"

"So you do have it!" you exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at his self satisfied face. "Where is it?"

"Well, that's the riddle, isn't it?" he smiled teasingly.

"And the rest, that was you, too?" you asked.

"Ah, alright, yes, that was me, honey," he admitted, shrugging. "I must say, no offense, but you were quite easy to steal from. Or were you just so taken with me that you didn't see what my hands were doing?" Your face was burning, but he wasn't done. Out of his bag, he pulled your godly symbol and let it dangle in front of your face. "But alas, you managed to catch the thief."

Suddenly, you realized something and smiled up at him. "Only because he wanted to be caught, I fear. You left this." You showed him his coin. "Now, why would you do that?"

"Every master has a slip up from time to time," he answered suspiciously nonchalantly and held out your symbol for you to take. "Here you go, honey. I promise not to take it again- at least for a while."

You took it and frowned at him. "You gave me a scare. I thought I was going mad, you know?"

"Ah, sorry," he replied and it sounded surprisingly earnest. "I didn't do it to upset you, you know? 'Was just enjoying your attention, I guess." You were surprised to find his cheeks somewhat rosy. Was he... blushing? No way. That was your job. But there was a hint of sincerity in his voice when he draped an arm around your shoulders and teased: "And I do enjoy seeing you get this flustered. You are always so put-together."

"And... this was your way of getting my attention," you deadpanned. "Could've just asked me out." That last part was mumbled, actually just to yourself, but he caught up on it and gave you a look of surprise.

"Would you have said yes?"

"Yes," you answered way to quickly and averted your face in embarrassment. "Ah, anyway, here's your coin, I'll be leaving you to your work now."

"Keep it," he said softly, taking your outstretched hand and closing your fingers around the coin. His touch sent tingles up your spine, and as if he knew, he gave you another teasing smile. "You know, the apples here land in that one cafe's apple tarts. Rumor has it they are delicious."

"Sounds good," you answer breathlessly, resisting the urge to chew on the inside of your cheek to relieve stress. Hermes himself was asking you out. Gods, this was the best day of your life, and it had started out so bad! Though, when you now thought about it, the theft wasn't so bad, now that you would be going on a date with the thief.

"Expect the rest of your stuff in the mail," Hermes said and if you weren't mistaken, his smile was even brighter than before. "Along with the table reservations."

"Alright," you smiled, cheekbones aching in the best way. There was a noticeable pep in your step when you turned to leave, one that didn't go unnoticed by the other god. You couldn't help but turn around one more time and your heart fluttered when you found him already looking at you. He waved, and that was when you noticed something shiny wrapped around his fingers. Your hand shot up to your neck, but it was gone. Your necklace.

Instead of going back to get it, you only smiled and shook your head at his triumphant grin. You saw him take off and then, you were alone, admits the apple trees, with a sweet fuzzy feeling in your tummy, and your heart stolen by the best of all thieves.

[houseofaegon]

ENCHANTRESS ╱ BOB REYNOLDS SERIES

✷ ─── +18 MINORS DNI 𓏲  ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪ emotional trauma, mentions of death/grief, witchcraft, blood magic, violence, necromancy, ritual magic, body horror (mechanical corpses), mental manipulation, emotional intensity and tension, supernatural possession, canon-typical violence, found family themes, bucky being a big brother, psychological instability (enchantress/void dynamic), unspoken desire, sexual tension (non-explicit), battle trauma.

✷ ─── AUTHOR'S NOTE. i cooked served and ate yall!!! damn okay chapter 2 came fassssstttttt im so excited and so inspired to write arabella and bob omg ughhh i love my babies. my soul probably left my body while writing this chapter because wtf just happened!! i'm sick. i want void so bad and i'm so obsessed with the whole enchantress x void dynamic filled with sexual tension and obsession and need. and yet they still haven't even touched each other. i'm crying. i'm pacing. i'm shaking with anticipation and anxiety. all of the above. we're already deep into the spiritual feral monsterfucker territory and i fear it's only gonna get worse from here. void is obsessed with enchantress, and i am obsessed with them both. i'm unwell. grab your tea, your candles, your crystals because it's about to get darker and hungrier. more chapters coming soon!! i love you all smm and thank you for letting me being unhinged and insane and always cheering for what i write. i appreciate you all so so so so damn much. thank you for reading and giving this unhinged little series a chance. love always, bri.

✷ ─── ENCHANTRESS SERIES. chapter one: beauty in tragedy. chapter two: the devil you know. chapter three: the witch. chapter four: moonlit waters. chapter five: divine hunger. chapter six: to burn & be burned. chapter seven: of teeth & tenderness. chapter eight: bound by blood. chapter nine: ashes between us. chapter ten: salt in the wound. chapter eleven: blood moon. chapter twelve: whispers in the dark. chapter thirteen: the witch and the void.

Life in the Watchtower was easy.

Or maybe Arabella just made it look that way.

Two weeks in, and she was already barefoot in the hallways, leaving salt trails behind her like breadcrumbs. Crystals littered every windowsill and shelf. Vinyls spun on her old record player each morning, Fleetwood Mac echoing through the tower as she cooked breakfast barefoot—black silk robe, bedhead curls, and a wooden spoon in her hand like a wand.

The lights stopped flickering when she passed. The air smelled like herbs and something sweeter. The walls stopped groaning. Dead plants came back to life.

It wasn't magic.

Or maybe it was.

She adapted faster than Bucky ever thought she would.

He’d built her a room the day she arrived—no questions, no ceremony. Just like Tony had done years ago. It wasn’t as high-tech, but it was safe. Warded. Quiet. Full of windows and her favorite things. And it felt just the same.

Felt like home.

Arabella had looked at it once, eyes shining just slightly, and said, “You remembered the salt in the corners.”

And Bucky had replied, “Of course I did.”

Because he did remember. All of it.

The way she couldn’t sleep without her crystals arranged just so. The smell of her cleansing incense, like pine and burnt clove. The soft hum of her chants in the dark, the way she muttered in Spanish when she was half-dreaming.

She slipped back into his world like she’d never left.

Yelena adored her.

Of course she did.

From the first day, they were chaos and fire, two halves of the same wicked coin. They sparred in the gym, Arabella casting misdirection charms mid-fight while Yelena laughed and tackled her anyway.

They had a running tally written in chalk on the kitchen wall. Yelena: 6. Arabella: 7. The last win was a draw, after they both ended up hexed, bruised, and breathless with laughter.

At night, they painted each other’s nails in wine-dark colors and gossiped in three languages. They danced barefoot on the roof under the moon, music blasting, hips swaying, Arabella’s dark hair catching the light like smoke.

“You’re my favorite war crime,” Yelena whispered one night, drunk on cheap vodka and found sisterhood.

“Right back at you,” Arabella replied, clinking their glasses together.

Ava was different. Quieter. Sharper. But not distant. She didn’t speak much—but with Arabella, she sat.

They trained together in silence, matched in precision and grace. Arabella stitched protective sigils into Ava’s gloves and never mentioned it. Ava slipped her protein bars and flowers in return and said, once, quietly, “Your presence is... grounding.”

Arabella had smiled, slow and soft. “So is yours.”

Sometimes they sat on the balcony together, watching the sun rise. Neither said a word. Neither needed to.

Alexei was absurd and endearing.

He doted on her like a second daughter—called her "my little shadow witch" and brought her strange, wonderful gifts from his past: pocket knives with history, books with blood-stained corners, a hand-painted flask from the Soviet years.

He taught her how to shoot with antique pistols even though she didn’t need to.

She taught him how to ward his whiskey with a hangover charm.

Once, she asked him why he always brought her things.

“Because daughters should have gifts,” he said with a shrug. “And you? You are special. You are mine now.”

She’d laughed and hugged him, just long enough to make him sniffle and pretend it was allergies.

Walker surprised her.

Not because he was charming. Because, honestly, he wasn't. He was irritating, loud, too rigid, always a little bit out of sync with her energy.

But there was something… earnest beneath it. Something human.

They argued constantly.

She called him Walmart Captain America or Walker-Red-Flag. He called her Witchypoo in retaliation. But there was a rhythm to it. A low hum of mutual tolerance that slowly grew into something more.

She read his tarot one night after he muttered something about not believing in “that bullshit.”

The next morning, he left an extra cup of coffee on the table for her. Black. Just how she liked it.

He still groaned when she walked into a room.

But he always walked in after her.

And then, there was Bob.

Bob Reynolds, who barely spoke above a whisper.

Bob, who watched her like he was trying not to fall apart. Like he already had.

He was quiet. Almost scared of her at first—not in a way that made her bristle, but in a way that made her ache. He looked at her like he knew she could destroy him.

And he kept showing up anyway.

Bob started coming to her room after midnight.

He started sitting with her at night. Quietly. Without words. She’d be pulling her tarot cards under the moonlight, charging her crystals on the sill, Stevie Nicks humming in the background—and Bob would just be there, reading a book in her chair.

Sometimes he fell asleep on her couch. Curled up like he was afraid he’d take up too much space. She never told him to leave. He never asked to stay. They didn’t talk about it.

But he started bringing his own mug for her tea. Started asking her what the cards meant when she shuffled them slow, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

He never touched her. Never tried. But he looked at her like she was something holy. Like she was the only thing in the world that made sense.

And the Enchantress?

She whispered. Not in hunger. Not in warning. But in awe.

“He sees us.”

Arabella didn’t answer. She never did. But she felt it—deep in her bones, under her skin, in the quiet hum of her breath when Bob looked up from his book and met her eyes.

There was no fear there. Not anymore. Just… recognition.

Like they were made of the same broken thing.

And when he fell asleep on her couch, breath even and hands unclenched, she watched the rise and fall of his chest and whispered ancient words beneath her breath—not to keep him out.

But to keep him safe.

One night he broke the quiet.

“What does it mean,” he asked softly, “when—when the uh, cards keeps showing up upside down?”

Arabella didn’t look up. She was lighting a candle. Her fingers moved with purpose.

“It depends on the card,” she murmured. “But usually? It means something’s resisting.”

Bob swallowed.

She glanced up then, sharp and knowing. “Are you resisting, Bob?”

He didn’t answer. But inside his mind, The Void stirred.

“She’s not afraid of you,” it whispered. “She’d let us in.”

Bob’s breath hitched.

Arabella tilted her head. “You okay?”

He nodded once. Too fast.

She smirked. “Liar.”

The Void purred.

“She’s ours,” it whispered slowly. “Let me speak to her. Just once. Let me see how much her darkness glows.”

Bob gritted his teeth. Looked away.

Arabella didn’t press. She just reached out and gently placed a crystal in his palm—warm from her skin.

“For when it gets too loud,” she said.

Bob didn’t let go. Not for a long time.

Three months had already passed, and life seemed easier for Arabella. The kind of ease that came slowly, after years of unrest. The kind that settled in her bones like warm tea and candlelight.

She still walked barefoot through the halls. Still lined doorways with salt. Still played Fleetwood Mac on her record player every morning like it was a ritual—because it was. Still danced under the moonlight like no one was watching, even though Bob always did. She laughed more. Slept better. She was healing, quietly, completely.

But The Enchantress never slept. She whispered, always. A constant thrum beneath Arabella’s skin. Like wind at the back of her neck.

And every time Bob walked into a room—every time his eyes found hers across the kitchen, across the training mat, across the quiet of her candlelit room...

The Enchantress screamed. Not in pain. Not in rage. In want.

“He carries so much darkness and pain in him,” she hissed. “Let me taste it.”

Arabella had kept her buried. Chained beneath crystal grids and ancestral spellwork. But Bob made everything crack open. Bob felt like her. And the Enchantress was starting to see freedom.

Not to destroy him.

To touch him.

To speak to the Void and be spoken to in return.

It was warm in the kitchen. Sunlight spilled across the floor, soft and golden, washing over the table where the team had gathered.

Arabella was humming under her breath, barefoot and wrapped in a black silk robe that fell off one shoulder. Her hair was a halo of curls, her eyes half-lidded with sleep. A record played in the background—Stevie, again.

The table was loud.

Yelena was trying to argue that vodka counted as a breakfast food while simultaneously sneaking bacon off Alexei’s plate.

Walker rolled his eyes. “You people are unhinged.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ava muttered, sipping her coffee.

Alexei grinned over his mug. “In Russia, we ate meat for breakfast. And sometimes men.”

“Okay, Hannibal,” Yelena shot back.

“Enough,” Bucky said, laughing into his cup. “Let the witch serve the food in peace.”

Arabella smirked as she walked over with a plate of pancakes—perfect, golden, stacked high, topped with warm berries.

Then—she stopped.

Her body went still mid-step.

The plate slipped from her hands. Fell. Shattered against the tile at her feet like a crack in the world. Syrup and fruit and ceramic scattered across the floor.

Silence slammed into the room.

Bucky shot to his feet. “Bells?”

She didn’t answer.

Her eyes glazed—then turned black for the briefest second. A flicker. A flash.

“Arabella.” His voice sharpened. “What’s wrong? Bells, talk to me.”

She blinked slowly. Her voice was barely a breath. “There’s something happening.”

Yelena was on her feet. “Bella—?”

But Arabella was already moving.

She crossed the room like she was sleepwalking—barefoot across shards of porcelain, bleeding but unaware. Her eyes locked on the console in the corner.

The tower’s tech wasn’t hers—but her fingers moved like it was. Smooth. Instinctive. Like the codes were written in her blood.

“Arabella,” Ava said, voice tight. “What are you doing?”

"You're bleeding," Bucky whispered.

She didn’t answer.

Everyone followed—hovering behind her as screens lit up, one by one. Her eyes flickered, scanning feeds, fingers dancing like she wasn’t even thinking.

And then—

The screen froze.

And her heart dropped.

Security footage from an old, sealed-off subway station. Flickering light. Smoke curling from the stone. Runes—her runes—scratched into metal. Twisting. Burning.

And in the far corner—machines.

Half-dead. Half-alive.

Stirring.

Moving.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

Yelena grabbed her arm. “What is that?”

Arabella stepped back, hand pressed to her lips.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.

But her voice was hollow when she said, “They’re using dark magic. Twisting it.”

Her pulse thudded through the room like a war drum.

Bucky looked at her. “What do we do?”

Arabella turned toward him slowly. Her eyes still rimmed in black. “We stop it,” she said. Her voice was calm.

But the floor beneath her feet had already begun to hum.

The energy was different now. The warmth of the kitchen was gone—snuffed out by what Arabella had seen. What she felt. The shattered plate still lay back on the floor, forgotten. Everyone filed into the briefing room in silence. Even Yelena, usually muttering curses under her breath, said nothing.

Arabella stood at the head of the room now. Not Bucky. Not this time.

The screen behind her glowed—static-edged footage looping in jagged, grainy frames. The subway station. The runes. The machines.

Her runes.

Bucky leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed. His gaze never left her.

“Tell us,” he said.

Arabella’s jaw was tight. Her hands didn’t shake—but her voice was colder than it had been in months.

“There’s an old network of sealed tunnels under Brooklyn,” she began. “The MTA shut them down decades ago. No access. No cameras. But something got in.”

She clicked the screen forward.

Close-up footage. A sigil burned into metal. Corrupted lines of spellwork. Smoke curling in unnatural shapes.

“This isn’t just tech. It’s necrotic magic—dark, ancient, and bound to blood.” She looked up. “My blood.”

The room went still.

“They’re using resurrection rites. The same one's I learned from my grandmother. Something’s trying to merge death magic with..."

She hesitated. Her hands hovered above the console, fingers trembling.

“Merge it with what, Bells?” Bucky asked gently, stepping forward.

She swallowed. And then she clicked one more frame forward. The screen froze.

A metallic body, half-rebuilt, cables woven through bone, its chestplate still glowing with a dull, rust-colored arc reactor.

Stamped in silver, unmistakable:

Stark Industries.

Arabella’s mouth parted. Her eyes filled instantly. A sharp breath caught in her throat, and her knees wobbled slightly. She reached for the table like it might hold her up. She stared.

At the logo.

At what it meant.

At what it was

And what it wasn’t.

“They’re using his work,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Tony’s work. They’re—he’s gone, and they’re using what he built to… to raise the dead.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“I spent years learning how to put spirits to rest. How to honor them. And they’re using his code to trap them. Trap the souls of the dead. To force them back into metal and ash like—like it’s a tool. Like it’s not sacred.”

She shook her head.

“It’s not just my magic,” she breathed. “It’s his name. His legacy. They’re twisting everything.”

Bucky moved without hesitation. He reached out, gently rested a hand on her back. Didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

Arabella didn’t cry—not fully. But her shoulders trembled.

And when she finally looked up, her eyes were dark. Not black, not yet.

But close.

“I’m going down there,” she said, voice low. “And I’m burning it to the fucking ground.”

The silence held like breath.

Arabella stood in front of the screen, her shoulders squared, her hands still shaking. Not from fear. But from rage. The kind of fury that lived in bone and had the power to crush them. The kind passed down through the blood of women who had always been told their power was too much.

“We’re going with you,” Bucky said, his voice stern.

Arabella blinked. Her mouth parted. “No,” she said, voice hoarse. “You don’t understand. This magic—it’s not meant for you. It’s old. It’s dark. It’s not made for you.”

She turned to face them all. Her eyes shimmered, rimmed with black. “It wants to hurt. It feeds on what you love. You step into that circle unprotected and it will devour you. I’m the only one who can walk into that circle and survive it. Alone.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change. His voice didn’t waver.

“You’re not going in alone, Bella.”

She exhaled, sharp. “Bucky—”

“No.” He stepped forward. Firm. Grounded. “We’re a team. A family. And family sticks together.”

Arabella opened her mouth—but Yelena cut in before she could speak.

“You think I’m going to let you crawl into hell without me? Bitch, please.” She crossed her arms. “If you die and I’m not there, I’m going to hex your ghost. Badly.”

Alexei nodded solemnly. “I will bring vodka and blessed grenades.”

Ava’s voice was soft. “I'm in."

Walker looked like he wanted to protest. Arabella raised an eyebrow.

He immediately nodded. “I’ll… drive.”

Arabella almost laughed. Almost.

Then—he stepped forward.

Bob.

He didn’t speak at first. Just moved, slow and deliberate, until he stood beside her—close, but not too close. Not touching. Never touching.

Arabella didn’t turn her head, but she felt him like a second heartbeat. The weight of him. The pull. The thrum of his power bleeding into the air between them, brushing against her skin like smoke.

Too close.

Inside her chest, The Enchantress stirred.

“He’s here,” she purred, velvet-smooth and low. “Let me taste his darkness.”

Arabella’s breath caught. She held herself still, fingers curling tight at her sides. If she reached out, even a fraction of an inch, she knew she wouldn’t stop. She knew the Enchantress would rise with want, not war.

And in the stillness between them, The Void whispered inside Bob’s mind.

“She burns. I want to feel how hot.”

He didn’t move either. Not even a breath out of rhythm. But his jaw clenched, his eyes locked on something distant, her, and his hands flexed once like they ached to lift and couldn’t.

"I'm going with you. You can't do this alone," Bob whispered.

Arabella didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. The words hung between them like smoke, like a spell half-cast and waiting.

She exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the glowing screen. Her jaw clenched. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “You don’t understand what this kind of magic does, Bob.”

Inside her chest, the Enchantress curled tighter, more awake than ever.

“Let him come,” she whispered. “Let him see what I can do with a god in my hands.”

Arabella blinked hard. Shut her eyes. Shut the voice out.

“I’m still coming with you,” he whispered. The Void stretched just beneath the surface of him like it recognized her.

And Arabella, after a beat, nodded. Just once. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t say don’t.

She said, “Then stay behind me.”

And prayed to everything she knew that he would.

The tunnels beneath Brooklyn were colder than they sould have been, not the kind of cold you could feel on your skin, but the kind that settled into bone and memory. Haunted. Like a nightmare. The air was thick with rot and cooper, and the deeper they went, the more the city above felt like a distant dream.

Ava and Yelena took point, flashlights flickering across crumbling tile and twisted metal, weapons steady. Bucky and Walker kept a slow, even pace behind them, eyes always moving, always watching. Arabella hung back with Bob, her steps silent. She didn't speak. She couldn't. The walls were already whispering.

They’d passed the third tunnel junction when Bucky turned his head just slightly, enough to glance back, voice low. “You sure you wanna do this?”

Arabella didn’t even blink. “I’m the only one who can.” Her voice carried, calm and sharp, no room for argument.

The further they went, the worse it got. The walls began to hum—not with electricity, but with something else. Something dark. Something old. The kind of hum that lived in ritual circles and the mouths of the dead. Arabella’s fingers twitched at her sides, power prickling just beneath her skin. Her breath shortened as she walked, every step dragging her deeper into the echo of magic that felt too much like her own.

Bob shifted beside her, breath stuttering, his hands flexing open and closed. He didn’t say anything, but she felt it—his power swelling beneath the surface like a wave waiting to crash. And then came the sound. Not footsteps. Not breathing. Scraping.

They didn’t have time to react before the tunnel erupted around them—metal shrieking, bone cracking, a dozen bodies dropping from the shadows like meat puppets sewn together with cable and magic. They moved wrong—jagged, broken—eyes glowing red, limbs clicking as if trying to remember how to be human.

Yelena cursed under her breath, blade already drawn, her voice snapping out like a gunshot.

“Well, shit.” Ava phased just in time to avoid a clawed hand, her body flickering with static as she reappeared behind it, driving a blade into the base of its neck.

"What the fuck—" Walker muttered, firing his gun. It did absolutely nothing.

Bucky barked out orders, trying to pull them back, keep the team together, but they were splitting—forced apart by sheer chaos.

Arabella didn’t move.

She walked into the center of it all, slow, deliberate, untouched by the panic around her. One of the creatures lunged and froze midair, stopped by a sudden, invisible force—its body cracking in place like glass. Her voice was quiet. Almost kind.

“Enchantress.”

It wasn’t just a name. It was a summoning.

Her eyes flicked black, her pupils blown wide, and the transformation rolled through her like a flood. Her body straightened, her hair lifted in a wind that didn’t exist, her lips curled into something that was not a smile but close enough to frighten. Glowing sigils ignited across her skin—runes carved into flesh, ancient and burning.

The Enchantress rose with her breath, her voice shifting into something layered, rich, older than anything alive in that tunnel. She didn’t blink as the corpses charged again.

She lifted her hand and whispered in Spanish, a language soaked in blood and moonlight. “Your magic doesn't belong here. Give it back to the earth were it came from."

The wave of enemies collapsed like dominos, falling with a sound like wet bone and shattering metal. One screamed, high and broken, before bursting into smoke. Another reached for her and disintegrated mid-motion. Enchantress didn’t flinch. She smiled.

Bob staggered back a step, eyes locked on her, chest heaving like he couldn’t quite breathe. Inside his head, the Void surged awake, not angry, not violent—fascinated.

“She’s like us,” it whispered. “No—she’s better. She was born like this.”

His hands sparked with light, gold bleeding to black, his vision dimming at the edges. The storm within him pulsed, and he reached toward it, toward her, even if his hands never left his sides.

Enchantress turned her head, eyes glowing black. She looked at him and smiled.

Enchantress didn’t speak, but Bob heard her anyway.

“I see you. I see what's inside you. The darkness. Let me taste it.”

And inside him, the Void growled in response.

“Take it. I want to see what you’ll become when you touch me.”

The words weren’t said aloud, but Enchantress heard them. Felt them.

Her smile deepened, slow and sharp, and she tilted her head like a cat watching prey twitch.

“Oh,” she purred, voice a syrupy echo only he could hear, “you’re going to beg for it.”

And Bob, shaking from the inside out, didn’t dare say a word.

Bucky moved, boots crunching over scorched stone and broken machines as the smoke settled. His voice was low, careful. “Bells, come back to me.”

But she didn’t move.

She was still standing in the center of the carnage, still Enchantress, still glowing faintly with that ancient, seductive light. Her eyes, black as ink, weren’t on him—they were still locked on Bob. Fixed. Fascinated. Her mouth was curved, wicked and slow. The runes on her skin pulsed like a heartbeat.

“She doesn’t want to come back,” the Enchantress whispered, gaze still locked on the man who hadn’t moved, who looked like he was barely breathing.

Bucky stepped closer, steadier now. He’d done this before—held her through magic comas, pulled her back from the edge more times than he could count—but this was different.

She’d never resisted.

Not like this.

“Arabella,” he said again, firmer this time, closer now. “It’s me. It’s Bucky. Come on, baby witch. Don’t make me beg.”

The Enchantress tilted her head, almost curious, but didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. She was too deep in it, too close to something she hadn’t felt before, and Bucky’s chest twisted.

He took another step. “Bells. Come back.”

And then—Bob moved.

One slow, shaking step forward. Not threatening. Not demanding. His voice was rough and low. “Bring her back.”

Her eyes flickered. Just slightly. The light dimmed.

The Enchantress blinked, and for a moment, there was something soft behind her expression—like a memory. Like regret. She looked at Bob as if she were memorizing him, and then she smiled. It was all teeth and hunger and something ancient and beautiful. Her lips parted, breath curling in the air between them.

“Next time, I’ll let you touch me.”

And then she collapsed.

Bucky was already moving, catching her before she hit the floor. Her body went slack in his arms, her head falling against his chest, her breath shallow but steady. He crouched with her, cradling her like he’d done too many times before.

“Bells,” he whispered, brushing her hair back from her face, “hey, come on—look at me.”

Her eyelids fluttered. A soft groan slipped from her throat. “What… happened?”

“You stopped it,” Bucky murmured, voice rough around the edges. “You brought it down. You did good.” Her lashes trembled, her eyes opening slowly, brown again. Human again. But tired. So tired.

Behind them, Bob stood frozen, hands still trembling at his sides, gold and black flickering faintly beneath his skin. His throat was dry. His pulse too loud. He couldn’t move—not yet. Not when the echo of her magic still clung to the air like perfume and fire, not when her voice—her other voice—still rang like a bell behind his eyes. He could still feel her. Like a storm on the edge of touch.

And then, deep in his mind, the Void stirred.

It didn’t roar. It didn’t rage.

It purred.

“You brought her back. Why?”

A pause. A shiver up his spine.

“I would’ve let her stay. She wanted to stay. She wanted us.”

Bob swallowed, jaw tight.

The Void curled around him like a shadow, low and amused.

“You’re lying to yourself, Robert. You want her too. The way she sees you. The way she smiled.”

Bob clenched his fists. Didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

But he didn’t deny it either.

And the Void laughed—soft and satisfied.

“Next time, you won’t send her away.”

𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐅𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐍 © 2025. DO NOT STEAL, REPOST, OR COPY THIS STORY TO TUMBLR, WATTPAD, AO3, OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM. Moodboards and graphics made by @houseofaegon DO NOT repost or reuse without credit. chain divider by @cursed-carmine

♱ ˖ ࣪ . taglist: @the-a-word-2214 @favestxrboy @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe @misaki-evans @uracowboylikemee @sxlsvv @stillinracooncity @deltamel (if you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know in the comments. love, bri.)

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

Pack Behavior and Ritual Headcanons

I have some very specific Headcanons about the ways in which shifter Packs (specifically wolves) traditionally behave, and I just wanted to write those down because I think they're neat. Please enjoy.

When it comes to eating, Packs have, traditionally, fallen under a strict hierarchy. Older, more traditional packs will wait until the Alpha has finished eating to begin. This comes from some animal behaviors in which dominant members of a group have the pick of the food before the rest of the group gets to eat through the scraps. Sometimes, Alphas would appoint certain members of the Pack (often their mate and/or the Beta and their mate) to eat with them.

Gabe did away with this particular tradition when he was Alpha, even through his pack often still waited for his permission to begin eating. It's an innate, instinctive thing that a lot of wolves have, a difference to the hierarchy. David also doesn't follow this tradition very strictly. When the Pack eats together, they will often sit and wait for him to begin eating or give a signal before anybody else touches their food. It kind of creeps David out a bit? But he understands it because he felt the same instinct when his father was Alpha. The only Pack member who is exempt from this show of respect is Darlin', who David wants to eat whenever and whatever they want with no restrictions from him or anybody else.

At the Summit and when around other Packs that the Shaws aren't allied with, they all very strictly follow David's direction when it comes to food. It's a show of respect to their Alpha. They do not want outsiders to see anything that could even be misconstrued as disrespect.

Mates of Alphas have their own special place in a pack. They certainly aren't always part of the pack structure, and don't necessarily have control over the pack because they're mated to the Alpha, but there is an instinctive, base level of respect and difference that packs show to them. It's undeniable for the Shaws that, when both David and Asher are out of commission, Angel has the ability to step into a leadership role very naturally. After the Inversion, when David, Ash, and Milo were all down for the count, Angel and Babe ran the pack. It was only for about twelve hours, but they handled all of the recovery and response efforts for their mates, and revealed themselves to be pretty competent when it came to the pack's care.

I believe that it was @romirola who coined the term "Alpha-Mate" and I really love it. I like that as the official distinction that packs and government agencies use to identify an Alpha's mate. For example, Angel might identify themself to other packs like "I am ____, Alpha-Mate of the Shaw Pack." That term has power behind it, just like "Mate" does.

Tying back to the food HC, Alpha-Mates receive special attention when it comes down to food as well. Most shifters have the instinctive drive to feed their mates. It's an animal instinct to provide, and to make sure that their mates are taken care of. That drive extends to the entire pack when it comes to the Alpha-Mate. Angel often finds themself at pack gatherings with four or five plates of food because, as soon as they've even part way cleared one plate, somebody is bringing them another.

There is a slight magical connection between mates. It's not quite telepathy, but most of the time, mates have a general impression of what their mate is feeling. They also tend to have a sort of sixth sense for when their mate is in danger or hurt, a shiver down the spine or phantom pain. It's not been proven to happen to unempowered mates, or even mates who aren't also shifters, but Angel, Babe, Sam and Sweetheart have all experienced moments that would lend to the theory that it does. Angel was nearly sick with anxiety during the day of the Inversion. Babe gets a shiver up their spine every time Asher shifts, even when they're not with him. Sam can tell when Darlin' is hurt, and gets echos of their pain across his body. Sweetheart could tell you with pretty near accuracy what's on Milo's mind at any given moment, whether that's because they know him so well or because of some sort of Mate-telepathy.

[starredblood]

NOWHERE GIRL

PART THIRTEEN

kang sae-byeok x fem!reader

synopsis: in a weird turn of events, sae-byeok tries to comfort those around her.

wc. 2.1k

warnings: angst followed by comfort

(nowhere girl masterlist)

Sae-byeok feels delirious. After everyone in the apartment fell asleep, only she remained awake trying to recollect the memories the events that occurred from only a couple hours ago. But they came in fragments. She mostly recalls seeing red when you and her went to Daejeon. She is aware how rigid her words can shift when she is angry or stressed and she regrets yelling at you. This is something she can’t find the pride to admit but, you’re the reason Ji-yeong was found. Not her.

She is losing her way of life. Her currently lifestyle is making her go soft and she’s still nowhere near her monetary goal to rescue her mom. And because Ji-yeong hasn’t been at work for three days now, it’s up to her to cough up a little extra money on the streets in order to pay rent next week. The money you gave her ran out, so instead of going to sleep she waits until everyone else is, throws on her jacket and heads out the door.

This time Sae-byeok made sure to pickpocket out of town.

By the time she arrives back to her apartment it was already the afternoon meaning she spent her entire morning pickpocketing. Her foot is aching and the only thing she had for lunch was a bulgogi onigiri she bought at the convenience store. She was ready to collapse in bed but she had responsibilities to take care of.

The lights in the apartment where still shut off and all the curtains are shut with little light escaping though them. You were long gone by the time she arrived back with her clothes and blanket neatly folded on the couch. You sent her a message when you departed at seven in the morning so she asked that you let her know when you made it home safe. But have yet to reply, it’s starting to concern her now.

Cheol was also sound asleep on his side of the bed, to her surprise. He also tends to wake up early like Sae-byeok, but perhaps he didn’t get a restful sleep last night because she wasn’t here.

She quietly counts the crumpled up balls of money and coins she was able to collect and stuffed majority of the money inside her drawer.

Her next stop is Ji-yeong’s room.

“How long have you been awake?” Sae-byeok asks after Ji-yeong unlocked her bedroom door and let her in. Her roommate jumps back into bed as she sits on the edge.

“I think like three hours ago but I lost track.” she mumbles, her tone more melancholic than usual.

She notices how puffy and lifeless her eyes are, clearly she was crying all night. Sae-byeok sighs, she wishes she could know the words to use to make Ji-yeong feel better. But maybe words aren’t enough in her case.

“So, what happened with your dad?” she asks cautiously and observes her facial expression to check if there’s a flicker of change in them.

Ji-yeong lets out an exasperated sigh and struggles to speak momentarily. “At first, he refused to see me so I had to wait for an hour until he finally changed his mind. Then he kept apologizing and apologizing and was like ‘I ask God for forgiveness everyday’ but when I told him it was all bullshit he went…I saw the dark look in his eyes again.” she looks at Sae-byeok in the eyes. “It was the same look he had when he killed mom. I had chills up my spine seeing him like that I seriously thought I was next.”

Sae-byeok felt a pang in her chest. A part of her feels like she pushed Ji-yeong into this mess.

“What’s with that look?” Ji-yeong asks. She doesn’t respond. “Don’t feel bad for telling me to visit him. I actually feel better—less guilty about his current state. I still need time I think.”

“Time to think?”

“Yeah, to process everything. But unfortunately, I only have today to do that because I picked up a twelve hour shift at work to make up for the days I missed.”

“Is that your way of telling me to get out of your room?”

Ji-yeong reaches to pat her back. “Look at you being emotionally intelligent!”

With a roll of her eyes she gets off the mattress and towards the door.

“Wait before you go,” Ji-yeong speaks up. “have you seen ‘her’ yet?” she wriggles her eyebrows when Sae-byeok turns around.

“What’s with that face and why did you say her like that?” Sae-byeok scoffs, feeling defensive suddenly.

“I take back my emotionally intelligent comment then.” she grumbles, shaking her head. “I saw her get ready this morning so I was wondering if you dropped her off or something.”

“No, I didn’t drop her off. I left before any of you woke up.” Sae-byeok says flatly and takes a hold of the door knob. She doesn’t like where this conversation is taking.

“She seemed off though.” she points out when Sae-byeok opens the door.

“Did she? Didn’t notice.”

When Sae-byeok is fully out the door it didn’t prevent her from hearing Ji-yeong say, “I can see right through you, Kang Sae-byeok!”

⊹ ✿・・───・・✦・・───・・✿

Later in the day, once Cheol woke up and had lunch, Sae-byeok casually mentioned the idea of seeing you. This elated the boy, who asked if it was possible to drop by your place as early as today. And because you haven’t been replying to Sae-byeok’s text, she agreed.

So, this lead the Kang siblings to stand outside your apartment door.

When you open it, Sae-byeok did notice you seem off. Your eyes were slightly swollen and tired almost like Ji-yeong’s crying ones. Maybe she came at a bad time—or bad day.

“Hi. Did something happen?” you softly, adverting your gaze down to Cheol.

“Cheol, wanted to see you.” she says plainly. “And you weren’t replying to my texts.”

“Hi, Noona.” Cheol greets you bashfully.

Sae-byeok can readily tell that you were forcing your face muscles to smile at Cheol. You bend down your knees to meet at his level.“Hey! I’m glad you wanted to stop by to see me I have some things for you.”

“Seriously?” he blinks.

You nod and tell them to enter the apartment before rushing up the stairs. Minutes later, you come back with a wooden crate full of supplies and plop it down in front of the boy.

Cheol sends you a skeptical glance. You encourage him to look inside the basket. There were full marker sets, graphite pencils of different grades, paint brushes with dried up paint, acrylic paint, and small empty canvases. Maybe there was more in the basket he missed.

“Is this all for me?” he mutters in disbelief.

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Noona.” he says, contemplating whether to reach over to embrace you but held back the urge in fear. You could sense his hesitation so you outstretch your arms and engulf him in a hug.

When you still embrace him, you look up at Sae-byeok, a flicker of sadness was in your eyes. She’s sure of it. She has a hard time grasping your kindness and selflessness during rough times like this. Your gesture made her chest get this achy feeling again.

After the hug, you encourage him to practice on your old sketchpad that had only two of your past drawings on them from high school.

Once he gets busy unloading everything you got him on the floor, you pull Sae-byeok aside. “I’m sorry I didn’t reply that is a bad move on my end knowing what we went through last night. But I also have something for you and Ji-yeong too by the way.”

“What?”

Before she could process it, you usher her up the stairs to your small bed space. Due to the space being so small she had to duck her head and sit on the mattress, watching you rummage through your piles of knickknacks you haven’t yet organized.

You plop down next to her. Right next to her. Sae-byeok wasn’t used to feeling someone’s leg brush up right against hers. You uncurl your fingers to reveal a black woven rope bracelet on your palm and reach your hand out to her.

Sae-byeok bites the inside of her cheek. She doesn’t know if she can handle so much of your tender hearted acts when she doesn’t think she deserves even an ounce of it. However, it would be cruel to turn down this gesture so she reaches to take it.

“And can you give this to, Ji-yeong?” you ask and pull out a thin necklace with a small firefly pendant. Sae-byeok sighs, but nods and takes that too.

“Thank you.” Sae-byeok says, lowly.

“I just got one favor to ask.” you say with rapid fire speed, fiddling with the hem of your shirt anxiously. “Can I paint you for my last project?”

Sae-byeok whips her head to look at you. She forgot the lack of personal space there was in between you two. “What?”

“Can…I paint you—“

“I heard you. But why me?” she asks, frowning.

“You have a unique face.” you answer simply but her face morphs into bewilderment.

“Excuse me?”

“Your eyes are sharp and cool but your face shape is soft and delicate. You have great features for a standout portrait.” you explain with ease. Sae-byeok’s lip part slightly. No one ever talks about her looks, especially not so carefully thought out. “It’s the type of unique face that’s almost—hm…mythical.”

She scoffs at the sheer disbelief she’s feeling. “You’re just bluffing.”

“There’s no reason for me to do that. I had other people as options but you stood out the most.” you say, genuinely. “So, do I have permission?”

Sae-byeok blinks at you. The idea of you having to stare at her face and think about her features for hours is an unfathomable thought. But you appear to be dead set on this decision, you didn’t laugh or mock her to convince her.

“Okay.”

She stares down at the bracelet and fiddles with it, her eyes soften up.

Sae-byeok has a hard time understanding that there is beauty in this world. Growing up in the North only taught her how to fear, and once her managed to flee South she had to became a shell of a person. Cheol, for a long time, was her only light in this new isolated world. She remembers briefly being like her little brother when she was his age, timid and quiet but showed her love. But as the people in her life either died or failed to escape the North, she forgot what it was like to feel and give love.

She never had time to figure out who she was as a person. To her, it was a waste of time. It was better to guard herself from the outside world that was so cruel and unusual.

“Ji-yeong said you looked off this morning.” Sae-byeok says out of the blue, feeling courageous to let her guard down ever so slightly.

“Oh.” is all you said to her surprise.

With another pang of courage hitting her system, she tilts her head to look at you.

You’ve proved Sae-byeok wrong time and time again. She used to be so sure you weren’t this selfless person you presented yourself to be when you came to live in their apartment back in March. But she’s ashamed to admit that she was wrong about your character. Very wrong.

“You did a lot for me last night. I won’t forget it.” she says after more and more momentary silence.

“It’s not—“

“Quit being so selfless for once.” she says in annoyance. She straightens up her posture and exhales trying to gather her words. “Can—Can you look at me?”

Hesitantly, you do as she says. Your face screams of worry and fear.

“What’s wrong?” Sae-byeok barely manages to say while looking into your eyes. “Tell me.”

She feels vulnerable under your tender gaze, noticing that you were studying her facial features carefully. It takes everything in her not to break away.

“I feel sad.” you say, shakily. “I still can’t believe my parents let me go so easily...” your chest visibly heaving. Before your lips start trembling you glance away.

Sae-byeok gulps. Before her brain could start figuring out what to do next she hears Cheol’s footsteps. You both instinctively scoot farther away from each other and compose yourselves.

“Is everything okay?” you ask the boy when he appears from the top of the stairs. Sae-byeok heard the glumness you tried terribly to mask.

“I don’t know how to work this, Noona.” he pouts, holding out a set of watercolor paint.

“Here, I will show you.” you say and hurry to get off of your bed to lead Cheol back downstairs. “This is watercolor paint. It’s dried up right now because you need to activate it with water.”

When Sae-byeok knows you’ve made your way to the kitchen she lets out a set of groans and palms her face. She doesn’t know why she is so bad at this. Comforting—a complete mystery to her.

🏷️: @monroesturnns @knfthxv @jumpedthenfell-13 @peelover25 @karli6 @kissedberries @bitchybananaflower @laurenkenss @saebyeokbliss @everly-summers-solace @we1rdth0ughts

[searchingforserendipity25]

There are some things Davenport knows.

He counts them sometimes, the things he knows.

His name; how to tie his shoes with twelve different knots; how the Madame Director likes her coffee.

The rules of playing Fantasy Chess, and how to cheat at Fantasy Chess too.

How to tell when someone is afraid

How to make his bed, so tight and neat he can drop a coin on it and it jumps, newly polished and gleaming, right back into his hand

How to bandage up to twenty different kinds of injuries

How to make the best sea chowder on the Moon Base, and also on the planet

How to press a uniform so it lasts a week and several explosions with no crinkled corners

How to organise reports with proper colour-coding techniques

Not a great many words, when it comes to that - slippery as fishtails, words, hard to grasp in the mind and impossible to put into his mouth

How to laugh, and how to cry

How to be helpful, if not always in the most efficient way

Some very complicated geometry and arithmetic, though not the word for geometry, nor how to write down an equation to explain how he got his results.His name, the names of his colleagues, where he is, what time of the day it is, what happened yesterday.

His name, his name, even when he doesn't know anything else, his name is Davenport -

Most days, anyway

He cries, sometimes, over bowls of spicy soup and at cute dogs, when someone leaves a book half-open on the table - when he sees groups of people laughing, and when he's alone for a long time. He is rarely alone. The Madame Director finds him, every time. Brings him biscuits and jam, shares puzzles, gives him folders to file.

She tries to teach him new words from brightly coloured books, sometimes. Not often; Davenport hates to make her unhappy, and she looks very sad, whenever he fails. He hates failing - this he knows for certain. But regardless of what he does, the Director is sad a lot of the time. Busy, busy; but she goes very still, late at night, and writes lists in strange languages with shifting characters, and then burns them, with a look on her face like stone, like a closed fist. He sweeps the ashes, afterwards; there's nothing in them he can understand.

No one sees her in those hours. Only Davenport is there, with no one else around. Davenport does not count as company, really. Or at least the Madame Director trusts him enough to let him see her when it's very late and she is very tired, and there is too much work for a night's rest.

It's nice, being trusted. Davenport likes it, likes his little tasks, his schedule and his friends. He knows every corner of the Moon Base, except the ones he is not supposed to enter; he has a little map sewn into his coat pocket, for when he forgets he knows every corner of the Moon Base.

He loves slow music, and sea chowder, and to drink his tea (the Director makes it, sometimes; she knows just how he likes it) while standing behind the transparent windows and watch the planet down below, all green and blue and changeful, like a face with many moods.

He knows he likes these things.

It is only that, sometimes, Davenport is very full of a painful feeling, a feeling like being full of smoldering fire, a feeling like --

Anger has no face, no colour. Davenport does not know a lot of things; sometimes he grasps at the softened edges of his mind, looking for something sharp enough to cut himself with. Davenport is angry, sometimes, though he has no words for it. Sometimes, anger is the only real thing in Davenport's world, the first thing he ever knew.

And then he forgets about it.

There are few things Davenport knows. He can feel the shape of something very important, prodding at him, filling him up with a warm, unpleasant energy. It is there when he wakes, for a handful of moments - every day, in the dreaming place between wakefulness and sleep. Like a dream, it fades before he is done dressing for the day. He has no words for it. The truth is, most days Davenport only knows his name is Davenport, and the worst of it is Davenport forgets there might be anything missing.

[umenoyume]

Meet Me in the Pale Moonlight

✧Read on Ao3!!!

chapter one ✧ word count. 3.1k

✦“Are you scared?”

A grasp is felt on your jaw, forcing you to look at him. A cigarette now litters the already messy floor. His eyes feel like they are almost swallowing you."

Since birth Nikolai was cursed to be able to see the fabled red string of fate, everyday in his life he has the dreaded constant reminder of his wish for freedom. On a snowy night in Saints Petersburg, a drunken girl tumbles on onto Nikolai, he falls in love for the drunk girl who's destiny doesn't cross his. With his heart beating he knows that this will be his only chance for freedom, and one way or another he'll set you free too. Even if you don't want to be.

cw：fem reader, abusive/neglectful household, implied stalking, dead dove, mentions of feature "fixing", nikolai being nikolai, minors/ageless/ blank blogs dni

You wake up, the droning sound of the television playing at too loud a volume doesn’t bother you, after all you’re used to it. You do your morning routine mindlessly. You sit down near the shoe rack by the entrance, you pull out a simple pair of sneakers and put them on. A loud shout is heard through your home, you don’t bother to listen to the word spoken instead you instinctively cover your ears in an attempt to deafen the noise. It’s your father, he comes striding to you with a crease in his brows. His gaze moves down to you, you tense up. He clicks the roof of his mouth and walks past you without saying a word. You clutch your chest and let out a deep breath. He exits the home, with a pack of cigarettes and lighter in hand.

You silently mutter numbers to yourself as you count up the customer's change. You place the coins on the change tray and give a quick bow with the typical customer service smile. “And here’s your change–have a nice day!” As the customer leaves you briefly take a glance at the clock on the wall of the convenience store, it’s almost twelve in the morning. This is your second job and your shift is just about to end. The feeling of dread instantly sets in.

I don’t want to go back home.

The once quiet background noise of the clock ticking away has now become a horrid reminder of your homelife. Sweat begins to dampen your forehead. The closest thing you have to refuge is work, though that isn’t all joyous either, it's still better than what you have to deal with in your residence. You stay at work as long as you possibly could until you see your coworker ready to replace your position. You let out a deep sad sigh as you leave the establishment.

You walk into an alleyway near the apartment complex which currently houses you and your father. The alley wall is covered in all types of grime, dirt, and graffiti. All of the writing on the walls are just mindless scribbles, all but one unfinished drawing of half of a pairing of wings. You lean your back against the dirty wall, despite the filth, it’s more calming than being home. You’ll just say you had to work overtime if your father is still awake when you get back. You pull your cell phone out of your pocket and begin to mindlessly scroll. A faint sound is heard in the distance. Your ears perk, the lids of your eyes begin to rise slowly, a foreign coldness runs over your skin. As time passes the noise becomes more recognizable–it’s a person and they're getting closer. All your body could do was stare at the now blank phone screen, as it automatically shut off after sometime of inactivity. Your palms begin to get clammy. All you can see is the vague reflection of your face in the cracks of your broken phone screen.

“You got a light?”

A deep voice is reverberated into your ears. You jump back, your heart almost leaping out of your chest. You take a moment to calm yourself down.

It’s just a person.

You give a curt nod–you always carried a lighter for your father–despite being wary, you hand the disposable lighter to the person next to you. While handing the object to them, you get a better look at their facial features. A long scar goes across his left eye vertically, though what was more interesting was his heterochromia. His left eye is a dulled grayish blue while his right is green. His hair is a platinum blonde white, though it appears initially short, a longer section is tied into a braid that lays on his right shoulder. He lights a cigarette, covering the flame with his hand as he does so. He blows the nicotine laced smoke away from you before speaking. “You out of cigs?”

You shake your head, “No, I don’t smoke.”

He looks at you with a raised brow, his tone confused, “What’s with the lighter then?” He asks with his lips quirked upwards.

You slip your phone in your pocket so you can converse with him. “I’m not obligated to answer, am I?”

He stares at you, his eyes wide and unblinking as if he were taken aback. He lets out a dry laugh. “No… no, I guess you’re not.” The man places the cigarette between his lips. “Well, will you tell me why you're in this dingy alleyway then? This usually isn’t the typical hangout place for most.”

“I didn’t want to go home.” You speak simply, your answer is vague but it’s most likely enough to satiate the man. You repeat his question, “So why are you in this gloomy alley?” A hint of playful mocking is heard in your voice as you accentuated the word ‘you’.

“Cause’ I’m a serial killer Darlin’.”

He speaks with an unsettling amount of bluntness, his face is uncomfortably unreadable. You swallow your saliva nervously, his gaze feels like it pierces your eyes. His lips start to curl upwards, your heart beat increasing as follows. You begin to realize how much the man towers over you–he’s six foot tall at least. His build was large, in the sense that he was strong.

He slaps you on the back. “I’m kidding…!” He chortles, though a likely harmless joke, it leaves a hint of uneasiness in your system. He moves his hand to your head to ruffle your hair, seemingly in an attempt to calm your nerves. You flinch but you don’t protest, your face warms up, unconsciously you lean into his touch. “You’re cute you know? Like a little dove in a cage.”

He retracts his hand, your expression tries the hardest to convey discomfort but your face is nothing but a red blushing mess. An uncomfortable sense of yearning is gained in your mind from his actions and words.

What in the world is wrong with you?

You try to brush the feeling aside, you feel somewhat pathetic for your reaction. “…What do you mean?” The words spoken sound uncharacteristically meeker than your usual voice.

Faint, quickly fading sparks trickle down onto the ground as he tips the ashes off the end of his cigarette, “I envy birds, they aren't weighed down by anything. They live their lives blissfully, being able to fly to wherever their little heart’s desire.” His gaze falters down to the slightly damp alleyway floor. “But no matter how much a caged bird spreads its wings, no matter how much it believes it’s free, the only choice is to follow in servitude.”

“That’s quite the idea you got there…!” You state, your voice cracking at the end. You tuck your hair behind your ear, showing a hint of nervousness. It’s not like he’s wrong–you never had much agency in your life–you knew that, but it’s weird that a complete stranger is able to deduce that within less than half an hour of meeting you. Perhaps he’s just observant? You clear your throat, “But I guess I can somewhat see where you’re coming from…?” He doesn’t respond, instead he stares into you. He smokes silently, his gaze is focused on your eyes, reminiscent of the way one would gaze through the glass of a snow globe. It feels like he’s trying to see beneath your skin in a way, to see what your mind speaks. You try to avert your eyes from meeting him.

“Hey,”

He calls your name, his voice is raspy as it almost demands your attention.

“Are you scared?”

A grasp is felt on your jaw, forcing you to look at him. A cigarette now litters the already messy floor. His eyes feel like they are almost swallowing you. A familiar fear, panic rushes through your veins. You grit your teeth with your lips trembling, suppressing your urge to scream, in fear it would somehow anger him. If you had ears like a rabbit, then they would be pinned flat back.

He lets go of you, he puts his hands in the air as if to show innocence. He laughs for a short moment before looking directly at you, gauging your reaction. He pouts in a childish manner when he notices your expression and whines, “Don’t look at me like that, I'm kidding–!”

What a cruel sense of humor. You can’t believe you were briefly flustered by the same man just a few seconds earlier. You can’t help but think he gets at least some amount of sadistic joy out of his acts. You purse your lips and furrow your brows. “That’s not funny—!” You pause your sentence, a chill runs down your spine,

“How do you know my name…?”

He tenses up, his eyes widening for a moment before dulling. An odd glint of sadness is briefly seen in him but it quickly disappears. He quickly points at your chest.

You gaze down to look at your attire. Your mouth forms in the shape of an ‘O’. Sticking out like a sore thumb, a name tag with your name written on it lays pinned to your work apron. “Oh, forgot I still have my work uniform on.” You speak, the shakiness clearly showing that you don’t fully believe him. He’s getting more and more frightening with each second that passes. Every little word that escapes through his lips sets more alarm bells in your mind telling you he’s dangerous. You pull your phone out of your pocket to check the time, it’s 1 in the morning. If you don’t get home now you won’t be able to make it work on time. “Sorry, I gotta go.” You speak as coolly as you possibly could, secretly glad that you have to leave.

For once in your life, you ran home. You never wanted to be home more than you did now, though the want dissipates once you finally make it inside the building. You tiptoe through your own home’s hallways to not be noticed by your father. Thankfully you make it to your room without incident. You flop onto your bed, the springy mattress causes you to bounce slightly. Your breathing is ragged, your forehead is damp with a coat of sweat. You feel oddly safe, a sense of comfort in your own home was rare. It must be because of him, that man in the alley. You're still a bit shaken up by the encounter. You know that he said he knew your name from your stupid name tag and yet you can’t believe him. Everything points to him being honest and yet you feel like he knows far more about you than you would ever know. Even meeting him in the alley seems oddly calculated. You shake your head, trying to snap yourself out of the thought. You rub your sleepy eyes. You’re just overthinking… you should really get some sleep. You yawn as your eyes start to flutter closed.

Just who was that guy?

____

To have true freedom is to be free of the feelings chaining one down one’s desires. Feeling of guilt, pity, fondness, and attachment are only obstacles to true joy. Attached his very own hands was a web, though others would prefer the terms thread or string more. No matter what red fiber connected the fingers it was all the same to him. For what was supposed to be an old myth was Nikolai’s reality. On everyone’s fifth digit was an invisible red thread tying two together, the two bound together are said to be destined to be with one another. ‘The red thread of fate’, how sickening.

A few years back, on a snowy night in Saints Petersburg, a person tumbled onto Nikolai.

He laid stunned in the cold snow that covered the streets. The snow’s frigidness slowly started to seep through the thick winter coat he was wearing. He glanced down to see you red faced, it was clear to anybody that you were drunk. Your hands clung onto his chest, akin to a way a cat would knead at a blanket. Your hair was frayed, your eyes half lidded. The side of your face was pressed up against him, your cheek was squished up on him, you were treating him like some type of pillow. You looked utterly helpless. A tug was felt in his heart–adorable

He grimaced as he caught himself in mid thought. What’s more important was helping you. He pushed you off of him and got back on his feet. Seeing that you didn’t follow he let out a deep sigh. He kneeled down, swung your arm over his shoulders, and helped you up. He took you to a nearby bench. He sat beside you and spoke in a concerned tone, “Are you ok…?”

“Never been better…!” You hic, “Hey, you… you should get me another drink Mister…”

His mixed matched eyes stared at you dumbfounded, your speech was severely slurred, you're definitely too drunk to be walking out in the streets. He ruffled his own hair, he let out a deep slightly annoyed grumble. “You live around here? I’ll get ya’ a taxi if you don’t.”

You lazily gazed at him, you mind failed to comprehend what he said for a few seconds, which felt like an eternity to him. You seemingly pointed in the direction of your residence. As you pointed, Nikolai curiously glanced at the red thread attached to your pinkie finger. It leads in the direction opposite to him. Like usual, he no longer paid any more mind to the red thread. It’s not like the other people around him were able to see it anyways. “Just ‘round the block…” You managed to speak, You started to stare off into space a bit. “I-i think?” You purse your lips and your brows furrowed.

How utterly hopeless…

He frowned, “Just tell me your address and I’ll take you home ‘kay?”

“No!” You whined, elongating the ‘o’ sound. ”I’m not going home with a stranger!”

He mocked, “Looks like someone knows stranger danger…”

You confidently puffed out your chest, “Yep! My mom taught me that!”

Nikolai prompted his elbow on his knee, he rested his head against his hand. He inhaled, amused. He talked with a dash of sarcasm, “Woah, your mother must’ve been real smart huh?”

You chirped, “Yep!” You stared at him, akin to the way a bird would gawk at whatever made a sound nearby.

“Are you an idiot?” He asked rhetorically. Your brow furrowed, you pouted. The drunken red of your face made you look disreputable.

He gulped deeply, “Sorry, never mind that…” HIs gaze was averted, he buried the bottom half of his face into his palm. He cleared his throat. He straightened out his posture, sitting up straight. He nudged your forehead with his pointer finger. “What’s important is that you're too drunk to be out!”

You spoke lazily, “Nuh uh…”

You wagged your finger at him. He couldn’t help but laugh, “Are you kidding me–!” He nudged your forehead once more, this time harshly. “Your drunk ass toppled over some stranger!” He jeered at you, though not in a rude manner. You rubbed your forehead in an attempt to soothe the pain as he snickered at you. His demeanor quickly changed into a more serious one, “You’re going home and that’s final.”

Your eyes averted from his, your mouth remained closed shut. Your body language felt nervous. You shook your head, your hair swayed as you did so.

“…I don’t wanna go home.”

He grew silent, a part of him wanted to ask why, but he knew it was better to say nothing. He could already infer what you were trying to imply. He just sat by you and listened to your words.

“It… it’s horrible there,” Your drunkenness spewed on uneasy amounts of honesty. “I live with my father, he’s the only living family I have. But the thing is, he's a nightmare. He yells my ear off, beats me when I don’t get his beers in time, and steals more than half of my salary.” You rolled your eyes, “Whatever…! He’s just a stereotypically stupid deadbeat dad!” You crossed your arms and your lips curled downwards. It’s clear that you wanted to say more, but you forced your own mouth shut. You sulked for a while before your face softened into a more sad one. Your body moved closer to his, your hand was unconsciously placed on his lap. Your face leaned in close to his, your eyes were big like a sad puppy. “So, please don’t make me go home–” The hand on his thigh trailed up to his bicep. Both of your arms wrapped around him, your face pressed up against his shoulder. “P-please, don’t Mister…”

He spoke stiffly, “I won’t.”

Let go, let go, let go–

He could’ve easily pulled your weak grasp off, yet he couldn’t bear too. His chest felt heavy, chaining webs shackled him. You pulled away from him, the warmth from your grasp still lingered. He felt a stinging feeling in his chest. How pitiful of him, just one sob story and he was already filled with pity, no. Attachment. He pursed his lips, no this isn’t something as silly as attachment, just a simple attraction to your physical appearance is all. Speaking of your appearance, your face was bright. A wide almost child-like smile was spread across your lips, your eyes shone with a mix of awe and hope. You grabbed both of his hands and clasped them together between your own. Your hands were ice cold from the lack of gloves, but his cheeks were producing all the heat he needed.

“Thank you so much!” Your tone was sweet, a sweetness that he wouldn’t have felt if you were sober. He knew that this friendliness was nothing more than a drunken reaction but he couldn’t help but be enthralled by your warmth. Nikolai has known attraction, and yet when his heart beats for you, it’s different.

He gave a second glance to something he thought he would never look at more than once. Just as he saw before no thread of his was attached to your fate. The fact that you weren’t connected to him started to bother him. How pitiful of him, just one sob story and he was already filled with pity, no. Attachment. A queasy feeling filled his mind at a realization–if you were bound to him he wouldn't mind being stripped of freedom. His mind tried to calm.

I am free, I wouldn’t be feeling this way if I weren’t.

Right, the separateness of the two of you only proved to him that he was free. If anything you were in a cage, a cage set in since birth, not him.

He’ll just set you free, free like him.