#when he's not longer seen by [you know who]

[dmitriene]

zombie simon riley who comes back to you, you know he's certainly dead, seen the way his body looked after being shot, unmoving, pale with eyes closed and pale eyelashes feathering against his cheeks, no longer tormented, he looked suspiciously calm, as if under an endless, thick veil of sleep that would not soon dissipate, especially when both his captain and the medics had announced to you the verdict that he was no longer here.

but you see him, coming back to your shared home should the night envelope the sky, you see his heavy, milky eyes, honeyed cornea is almost invisible behind the deathly veil, which does not disappear, plunging everything into cold, apathy from the mere sight, but something in simon seems to be the same familiar and warm, more than just a tormenting nightmare.

this is a deep, scarlet stain of blood on his chest, another scar among many others on his strong, steel like body, but this time deadly, a thin silver chain, holding a barely flickering on the ghostly glow of the moon's rays ring, the one that bound you together more than just comrades, friends, but as husband and wife, and therefore, even after the death, he found his way home.

visions, hallucinations, physical trauma, he can't be here, your dear simon, but for some reason, he moves, controls himself, his heavy, dirty shoes thumping on the floor, and you practically see he's leaving small traces of dirt, before you feel the warmth of his touch seeping through the thick fabric of his rough gloves, thumb pushing beneath your chin, cupping at your jaw, making you meet his gaze.

lidded, softened at the edges eyes that look at you with a longed, recognizing warmth, it's him, your husband, even if not alive, even if smelling of rot and metal tang of blood, cloaking you, muddling and messing with your head so cruelly, when simon rolls the edge of his balaclava up, messy, crumpled, fingers moving with effort, but when he does, your lips meet, teeth sliding, biting and licking, you know that your husband is back home.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[cressidagrey]

Stars all aligned - Chapter 2

Summary:

If there was one thing that both Azriel and Zahra Archeron had in common, it was that they were both very good at blending into the background.

They just never thought that their family were going to be the ones who never saw them at all.

Warning:

Bashing of like...every IC member? I think Rhys gets the worst though, kinda depression?, isolation, Cassian is an idiot, slut-shaming?, discussion of SA

(Lovely dividers thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics)

Azriel kept showing up. 

And Zahra kept letting him in. 

She had no fucking clue what possessed her. 

And yet every time Azriel showed up at her doorstep…she let him in without protest. 

He always brought food or he cooked. Always something to eat. And he always stayed until she had consumed an entire serving in front of her. 

She should tell him to stop. She should tell him to leave her alone.

But Zahra never said a word. 

Zahra couldn’t manage that. 

It wasn’t like she had had many private conversations with Azriel before. And she did get t to see a side of him that…she never seen before. The kind, gentle side with a biting sense of humour. She could be as bitter and cutting with him as she wanted to be and he gave back just as sharply…but it never got personal. They never hurt each other.

And she got to know him. Not the spymaster, not Rhysand’s most trusted spy….but Azriel. The male. Not the Illyrian warrior, not the fae…but just him. as a person. Azriel who loved good food and good books. Azriel who smiled and who was gentle and kind…and coaxed mice back outside with never-ending patience. 

It was strange, how easy it was to talk to him. How easy and relaxed it felt to spend time with him. How natural it was that he was there. 

As if it had always been the two of them cooking together. 

She shouldn’t get too used to it. It wasn’t going to last. Zahra knew it wouldn’t. But she allowed herself to bask in it. Just for a little bit longer. 

Bask in the feeling of…having at least one person in this new life that…dare she say it? Was like a friend to her.

A friend. When was the last time she had had one of those? 

She didn’t want to think about that.

Just like she didn’t want to think about it, when Azriel started showing up earlier, reports in hand and joined her in working at the rickety old kitchen table.

Zahra worked on the ledgers, sorting through the numbers. And he sat right across from her, reading through his reports, quietly sipping his tea. 

(He had brought better tea with him.)

Zahra had thought that he would annoy her… but they were utterly content with ignoring each other for hours at a time. No need for words or unnecessary conversation. Just the comfortable silence of each other’s presence. It was oddly…pleasant. 

And somehow his presence…it lit something inside her. When she dropped off the account ledgers the next time, she made a quick detour to a cheap antique store just a few doors down.

Zahra browsed through the shelves on the inside. 

It was a tiny shop, filled up to the brim with old stuff and odd trinkets from the past. And then she found something that made her pause. 

An absolutely ugly, oversized armchair with the most horrible plaid pattern…but it looked like it was made for wings. The one chair in her kitchen worked for Azriel because the back was narrow enough to slot through the middle of his wings, while the one she preferred wouldn’t have worked in a million years…but the couch she had…that was another story. No way that couch was comfortable for him. 

But this armchair….

It was perfect, if you were willing to overlook the absolutely hideous pattern. But Zahra kind of grew to like it with each second that passed. So she pulled on her best haggling skills and bought that monstrosity. 

And then Zahra had the seething hot realisation that she needed to get it home somehow. She felt a tug at the hem of her skirt and stared down to find a tendril of shadows tugging at her.

One of Azriel’s. She just knew it.

The same shadows that liked prowling through her rooms and pruning the sad basil plant on her windowsill… She was also quite sure that they had started to oil the hinges on her door, but she hadn’t yet caught them in the act.

“You don’t to be able to bring that home for me, do you?” She asked them drily. The shadows coiled in a way that made her assume that they were laughing at her. Or at least having fun. It was honestly hard to tell. But another tendril popped into existence as if to say ‚Yes, I can do that!‘ 

A moment later, the chair had disappeared.

Zahra just hoped it actually had been Azriel’s shadows and not another bunch that liked stealing stuff. The thought that she had just given a chair away to some random shadows for free was a slightly concerning one. Oh well. Hopefully, it would arrive at her house soon enough and not at some random place. She had just paid for a pretty decent sum of money for that monstrosity after all. 

She bought other stuff too. Like actual spices, so Azriel wouldn't need to keep bringing all of that with him every time...another couple of plates...A blanket for the living room...

She didn’t even know what possessed her to do that. It was like something inside of her just…woke back up again. She had been dead in more ways than one. But Azriel was slowly coaxing her back to life. 

She felt more alive than she’d done in a long time. She could actually feel her heart beating. Her blood rushing in her veins. She could…feel again. And it was such an odd sensation. 

To her surprise, the armchair stood in the middle of her living room when Zahra arrived home.

A little shadow wrapped itself around her wrist as she gaped at the monstrosity sitting in her living room. The shadow seemed proud of itself.

"Thank you," Zara said politely and the shadow ruffled up as it preened. It was honestly kind of cute. And it was odd to see it like this. A small little bit of…personality. So different from what she’d always thought the shadows would be like. 

Then the shadow disappeared again and she was left with…the armchair. Which was now placed right in the middle of her living room.

Damn it. She forgot about how absolutely ugly it was. 

But oh well. It fit right in with some of the flaking of paint in the rest of her house...and the rotting floorboards in one corner.

At least that armchair was comfortable. She had to admit it. There was something oddly charming about that ugly old chair. 

She sighed, ignoring the chair for the moment as she organised her spices in the kitchen and then went back to work.

Azriel showed up in the evening that day, blinking twice at the chair.

“Where’d you get that eyesore?” he simply asked in greeting. 

"Antique shop," Zahra gave back drily. "And I bought it for your wings, thank you very much."

That made him blink in surprise. "For my wings?" he echoed and his eyebrows shot up.  "You bought an armchair for me?" 

There was something about the absolute surprise in his voice that made her want to laugh. "Yes, I did, Shadowsinger," she confirmed. "And just for you, I will ignore that horrendous plaid pattern that is covering every inch of that hideous thing." 

His lips curved into a smile, something like fond amusement playing in his eyes. "What a kind thing of you," he returned with equal amounts of dryness. "To give me such a wonderful eyesore to keep my wings company." 

He dropped down into the chair and she had to admit that it was perfect for his wings. They slotted through the gap in the back and seat without problem and he looked like he melted into the cushions. 

"It may be the ugliest thing I have ever seen, but it is the most comfortable too," he admitted with a sigh.

A small smirk edged up her lips. "I know," she simply said. "So you are stuck with it now. Consider it as a present for all the food that you give me." 

He snorted in amusement.

His head dropped back and he looked up at her, his hazel eyes glinting in the dim light. His wings were flared all over the back of that chair and she couldn’t help but notice how damn huge they were. 

He was big. She knew he was, of course, but it was easy to forget when she saw him next to Cassian. But Azriel was broad and muscular all on his own…and his wings flared all over her living room really emphasised it. 

And for some damn reason, she had the sudden mental image of his wings wrapped around her. The thought was absolutely ludicrous and completely inappropriate. 

She firmly squashed the mental image and instead just focused on the fact that Azriel was still looking at her through half-lidded eyes. There was an amused, almost fond smirk on his lips. 

"Where do I get paint from?" she blurted out.

That made his eyebrows raise. "Paint? Why do you need paint?" he inquired as he sat forward and his wings folded back against his body. 

"I should probably do something against the flaking-off paint around here," she admitted with a shrug.

He pursed his lips in thought. “And I assume you’ll try to do this all by yourself.” That wasn’t a question. He sounded pretty damn certain what her answer would be. 

"Have you talked to your landlord?" he asked her. "Are you allowed to do that? I mean, whoever it is is probably going to be happy that you do something...to stop this whole house from falling apart, but still.” 

She rolled her eyes at him. "You know, this house is mine," she gave back drily. "I can do whatever I want with it."

Azriel’s brows shot up at that, an amused surprise in his eyes. “You own this place?” he echoed, clearly not having expected that. 

"I won it in a game of cards," she admitted drily. "The guy I won it from inherited it and wanted to get rid of it. Nobody wants it because it's out of the way, but I like it."

Her one and only time in a tavern had left her with the house. She should probably consider that beginner’s luck. 

“You won it in a game of cards…?” he repeated again, a note of genuine surprise in his voice. “Are you joking?” 

Her lips curled into a smirk. “Nope,” she said with great amusement. “Nine men's morris to be exact. The idiot lost it fair and square.” 

He was looking at her in a sort of disbelief, yet there was something like respect in his eyes. “Remind me never to play cards with you,” he said drily. 

She just shrugged. "It was just once," Zahra said with a sigh. "I went to one of the taverns...decided to get utterly wasted," she snorted. "I don't think becoming an alcoholic is for me, because I spent 3 days afterwards throwing up."

“The hangover must’ve been brutal,” Azriel commented dryly. "So you won a house in a game of cards."

She just gave a nod. “Pretty much, as ridiculous as it sounds. I do think it needs some paint though."

Azriel just snorted. "I think it needs more than paint," he said drily. "It probably needs to be demolished and built up again."

“It’s not that bad,” she protested, but even to her, that sounded weak. The place was a dump. It was a literal dump. "It has character," Zahra said, her resolve growing. "Just because it's a little broken, doesn't make it garbage," she whispered.

There was something sad in her voice and Azriel just looked at her, a certain quiet understanding in his eyes. And she cursed him inwardly, because he saw too much. 

He always saw too much. Saw through her defences and the walls that she’d built up. 

"You are right," he agreed. "It's a little bit broken. But I am sure can be fixed."

A sharp pang flared up in her chest at his words, as if that gentle acceptance and quiet understanding from him hurt. She pushed it down, refusing to examine the feeling too closely. 

"And there a few different shops in Velaris that sell...paint...and other...things to...improve a house."

"You mean to stop it from falling down onto my head?" she asked him wryly

“Exactly,” he responded with an amused smile as he folded his wings again. “And stop the drafty windows from letting in a constant, cold breeze.” 

Damn it…she had been hoping he hadn’t noticed that. But of course, he had, because he was observant. Far too observant. 

“And you know, maybe put in a proper lock at the door,” he continued drily. “And fix the leaking tap in the bathroom…”

Zahra rolled her eyes at that. “I like that dripping sound, it’s very melodic,” she said with sarcasm drizzling from her voice. 

It made him chuckle lowly. The shadows around him rippled and coiled in response to their master’s amusement.  “You have a strange concept of melodious sound, if you find dripping water to be in any way pleasing,” he told her drily. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, should I be swooning over the sound of a harp or the violin?” she rebutted with a sharp little snort. 

“Not necessarily,” Azriel replied with an amused smirk. “Any other sound would be better than that constant drip…Though I have been known to enjoy the symphony on occasion," he admitted to her. "Or even some of the taverns."

A snort of laughter left her lips at that, despite herself. “I can’t imagine you in a tavern,” she told him honestly. 

He shot her a dry look at that. “Why not?” he asked, raising a single eyebrow at her. 

“It just doesn’t fit,” she gave back bluntly. “You in your leathers, standing in the middle of rowdy drunks. Just seems so odd.” 

He rolled his eyes at that. “I know how to dress down,” he rebuked her drily. “And I also know how to blend in.” 

“You’d stick out like a sore thumb, even if you wore absolutely normal clothes,” she retorted. “Your muscles betray you, Shadowsinger.” 

He huffed at that and then leaned back into the armchair, arms folded. “Now you’re just being insulting,” he groused and she snorted. 

“Oh, did your ego get bruised, Shadowsinger? How terrible,” Zahra dead-panned, making him roll his eyes again. 

"Let's just see if I bother making dessert, for you if you continue that," he groused at her. "I got all the makings of caramel pudding."

“What?! No, wait.” She leaned forward, something like panic on her face. “You cannot dangle that in front of me and then not give in! I even bought you an armchair!" she told him, making him snort.

“It’s a hideous armchair,” he pointed out with a smirk on his lips. “You really think it’s a gift?” 

“Hey! You agreed that it was comfortable,” she protested. “And you can’t deny that your wings like it too.” 

He snorted as he stood up and walked into her kitchen.

She did get caramel pudding in the end. Of course, she did. Even Azriel wasn’t immune to some good old puppy eyes. 

***

Zahra bought him a chair. He wasn't quite sure what to do with that knowledge. 

The fact that she had thought of him enough to buy one for him…it was something he was still trying to process in his mind. 

With the idea that she had spent her own money not on something to make herself uncomfortable...with the fact that her own bed was a mattress on the floor...but she had made sure that the next major piece of furniture she bought hadn't been a proper bed...but instead an armchair for him.

The fact that she had deliberately put his comfort above her own…yeah, he still didn’t know what to do with that information. 

He also didn't know what to do with the information that he actually...he actually really liked her.

Maybe it had been there since the beginning and he just hadn’t noticed it. But the more time he spent with her, more she made him laugh or argue or just…talk. The more he started to like her and appreciate her company. 

She was quick-witted and smart...and so quick to bloom if anybody paid her any attention. And when it was just the two of them at her house...well, then it was...it was so easy. So comfortable.

He forgot to remember to make sure to not give her any reason to be scared of him because she never was. She didn't even blink twice if he came home with the carcass of a deer slung over his shoulder, only cleaned off the table so that she could help strip it.

She asked questions about what he was doing and genuinely seemed interested. Never judged or looked at him weirdly, because she just seemed to get it. Just took him being the spymaster in stride, because that was who he was. Accepted it almost like she accepted his shadows.

He didn't think he would even need to hide the blood that coated his hands, because Zahra didn't seem to care one way or another.

She didn’t even ask him where he had been during the day or what he did. She just accepted the blood and dirt that came with it. 

And quite frankly…if he did his work at her dining table or locked into his room at the House of Wind…who cared?

That dilapidated cottage at least had better company than his own brooding one.

And it never felt felt he was intruding on Zahra when she used him as free labour for whatever redecorating she was doing that day.

They replaced the floorboards…he helped paint the door…

In fact, he was willingly going to her house every night, like it was the most normal thing in the world to do. It probably wasn’t, but he didn’t care. Every evening, when Azriel was done with his duties, he simply dropped into her house. 

They cooked together. Illyrian recipes that he knew…then some that he didn’t know that he had asked his mother for, who had answered into a sprawling letter…recipes that Zahra knew from her human years…and then he brought a cookbook from the library in the House Of Wind and they did that too.

The one thing the two of them did agree on though, was that no dinner was complete without dessert.

They both had a horrible sweet tooth.

Unspokenly, Zahra was the one who lit the fire of the fireplace and the oven…who put food in the oven and pulled it out again.

Zahra didn’t say a word about it. She just did it.

He didn’t even think about who was doing what if he was being honest. He just enjoyed having a shared dinner and the easy conversations that were taking place. It became as routine as breathing, just being in her house and spending the evening with her. 

He tended to linger too. Kept staying with her. So that he doesn’t need to return to the House of Wind, try and fail to sleep and listen to Cassian’s and Nesta's enthusiastic lovemaking.

That was why he stayed. He really needed to avoid the lovebirds at all costs, because they were…just too damn loud. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so damn annoying. 

“If you want and ruin your back on my couch, be my guest,” Zahra said one evening and he froze, staring at her.

She had gained some weight. It looked good on her. No longer a back of skin and bones as she had been, but her cheeks were fuller, Her clothing filled out more.

His gaze briefly flicked up to the couch and the frown on his face grew. “Honestly, that thing is probably the worst place to sleep,” he muttered. “But…I think I prefer it over listening to my brother and his mate going at it.” 

“Nice,” Zahra said with a snort, seemingly unbothered by the comment. “Seems like they know what it means to respect your need for sleep.”

Azriel snorted at that too. “Not quite,” he retorted with dry amusement. “They just don’t care.” It was the damn truth. Cassian and Nesta didn’t even bother putting up any kind of noise-mutting spell to spare his already poor sleep. 

Still…if he stayed there…” Aren’t you worried that I…” he trailed off.

“What? Ravish me?” Zahra drawled. “You had every chance at it for weeks and you haven’t touched me. So no, not really, Azriel.”

“I simply don't want to overstep my boundaries,” he found himself saying quietly. "I wouldn’t force myself on you," he continued with a quiet severity in his voice. "Not ever." I am not a brute," he added firmly. 

“Oh trust me, I don’t think you're a brute,” Zahra told him dryly. “If you wanted to force yourself on me, then you would have done it weeks ago.” 

He nearly flinched at the matter-of-fact way she said that. 

“I would never do that,” he choked out. 

“You are a good man,” Zara said quietly.

Something in his chest flared at that. A mix of shame and guilt, because he was so far away from being a good man. “I don’t want to give you any reason to fear me,” he said quietly, the words tumbling out of him before he could even stop them. 

Her expression softened at that and he held his breath. His shadows coiled, as if they were holding their inhale as well, waiting for her response. 

“It’s funny…” she began quietly and he had to forcibly keep himself from leaning in. “You have never given me a reason. Never.” He blinked at that, a small sense of surprise flaring up in his chest. 

“I…have never once been scared of you,” she told him bluntly and he stared at her incredulously. Because how could she ever say that? How could anyone not be scared of the spymaster of the Night Court? The male who was rumoured to be the spawn of nightmares and death? 

“Don’t look so surprised,” she deadpanned at the sight of his undoubtedly shocked face. “Honestly, you’re the biggest softie I’ve ever met.” 

“I am not a softie,” he protested with a sharp frown on his face. “I am a literal Shadowsinger. I am anything but soft.” He told her firmly. 

“Sure…” she said with a sarcastic roll of her eyes, clearly not believing a word he said. “You are a terrifying man for sure, Shadowsinger.” He bristled at her cheeky tone. “That’s why you come over here every night and feed me.”

“I-” he paused, not knowing what to rebut with that statement. It was true. He came over every, single night to share dinner with her, to…just spend time with her. 

Zahra just laughed, patting his cheek and then disappeared into her bedroom. “Good Night!”

Azriel let out a long breath and just shook his head at her retreating back. Sometimes he had no idea what to do with her.

But he also couldn’t resist the smile that tugged on his lips and he moved over to the couch, curling up on it and trying to make himself comfortable as much as possible. 

Even when it was a far cry from a massive bed in the House of Wind…it was the best night of sleep he had in ages.

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he fell asleep fairly quickly. And even his shadows seemed to rest easy, coiling around his body and the couch like a cocoon. 

And for the first time in a long time, his dreams weren’t plagued by nightmares. 

He was awake before dawn, stocking up the fireplace and moving silently across the cottage so that Zahra could still sleep a few hours.

And then he winnowed to the House of Wind for a quick breakfast. He was out there preparing the training rings before anybody else.

It also meant that the shadows were happily trembling around him.

Which was good, because he still had a question to ask them.

“How high are the chances that you cheated at cards so that Zahra would get that house?” He asked the shadows drily.

There was a tendril of shadows assigned to each family member. Only so that Azriel would know where they were at every given moment. He never asked the shadows for more, he respected everybody’s privacy as well as he could…but…But this hadn’t let him go for weeks.

No answer.

He hadn’t expected one.

“Of course,” he said with a sigh. “You like her.” It wasn’t a question.

We do! The shadows answered brightly. She treats Master well!

His lips curled up into a slight smirk at that. They were right. She did treat him well. She never treated him like an intimidating male…she just treated him like any other person. With respect. With kindness. 

Teasing him.

He chuckled to himself at the memories of her teasing him, the way they bickered as if that was the most usual thing in the world. 

She isn’t scared of us like the other ones, the shadows whispered softly.

It was clear who they meant with that comment. Elain and Mor both. Zahra seemed to find the shadows more fascinating than anything. Talking to them even sometimes. In response, the shadows doted on her. Happy for once not to be ignored and outright feared.

He hummed his agreement at that. She wasn't scared of them…and they were growing quite fond of her. Which…he wasn't quite sure how he felt about that. 

She’s pretty too, Master, the shadows commented quietly.

Azriel paused in his work at those words. Yes, she was pretty. With her tawny skin and dark brown hair…and green eyes….Her skin seemed to bloom with health. The way her body had filled out, her hips gaining more curves, her face getting softer. 

Though it did surprise him that the shadows made that comment. They had never done something similar about any other female…even females he had bedded.

That was certainly a surprise. He had to pause and think about it for a few moments. The shadows had never made any sort of comment like that on another female. On any female in fact. Yet they thought her pretty. That…was a thought he filed away for later. 

She doesn’t have a mate either…she’s free of…romantic entanglements, the shadows continued quietly. If you wanted her….

He froze at that. “Are you trying to convince me to pursue her?” He spoke out loud to the shadows. 

You like her. She would make you happy, the shadows responded. What’s the harm? 

“There is no harm,” he mumbled to them quietly, his fingers curling tighter around the handle of the spear that he was holding. “Nothing except that she would likely not be interested.” 

And he was done with that. Done with being turned down. Done with never being a choice.

If he just stayed her friend…he got to spend time with her…he got to listen to her laughs and giggles. He got to be treated by her with kindness and respect. Why destroy that?

It would be cruel and selfish to ruin the friendship he had gained by trying to turn that into anything else. She trusted him. She treated him like a person. And he wanted to keep it like that. 

And Zahra deserved better than him still being half hung up over Elain. Her sister.

Though to be quite honest…he had let that go. Elain had chosen Lucien and that was that. Azriel was more pissed off about how Rhysand was treating him than anything.

Though he never showed it, he was quietly furious at how Rhysand was treating him. After he had agreed to back off…he had hoped Rhysand would stop acting like an overprotective mother hen. 

He didn't.

And then Mor's Mating Bond with Emerie had snapped and apparently that meant that Rhys was now waiting for Azriel to have a meltdown.

Which he wasn't going to have, thank you very much.

He could think that how Mor had treated him had been utterly unfair...and he could still wish her nothing but the best.

The only thing that he had wished for had been a single conversation with his friend. But she didn't seem to want to have that and so Azriel hadn't pushed. Maybe it was better that way.

It was better that way, he was sure of that. The…closeness they had once shared was gone. Maybe forever. But he was more or less alright with that.

They could all leave him in peace and he would do the same for them.

He made that calculation without Cassian, who came bounding into the training ring with all the energy that Azriel was never quite sure where his brother got it from.

He had barely even put down his spear that Cassian bounded into the training rings, his face split into a broad grin. It was clear that his…morning activities with Nesta had been enjoyable as usual. 

“There you are,” Cassian said with a boisterous grin, clearly not noticing the rather sour mood that Azriel was in. “You look....surprisingly well rested," Cassian said, cocking his head to the side.

“I slept well,” Azriel answered simply, pointedly avoiding eye contact with his brother. He knew damn well what Cassian was going to be asking. 

“You slept well,” Cassian repeated, drawing out every word and making it clear that he was not going to let that go. “Care to specify where?” He asked point blank and Azriel’s jaw tensed. 

Azriel could not suppress the low growl that came from him at that. He was not in the mood to be teased by his brother. And he was also not in the mood to listen to another innuendo-filled conversation about Cassian and Nesta’s sex life. 

“Not one word about that,” he told his brother firmly and Cassian just laughed. 

“Oh come one.” He drawled. “I have to get my fun somewhere. Everyone else is mated already. I have to bother someone!” 

It wasn't supposed to hurt him. He didn't think so. But it still did. It cut. Sharp and deep.

The words cut deep, much deeper than Azriel would have wanted to admit. His jaw tensed and his hand clenched around the spear so hard that it might have creaked. He knew it was a joke…but it didn’t change the fact that it had stung. 

And Cassian didn't seem to notice that at all. "Come on, give me details!"

“There are no details to be given,” Azriel said simply, his voice carefully neutral. “Just because I am not spending the night and listening to the two of you going at it like rabbits, does not mean I have someone in my bedroom.” The words were harsher than he had intended. 

“Don’t tell me you do it in some grimy back alley with a random wench?” His brother teased him and Azriel’s temper flared. The Shadows curled and snarled around him, his temper snapping. 

“I would thank you for not speaking about females that way, and no I am not ‘doing it in a back alley’”, he retorted with a low growl in his voice.  “You should stop talking before you piss me off,” he warned his brother through gritted teeth.  It took all his willpower to make sure that no shadows lashed out. This was Cassian. His brother. 

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Cassian raised his hands, clearly seeing how his words had affected his brother. “I was only teasing. You can be so damn tense about some things. You need to relax,” he said and Azriel had to resist the very real urge to throttle him. 

[nightingale-prompts]

Talking to Batboy

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"Do you want to talk?" Dick asked sitting at the end of the bed.

Danny had been spared from the memories of that night but it had done nothing for his mental health. He was handling the loss of his wings well at least. Although losing a limb was still not a good feeling.

But that isn't the problem. None of this is the problem.

The problem was…

"Why me?" Danny asked tucking his legs to his chest.

"What?" Dick asked confused.

"What made me so special? Was it just my wings?" Danny narrowed his eyes.

"I...don't know. I just wanted-"

"That's not an answer! It was the wings, wasn't y You don't care about me! Of course, it was the wings!" Danny jumped off the bed and moved towards the door.

"Danny, is it so hard to believe that I wanted you because I cared?" Dick grabbed Danny's hand pulling him back.

"Yes! This city is full of poor unfortunate orphans. The only reason I was special was because of how I looked. But that's not real! That's not what I am." Danny shifted, and his real appearance began shifting across his body. "BUT YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE THE REAL ME!

Danny started to hyperventilate as he pulled back until he hit the wall. He slumped to the floor.

"I don't belong here. I should never have come here." Danny said to himself.

Dick keeled down and spoke gently.

"Your right you did stand out. I thought you were a lot like me. Optimistic and energetic despite the pain you were in. I didn't know what you were and I still don't understand. I wish you'd just tell me so I can understand. I want to help you."

Danny scoffed.

"You want to help me?" He laughed taking off his shirt and letting his glamour fall showing the scars he had.

The lightning scar that ripped through his arm and chest all the way to his eye. The burn marks and blast marks littered his body. The unmistakable dissection scar.

In that moment Dick knew that he hadn't seen himself in Danny. He had seen Jason. Sweet little Jason who has a light in the night. His little brother who he hadn't treasured enough until he was gone.

"Danny…you.." He was lost for words.

"You don't want me. Even my parents didn't want me. Honestly, you are all the same. You don't see me as what I am. Just a monster. Not human." Danny grumbled.

"That's not true Danny! Stop trying to put words in my mouth! I love you, is that so hard to believe?" Dick held Danny's shoulders as the teen pushed him back.

"Yes! Now get away!" Danny phased through Dick and flew away to escape. He couldn't handle this right now.

Wings or no wings he could still fly. That was comfort enough.

He flew as quickly as he could only to end up in Crime Alley again. As eerie as it was it gave him a place to collect his thoughts.

Unfortunately, he forgot it was home to the relevant Red Hood or Jason. His unwitting family member. That was no longer a secret especially when Jason recognized him as Phantom. At least he didn't tell everyone.

He didn't want them to know the truth. He did want to be an undead monster to them. He could go through that again. He refused. He'd rather return to the realms before suffering that again.

When Jason came (probably sensing his presence) Danny felt overcome with emotions. He hugged Jason feeling a little less alone.

"Hey, Spooks. What are you doing out here?" Jason asked letting the boy hug him.

"I…picked a fight with Dick," Danny said embarrassed with how he acted…again.

"First time?" Jason laughed "Trust me as his kid you probably will do that plenty more times. I know I still do with my ol'man. But Dick isn't like Bats. He loves differently. Although they both care too much, Dick is good at communication. Just talk to him."

Jason seemed more jovial now. Less pained. Apparently, now that the Joker was dead and gone a weight was taken off him. That and the tainted ectoplasm being eaten by Danny.

"I don't think I can," Danny said, what he wanted to do was run away. He may have gotten too deep into this. Maybe returning was the best thing.

"Then you sure chose the worst possible guardian. He's gonna keep looking. He did not going to stop either. So sucking it up and facing him is the best possible route." Jason laughed as Danny sighed. "You can't keep running."

"I can try." Danny thought bitterly. He could just rip open a portal and disappear. No one would know.

"Red Hood. Danny." A third voice entered the conversation.

"Batman." Jason scowled.

"I was sent to look for Danny." He said simply. "He should be focused on healing."

"How'd you find me this fast?" Danny gripped rolling his eyes.

"I had a feeling. Come along, Danny. " Batman reached out to Danny.

Reluctantly Danny waved goodbye to Red Hood and took Bruce's hand.

Bruce didn't take Danny home immediately. Instead, they climbed one of the tallest buildings in Gotham. Danny stared up at the sky. The stars were blocked out by the light and smoke. He always hated that part of Gotham.

"Danny look down," Batman said urging Danny to sit with him.

Looking down the city shined. Each light is like a blazing star.

"Each light you see is a person. Despite how difficult life is here they still choose to live their lives." Batman said. "They don't know if they will be safe but they still strive for more."

"Do they really think that or do you just hope they do?" Danny barked clinically.

"Both. It wasn't always like this. The city used to be dead silent before I became Batman. Now they have the strength to fight back even in the night. That's why I do this. So Danny, why do you fight?"

Danny was never really asked this. He had a reason right? A good one.

"I wanted to protect my hometown." Yet he no longer needed to do that. He controlled the ghosts now. They lived a peaceful life now.

"Then we have something in common. I want to protect Gotham. But I'm not perfect. The world we live in is unpredictable with forces we don't understand. I thought if I understood something then I'd have no reason to fear. That suspension was leveled at you because I thought it would protect you and the world. However, I only made you afraid."Batman apologized. He wasn't very good at that but he was genuine.

"What if I'm a threat? What if I'm dangerous and hurt people? People you care about." Danny wanted to aim that barb at Bruce but it actually hit him. He was scared that one day he would become that other version of himself.

"Then I want to help you because I know you don't want to hurt people. Trust me there isn't a metahuman on earth that doesn't share your fear." Batman put a hand on Danny's shoulder.

It felt surprisingly warm against his cold skin.

"I want to talk to Nightwing. I think. I think I'm ready to talk." Danny was finally ready to tell him the truth. Even if it scared him to death.

[periprose]

Can I have a Logan Howlett x Angel!Fem!Reader where Logan sees the reader in the kitchen having a bit of a meltdown and uncomfortable feeling over holding a knife (for like, cooking reasons or smth) and he calms her down because the reader just doesn’t want to hurt anyone :(? I’d appreciate it thanks! (I’ve seen you wanted more Angel reader, so im here to reciprocate :3)

AHhhh this fits so well Anon (maybe unintentionally so, the previous fic had a little snippet about Angel's mom trying to stab her when she was young...) but I love your brain. I made it a bit longer and added some stuff and it's set before the previous Logan Gains a Guardian Angel fic (LGGA for short) so they're not together yet.

Knives Drip Chocolate (or, Logan Gains a Guardian Angel)

Word Count: 2.9k

Genre: Angst, fluff, hurt with comfort, mutual pining, idiots in love, mild traumatic flashback stuff (but no violence)

LGGA Masterlist

Logan is always ready for a late-night snack.

It’s hard for him to feel full, a lot of the time– he didn’t always have the easiest access to food, and he’s known for a while, if there’s a brief period in his immortal-like life where he can just relax about food and supplies, he shouldn’t take that for granted. 

Plus with an accelerated healing factor, sometimes his body starts digesting food too quickly, leading to faster body repair, but nothing to feel satisfied about.

So he’s got tons of cravings. Something that you are constantly bothered about, even now, as Logan knocks on your door, asking yet again if you’d accompany him to the kitchen.

Not that you actually mind. Sometimes you think you’d follow Logan into hell if he asked nicely enough, despite your occasionally evasive attitude keeping him on his toes.

“Angel, please. I’m starving.” Logan’s grumpy complaints are muffled behind your door, and you wonder why a nearly 200 year old man needs you so badly, to be by his side, when he’s spent so long being a loner.

“I’m coming.” You yawn, pulling yourself out of your bed– Storm is your roommate, and she’s passed out, stone cold. You quickly finger comb your hair, and fix your giant t-shirt, so your shoulder isn’t so exposed.

Silly, because you know Logan doesn’t care.

It’s bad. It’s really, really bad, because you don’t want to get attached to Logan, not when he’s sure to toss you aside like he’s done with the rest of them eventually. But you can’t help yourself– Logan is easy to be around, he knows your fears and little quirks, and he has never treated you like you’re so different for being a little quiet, like him. 

You know everyone has noticed. When you open your bedroom door, and Logan stares at you for a moment– an unreadable, soft glance in his eyes, one that you could choose to ignore, but don’t, as you stare back at him– you know all the other X-Men see it. Some silly crush you have on him, that clearly confuses Logan himself as he shakes his head, and pulls you by the arm out of your room, your PJs and hair askew.

Logan himself looks good, you have to admit– wearing lazy sweatpants and a white tank-top, his arm muscles looking especially defined tonight– and you pull your arm away, embarrassed that you give into these feelings so easily.

He’s only ever going to be your best friend. Even now, there’s nothing romantic about the way Logan asks if you want a ham and cheddar sandwich, too. He’s just looking out for you. 

Jean, Scott, and Storm have literally asked you, more than once, if you and Logan had maybe slept together, or kissed, or anything that would be a culmination of some supposed lust, in which case you always laugh awkwardly and deny everything. 

Your excuse is that it’s deeper than that, and it’s one-sided. What would be the point of bringing it up if it would just end in heartbreak?

“Earth to Angel.” Logan shakes your arm, breaking your stride. “Hey, that’s kind of funny, isn’t it? You’re always up in Heaven. Daydreaming about who the hell knows what.”

“Haha, Logan.” You mockingly say in a deadpan voice. “What is it?”

“Your wings are flexing a little bit, again, like they’re about to open. They’re kind of pulsing.” He says it in a soft tone, ushering in some concern he has, and you find yourself wishing that you were someone normal, someone that Logan didn’t have to care so much about. 

It’s not that you’re not happy to have his concern, it’s just that you don’t know what to do with it. Thank him for it? You have never been used to people looking out for you.

“It’s fine. Sometimes I get muscle spasms, it’s nothing to worry about.” You mutter, knowing it has to do with anxiety, but Logan looks a bit unconvinced.

“Okay. But if you keep having weird tremors, I’m taking you to the hospital wing so you can get diagnosed.” Logan states, and you open your mouth to argue, but he tuts. “No arguing about this. Last thing we need is for you to die from stress or cancer or something.”

Your heartbeat quickens, not at the mention of cancer, but because Logan used we and now you’re just thinking about how you’re always together.

Not like that, though.

“Okay, Logan. I get it.” You shake your head. “I won’t die.” 

“Not yet. We got snacks to eat.” Logan agrees, as he leads you into the kitchen.

/

Logan’s got you working on making hot chocolate as he makes the sandwiches, pan-frying them till the cheese is hot and melty. 

It’s not really a common mix, you think, but you’re just happy to be helping.

“Careful. Milk boils over fast.” Logan comments from next to you, mostly focused on his own side of the stove, and you roll your eyes.

“I know that.” You retort, but as you look away from the stove for one second, the pot of milk nearly does boil over, and you swear, reducing the heat quickly.

Logan starts laughing. “Told you.”

You shove him lightly, and he has a stupid grin on his face, one where you know Logan takes such joy in teasing you at times. Like this is one of the greatest pleasures in life.

You move the milk over to the counter, to let it cool, and then remember something semi-important. 

“Logan? Don’t forget, Scott wanted extra ham for the Hawaiian pizza they’re making tomorrow–” As you’re reminding him, Logan wordlessly shows you the empty ham package, telling you that he used all of it for the sandwiches.

“You snooze, you lose.” Logan shrugs, and you close your eyes in partial defeat, trying not to laugh at his antics.

“I guess, but you never seem to lose, and Scott’s always chewing me out for your ‘mistakes.’” You point at yourself, tongue poking through the side of your mouth, and Logan raises his eyebrows. “Tell me: Am I snoozing, or are you just lucky that I take the blame?”

“Ah, Angel… you’re obviously asleep.” Logan smirks, and you scoff at his audacity, having expected a semi-apology from him. “No one ever said you had to take the blame for my snacks. You could’ve just told him it was Jean, and he wouldn’t have asked any questions.”

You blink at him. “Lying to our team’s leader aside, why Jean?”

“C’mon. Scott’s crazy over her, they’ve been together for however long, and he can never say no to her. It’s the perfect excuse– he wouldn’t even ask her about missing food, so not to offend his sweetheart.” Logan pauses, a thoughtful look taking over his features, and he scratches his chin. “I guess love really is blind.”

“Wow. You had that takeaway based on gaslighting both Scott and Jean? You really are an unfeeling old man.” You giggle, and Logan glances over at you, his face heating up at your laugh, a sweet sound that always pushes a warmth into his chest.

If Logan was honest, he understands Scott perfectly. Sure, he could play the part of the curmudgeonly old man, and lie to you– but in truth, he was doing that because he likes you.

Just like Scott. Logan likes you so much, that he would honestly lie to you just to protect your relationship– whether that be about missing food, or if you talk about some other dude someday, and he has to pretend he’s all ecstatic for you, as he often worries about. 

He knows it’s bad. And he doesn’t like it, either. Logan insists to himself, in pure self denial, that this love he has for you doesn’t exist, because he would rather be given even a little bit of your presence as a friend, than to be entirely shut out by you upon imminent rejection.

But even he knows he protests too much. Of course he loves you, how could he not?

Logan thinks of you as his personal guardian Angel. It’s silly, of course– but you’re the one who helps him make better choices, doing the right thing more often than not. He’s an idiot– you’re a beautiful genius of a woman, and it bothers him so deeply that you keep to yourself.

He looks over at you. You’re chopping up a bar of dark chocolate, and your gaze is intensely focused– Logan has seen the same expression on you when you’re beating up a bad guy. You’re thinking, murmuring something to yourself, probably thinking about hot chocolate.

Your eyes turn wide, glassy, and you inhale sharply.

Logan immediately comes to your side. “Angel?”

Logan’s voice doesn’t fully register to you.

The knife gleams in the low lighting of the kitchen, as you turn it over and over in your hand, dark brown chocolate smudging the blade, and then you look down to your palms.

Where your hands are covered in dark, melted chocolate, after you’ve been holding the chocolate bar to chop it up– the liquid is almost amber in hue. 

“...blood.” You whisper something unintelligible, but Logan catches the last word.

You retch to yourself, hyperventilating over the counter, back hunched over, the knife still clenched in your palm.

“Angel, hey–” Logan squeezes his way between the counter and your right arm, where your hand is holding the knife, and he firmly pulls it away from you, grabbing it blade-first without even thinking about it, and you gasp, shouting at him to get away.

Logan stops, at a loss for words. You’re trembling, you’re no longer holding the knife, but you can’t stop looking at your hands.

He grabs your arms a bit more gently, turning you towards him, and you’re lost in some train of thought that Logan can’t stop.

Mom sliced up one of my hands once… it’s been years, but it looked just like this.

Then I got her back, by accident… it was an accident, Angel.

“What’s wrong?” Logan looks down at you in fear, worry that something may actually be very wrong, and you haven’t told him a thing.

He thinks he shouldn’t have assumed you were always alright. He knows you aren’t– he just finds it difficult to surpass your avoidant attitude. He’s never seen you have a full blown panic attack like this before.

Your wings are subtly twitching again, folded against your back, but threatening to open up to full expanse, and you shake your head, lip quivering, as you look down at the floor.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” You utter so softly, so heartbreakingly tiny, and Logan feels himself turning cold at your words, wondering if you’d really done something that terrible.

With a kitchen knife, of all things. He wants to hug you firmly now.

He knows even if it was true– there’s no way that was your fault, no way Logan wouldn’t have sussed that out based on instinct. 

“It isn’t…” Logan starts, wanting to say it wasn’t your fault, but he doesn’t know how that will go over with you. “You’re not going to hurt anyone. Where is that coming from?”

“Just a bad memory.” You say with a shaky breath, the most information you’re willing to give him at this moment, and you know– you know– Logan is never going to be satisfied with that answer.

You don’t want to scare him off. This is the first time you could even say you have a best friend, and you don’t want Logan to pity you or feel like you were incapable of taking care of yourself. You don’t want him to see you like your mother did.

Logan frowns. Then, instead of asking you a question, he traces the back of your wings, which causes a shiver in your body.

You close your eyes, expecting to feel tense, scared, and horrified, but instead you feel calm, almost placid. Being touched by Logan makes you feel like everything is going to be alright.

Your wings stop shaking, and Logan hands you a wet paper towel. You wipe your chocolatey hands, which puts you at ease, seeing your clean hands again. 

“Sorry. I don’t mean to make you my caretaker.” You whisper, always worried about others’ perception of you, and Logan shakes his head.

“I don’t mind, Angel. As long as you’re alright.” Logan has a tentative look on his face, and you’re almost embarrassed, that you like being taken care of so badly, and he hugs you tightly, arms wrapped around your back, a near bone crushing hug that has you nestled in his chest, fit under his jaw as he places his head on top of yours.

Your heartbeat slows down. You’re not panicking any more, but it seems like Logan, too, is reaping some sort of benefit by being so close to you. He inhales deeply, and the sigh rumbles through his chest into you.

You could almost cry. You spent so much of your childhood never being close to anyone, and being held is cathartic in a way you can’t even describe.

Logan doesn’t let go until you do. Then he has the audacity to look a little sheepish, like he had done something un-Logan and uncool, and you almost feel pained, like you should push him away, and go to sleep on your own.

It’s such an odd feeling, to both want his concern, and to wish you never needed to do so.

You stare up at him, and Logan smiles, a soft smile that he hopes reads as comforting rather than a snarl, and you can’t help yourself for what you ask next.

“Could I sleep in your room?” You ask, biting back the immediate disclaimers of it’s okay if you don’t want to. “I’m just better when I’m around you.”

There’s also the thing of waking up Storm if you enter back in now, and explaining that you had yet another panic attack. She’ll be mad.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay.” Logan murmurs, wondering if you meant to make that sound so devotedly sweet, something that causes his insides to seize a little.

He feels better around you, too.

You’re usually good at hiding this side of yourself from him– it’s another step deeper, another step too far into your relationship to take back– and now you worry you’ll never really be able to separate.

Logan ruffles your hair, and all is right again.

/

He makes you eat at least a bite of the sandwich, and sip a little hot chocolate– the rest is placed in the fridge for some other mutant to eat.

Logan won’t let you go to sleep without a meal, or in this case a few nibbles, if he can help it.

“Moods are worse on an empty stomach.” Logan grins, and you smile, feeling a little more at ease.

“You’re not you when you’re hungry.” You joke, and Logan rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, save that for when we’re pilfering Kurt’s Snickers bars.” He snorts. 

Logan leads you to his room, oddly silent the entire time. It’s not that Logan isn’t typically quiet, it’s that it feels more tense. He’s keeping to himself, and he doesn’t seem to have anything against you– he has only a kind expression for you, when you meet his eyes.

Finally, you both arrive to his bedroom door. Logan is lucky– he doesn’t have to room with anyone– and you’ve been in here plenty of times.

Still, that doesn’t explain why it takes him a second to enter in the room, as you follow him in.

It’s sparsely decorated in here– one poster of the Calgary Flames is on Logan’s wall, and there’s a mug with random, assorted pens on his desk. His bed has never been filled with loads of stuffed animals and pillows like other X-Men (read: Jubilee) would have. There’s a pile of assorted flannels, jackets, and scarves hanging off a coat rack.

It’s comforting, though. Logan is a simple man, and you like being close enough to understand him, to see the small remnants of things he likes.

“Well. The bed’s there, if you’d like. Don’t let me stop you.” Logan points to the bed, and he starts walking towards the leather recliner next to the window.

“Logan. Stop.” You grab him by the arm, and he pauses, slightly scared, mostly enthused by what you’ll say next. “It’s okay with me if we sleep next to each other.”

“...Okay.” Logan watches as you climb into his bed, hoping it’s comfortable, and doing a weird thing of personally memorizing the way you lay and snuggle down, in case you never do this again.

You’re next to the wall, so Logan stays on his side, lying down close to the edge of the bed. And you’re keeping your distance– so is he.

You turn, and Logan is already looking at you. He glances away.

“Good night, Angel.” Logan utters softly, and with that, you turn to your side, to fall asleep.

/

When Logan wakes up, he freezes, so not to move you. Somehow, through out the night, you ended up snuggled around him, sprawled against his chest, your arms lightly wrapping around him.

He loves it. He’s glad to see he’s been useful for once– he gave you a good night’s sleep.

[kykyonthemoon]

Hello, i've read your work recently and i'm in love with your writing! If you mind can i ask where the reader somehow remember their past life and saying sorry to the love and deepspace character? I wonder about their reaction where mc feels really guilty at them. Thank you <3

Dear lonely-dreamer,

Thank you so much for the request. It took awhile but I finally managed to finish it. Since we know too little about Sylus (or even Caleb), I wrote for only the 3 first MLs. I might write something else for Sylus and Caleb later :3

Hope you like this piece. Have a wonderful day!

Lost. Found.

When you suddenly find the memories of the past lives, which you once lived with him.

── .✦ Character x Female Reader|MC

Included parts in order: Rafayel, Xavier, Zayne.

♡︎. Tags: angst, hurt/comfort, short, myths related.

♡︎. Word count: 2k1

── .✦ Masterlist ♡ Request a fic - currently closed.

Roam on, my love

down life's

long road

we will

be lost

and found

a thousand times

before

we meet again.

— ATTICUS.

Rafayel

Talia came to find Rafayel in the middle of the night, while you were still half asleep, feeling his warmth slowly fade from the space next to you in bed. You sensed a major event had happened, which was why Talia hurried here alone at such a dark hour, looking so terrified. 

You had intended to go downstairs and make some tea for the guest. But as soon as you reached the stairs, Talia's voice echoed through the half-open door. 

"He will not be the last Lemurian to be slain... You know that, don't you, Rafayel? That we don't have any time left..."

Your bare feet paused. The cold air from the stone stairway touched your palm, waking you up. Yes, you were no longer dreaming. This was real. As real as everything you had seen since touching that protocore. During a mission last month, you happened to resonate with a strange protocore. It caused you to perceive illusions, but not quite so. They were like recollections from your past lives, fragmented and sewn together in front of your eyes.  The feud between you and Rafayel from a long, long time ago.

So you were aware that your tale and what Talia had said were related. Rafayel’s silence made her even more impatient. She added:

“They want her, Rafayel. They will come for you. I can’t convince them anymore… They will find her sooner or later. You already know the price…”

Time passed slowly in the dark corridor. You understood everything Talia had said, that the girl was you. What the Lemurians desired was inside your chest. You remembered, not everything, but vivid dreams told you what you had done to the Lemurians, to Rafayel.

But it wasn’t you. It was a completely unfamiliar version of you. 

A moment after Talia left, you entered the room. The warm firelight from the enormous fireplace filled the room and illuminated Rafayel's slumped back. When he heard your footsteps, he turned around with a feeble smile and asked: 

“Why are you out here, my princess? Did I and our unexpected guest awaken you?” 

You gazed at him for a brief moment. After all, you understood that every time he called you princess, it was not just a loving pet name.

You moved closer and hugged Rafayel. You had not told him about your dreams or what you had recalled. That night, you were determined to tell him everything.

Rafayel was astonished. The warm firelight in his eyes blurred, and pure white pearls began to tumble to the floor.

“I’m sorry… Rafayel… I’m so sorry…”

Rafayel seized your hands, drew them closer, and kissed them with his lips.

"To be loved, it's not a sin."

His fingers tenderly wiped the tears from your face. He had waited so long for you to discover who you really were, and at the same time he hoped you would never know. That way you could live your days freely, not bound by the hatred of the past. Yet you still remembered everything.

Your breathing became heavy with each sob. You said: 

“Rafayel… If you want my heart…”

"I want it to stay there," Rafayel said. "Within your chest. It's yours. Across the past, present, and future. I have never once regretted giving it to you. If you remember, you know I always try to rewrite our story, right?”

“But the Lemurians…”

“They are losing faith in me. I understand. But all I need is your faith. We will get through this and never be apart again. Do you understand?”

You did not dare to believe that there might truly be a happy ending for you and Rafayel. But in that moment, as you gazed into his resolute eyes, you realized that you would do everything just to stay with him.

Xavier 

Lately, you had a hunch that Xavier was going to leave. 

Ever since you returned from that mission, there appeared to be an unseen divide between you two. You knew it was not him, it was you. The mysterious protocore you accidentally came into contact with during the mission caused you to see things. The dreams were fractured, with no beginning or end. However, you comprehended them as if they were recollections from your former lives.

You kept it hidden from Xavier. He merely thought you were acting odd since you returned, but he would not compel you to say anything against your will. You secretly searched for evidence to back up what you suspected. And you found it.

You knew about the Backtracker fleet. You knew about Philos. And you knew about Lumiere.

Xavier kept everything hidden for your safety. And yet, you kept this a secret because you did not wish for him to suffer. Again.

You still did not know what to say to him, or how to compensate for his loss. He had sacrificed so much, for you. But somewhere inside, you still felt a little resentful that he had left you all alone. You knew he was ready to make the same decision as when he abandoned you at Philos.

“Go to bed early.” Xavier stroked your head gently. “In a few days, when you wake up, I’ll be by your side.”

Lie.

“Do you really have to go?” You hesitated. “I mean… You could have refused this mission.”

You could have stayed. You could have told me the truth.

"I have to go." Xavier responded. He gently squeezed your cheek. "But I'll be back shortly. Do not worry too much. Remember to eat well and skip any meals. Don't stay awake too late. It's getting colder; remember to stay warm. If you are bored and miss me, you may play the video games I recently purchased or watch the unfinished movies..."

It sounds like you're not coming back! You held back the tears and replied:

“If you don’t come back soon, I might have to watch them all by myself.”

“Then I’ll have to ask you to tell me the plots.” Xavier smiled. He lightly kissed your forehead. “I’ll leave now.”

You sat on the sofa, listening to his footsteps as they slowly walked away. A slight "click" was heard as the door closed.

His mission was only an excuse. A few days back, you overheard him and Jeremiah talking. He intended to use this expedition to stage a phony "missing case" to distract those who had betrayed him. With Jeremiah, he would lead them away from Linkon, away from you.

He chose to leave you. Again.

Warm tears streamed down your cheeks.  All alone, what should you do? You recalled the scene in the past, in which you sat on the throne with the blessings of so many people, yet absolutely on your own. You had counted every star waiting for the day Xavier would return to you as promised. But he had completely disappeared.

This time, he pledged to return to you. This time, he would also break his promise.

You brushed the tears away. You had been thinking a lot in the last several days. You still blamed Xavier, but you understood why he had done so. And you had distanced yourself from him since you were unsure how to confront him. But, at this point, none of that mattered when you might lose Xavier again. Forever.

You raced out of the home. You did not care about the past. You had no concern what the future held. The most important thing to you right that moment was Xavier alone.

Unable to wait for the elevator, you decided to run. You caught Xavier standing outside, likely waiting for Jeremiah. You hurried over to embrace his back. To Xavier's amazement and your weeping, you stated:

“Don’t go… Xavier… Don’t leave me alone again… I’m sorry that I assumed you left me to find your true star… I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, that ever since I touched that protocore, I started remembering what happened in Philos… I know who you are. Who I am… So don’t think you can fool me again… This time, I’ll go wherever you go. Let me face it with you, okay?…”

Xavier did not have time to respond. You could feel his entire body shudder as a burning tear fell onto your hand, which he had just squeezed so tightly.

Zayne 

"Doctor Zayne is out of danger. You can come in." Greyson's voice sounded out. Yvonne stood alongside him, relieved. You nodded at each of them and entered the hospital ward.

How strange, since in all the previous cases, it was Zayne standing here, and you were the one lying on the bed.

There was an attack on the outskirts of Linkon. You were sent to investigate, and Zayne had accompanied his team from Akso Hospital to treat the injured. While fighting the Wanderers, you encountered a peculiar protocore. It had drawn you into a bizarre realm where you appeared to glimpse the lives you had once lived, with Zayne.

You were not sure how long you had been there. It was like a dream, with no sense of time or who you were. You were lost down there, so deep that Zayne had given up everything to find you. The real Zayne, yours, in this timeline. 

The price of bringing you back was him lying there, fighting for every breath, body covered in wounds and almost completely frozen. 

The price of bringing you back was him laying there, battling for every breath, his body covered in wounds and almost frozen. 

You lightly stroke his frigid hand. Zayne did not respond but his heartbeat remained steady. He would live. That was what Greyson told you, and it was all you held on to that moment. 

Hope.

You stayed by his bedside all night, breathing life and all of your love into Zayne’s hands. When the first rays of the morning light woke you and the warmth returned to him, his eyes fluttered and gradually opened. You squeezed his hand.

“Zayne… Zayne… You're here!…” You cried out. You called for him and not completely him, but the Zayne of all the lives you had found.

Tears began to trickle down your pale cheeks. Zayne carefully wiped them away.

“Why are you crying?… I… did not go anywhere…”

You grabbed his hand and pressed your face against it. You kissed his hand aggressively, as if you were scared he would disappear again. 

“I don’t believe you anymore… You lied… You always said that I would live a happy life in the end… But then, you vanished without a trace… Did you think you could fool me again this time?” 

Zayne’s pupils widened. In an instant, his reaction shifted from astonishment to joy, then despair.

“I…”

"You know, right?" You dried your tears, halting whatever he was about to say. “You know that we don’t have just this one life. Right? You know that you disappeared in front of me in the jasmine field… You left me seeking for you among mountains and hills… This time, you really intended to leave me again… Do you believe that I could really live happily in a world without you?” You let out all your pent-up emotions through each word, each tear. Zayne stared at you with a mix of anguish and joy. You were aware of the same thing he was.

"I'm sorry…" Zayne spoke softly. His fingers cradled your chin and softly elevated your face. 

“Why should you apologize?… After all… The one who is most at fault is me… Because of meeting me, Zayne…” 

You trailed off. Choking. Your entire body trembled as emotions came to the surface. Zayne struggled to sit up, then drew you into his arms and embraced you hard. 

“Because of meeting you, I learned what it means to love someone. Because of meeting you, my world is no longer lost in ice and snow… I chose you. It will always be you…”

You let out another sob. You clutched to Zayne. “I’m sorry… I’m really… I’m sorry…” 

Zayne's weight was resting on your head as he kissed your hair. He rubbed your back to soothe you, like he always did. 

“It's alright now… It’s alright… When I came to find you and get you out of the protofield, I thought I wouldn’t have the strength to go back anymore… Yet I heard you calling my name all night long… You helped me find my way back. You found me. You saved me… This time, I have no intention of letting you go ever again.”

[todoriin]

adore me, hold me and explore me | moze x afab!reader

18+ NSFW, MDNI or i will delete your account, vanilla ass sex, no established relationship, obsessive themes from moze, cunnilingus, p in v, porn no plot

Being Feixiao’s closest advisor means you get to experience various interesting interactions.

Since joining her ranks, you feel as though you’ve lived through countless lifetimes, consulting and strategising with her and Jiaoqiu against formidable foes and expansive armies. You’ve seen the Merlin’s Claw swing her blade and slash countless enemies in half, learnt medicinal techniques from Jiaoqiu that may cure simple illnesses, like the common cold. 

However, the most interesting soul, without a double, is a certain Shadow Guard of the Xianzhou Yaoqing, one you have the pleasure of working with most intimately. Figuratively and… literally.

There’s a creak coming from the windows of your bedroom, the hinges wincing softly as they’re pushed open gently but too wide to be an action of the wind. At this stage, you’re no longer surprised by the stealthiness of the intruder, after all, you had purposefully left the windows open, waiting for the moment an intruder who could coat himself with invisibility would show up. 

Besides, it’s nearing dusk, he promised he’d visit then. 

“Good evening, Moze,” you greet, back turned to him as you look in the mirror, swiping balm over your lips before puckering them. 

A breath of satisfaction leaves you when he finally materialises before you, purple haze clouding out around his silhouette, revealing the usual, skin-tight attire he opts for daily. It’s a shade you’ve grown to love now, seeing it everyday (and taking it off for him a few times a week).

“You look nice,” he comments, words curt but sweet. 

You omit to tell him that you didn’t doll up because you doubt he’ll live longer with that information. “Thank you,” is all you say, smiling up at his reflection. Then, a cold hand comes up to your neck, fingers resting over your pulse as he traces your skin, eventually snaking back to fix your hair.

“The lipstick you wore today also looked nice,” he mumbles, meeting your gaze with his piercing one. 

You turn around in your vanity stool, swinging your legs over to the other side of the seat as you look up at him. His hands move up slightly to cup your jaw, indiscernible eyes gently admiring your features as you look up at him. Here, in your home, he can unwind, a skilled assassin let in to a haven too safe for him and the blood on his hands.

That’s why you’re perfect for him, because you know how to slice a man’s neck and leave him begging for more.

“Did you like it, Moze?”

He’s silent as ever, opting to just play with the strands of your hair. There are moments when Moze is silent because he does not wish to speak, but there are always thoughts circulating in that head of his, you realised that a year into the job when he started providing a sarcastic retort whenever he could. This time he’s silent because he doesn’t know how to respond, rendered speechless as you blink up at him. 

It’s an honour to render a man like him speechless, but you still want to have your fun.

“So quiet, I’ll take it as a no?” You ask, rising from your chair and walking past him. An arm snakes itself around your waist before you could get too far, tugging you right back against the chest of the Shadow Guard. “Use your words, Moze.”

“There are no words worthy enough to describe your beauty.”

Your mouth drops slightly as a sudden shyness creeps up your expression, an uncontrollable smile that you can’t hide behind your hands tugging on your lips. “Smooth talker,” you retort, pushing his chest lightly, but he hardly budges. 

You’re used to being the one to initiate all the conversations, as well as ending them.

“The day must have been treacherous. I’ll make some refreshments for you.”

Just as you turn to go downstairs, he’s once again tugging you back against him. This time, he leads you to the edge of the bed where he sits down with you standing between his legs, now a head shorter than you. Your positions have switched, now it is you running your fingers along the hood he keeps on his head, looking down into his multi-coloured eyes.

“No need for any of those,” he denies, “I am well.”

“Are you sure? No tea, snacks?”

“I have no desire for any of those, only you.”

You look away from him, bashful from his flirtatious words that he says in that serious tone of his. Seriously, how can he say that with a straight face?

“Okay, fine. You can have me,” you mutter and a phantom of a smile appears on his expression, eyes glimmering when you finally give him the indication he’s been waiting for. The thin strap of your top is being dragged down your shoulder and you shudder when he hovers a ghost of a kiss over your pulse point, getting flustered when you then feel him smile against your skin. “Please don’t tease.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” in an instant, your chest is bared to him and his hands creep up to explore the expanse of your body, touch gentle but purposeful, as if he was sculpting your curves himself, careful not to ruin you with any rogue or unwelcome grazes. “I’ll reap what’s mine.”

Then, he yanks your shorts off and cups the back of your thighs. A yelp leaves your lips when he suddenly switches you around so that you are now sat on the edge of the bed, and he, awaiting on his knees before you with hungry eyes.

There’s no time to think because all of a sudden, his mouth is on you, infiltrating your most sensitive part and the whimper that leaves you cannot be held back. You don’t know when your leg got on his shoulder, but it grants him more access as his tongue licks up a slow, torturous swipe up your entrance. 

“Moze!” You exclaim, legs twitching as if trying to kick him away, but he immediately holds you down you, an arm wrapping around your thigh to keep you there. 

You’re his target after all, he won’t stop until he’s through with you.

“Be good and take it,” he says against you, pressing a kiss to your clit before sucking and you gulp at the sensation as filthy sounds fill the atmosphere. No matter how many close nights you’ve experienced together, you’ll never get sick of him, grip inhumanely tight to keep you still as you beg for mercy, but the feeling of his mouth is too sweet to push away. The apex of his tongue circles the nub as his spare hand crawls up, collecting the slick from your entrance before two fingers intrude, breaching your walls. 

When he curls them, you know you’re done for, falling against the mattress to try and deal with the onslaught of pleasure that Moze knows how to inflict. It keeps coming in waves and waves, and neither his fingers or tongue lets up. You didn’t even realise you were crying until you felt tears drop down your face and onto the sheets. 

He’s pumping into you, briefly curling and scissoring his fingers, and his ministrations on your clit go from suckling to tracing shapes with the bud; a cruel torture that eventually results in a buildup of tension in your lower abdomen. 

You warn him about your incoming orgasm with a shrill cry of his name and a babble of words that loosely resembles a sentence, and the only thing he says in response is:

“Let go, pretty.”

So you do, mind becoming cloudy, hazed with nothing but the feeling of pleasure. Moze has now swapped his mouth and fingers, tongue lapping up everything you give him, licking you clean whilst his thumb rubs your clit in circles, trying to prod more out of you; a routine choreographed for your demise.

“Perfect,” he murmurs against your core, letting you come down from the high as he presses a few kisses up your stomach. 

His hawkish eyes watches as your expression untwists itself, no longer contorted by overwhelming pleasure. He can’t help the way his gaze then drifts to your chest, how it rises and falls hurriedly, still trying to regain your breath after he stole it. 

Your reverie is interrupted when you feel his tongue licking your entrance once again, folds pulled back by his fingers to bare more of you, and your nerves flinch at the sensation of pleasure enhanced to the maximum. “Moze! Stop!”

He obeys, pulling away immediately, serious expression unchanged save for the little glimmer of disappointment in his eyes.

“Next time,” he gruffly promises. 

Wrapping both of your thighs around his waist, you’re maneuvred further up your mattress by the assassin, completely helpless in his grip as he moves you however he wants. You would not have wanted him to stop anyways. 

Nimble hands shed his clothes and you unabashedly admire the sight between your legs, eyes so brave to wander across a scarred body that none others will get to lay their eyes upon. You trace the curve of his defined torso, how the shadows and light dance along the crevices, enhancing his already-impressive muscles. You leisurely run your gaze further down, following his abs to his cock.

Red and leaking with precum. 

It was intimidating when you first came face-to-face with it, and whilst you’re still impressed by his size, he’s taken care of you through the process every time, walking you through the pain and adaptations whilst being completely patient with you.

You want to prepare and take care of him like he had with you, so without thinking, you reach out and begin stroking him exactly how he likes it and a grunt passes by his lips, composure faltering ever so slightly.

There is no other Moze would bare himself like this to and, as a sign of his own twisted desires, he wants you to think the same of him. He wants you in ways he cannot justify, especially the part of himself that drips with violent and obsessive tendencies.

Should he get too close, he fears he will devour you when neither of you are expecting it.

Although, recently it seems that Moze allows himself to indulge in pleasures that he hadn’t permitted before, and as his hand wraps around your wrist to stop your ministrations, he can’t help but smile at the small pout that graces your lips. Rubbing his erection along your cunt, your slick coats his underside whilst his hand leisurely travels around your torso. Your supple skin hasn’t seen the severities of the battlefield, hasn’t fought and handled the brutality of men and blades like he has; the distinction between the two of you almost makes him seem like a monster.

A monster who wants to hide you from the darkness in which he lives in. 

“What are you grinning at?” You ask from under him.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, lowering his face to yours to press delicate kisses on your skin and you shift impatiently, eyelashes fluttering and hands clenching into fists. 

He notices the subtle action, takes it as sign of desperation that he wants to devour and dissolve into his veins, as if keeping a part of you with him forever. Aligning his cockhead with your entrance, your moan is unrestrained when he finally breaches your walls.

Slowly, Moze bottoms out, hands holding your hips to press you flush against him as you squirm. He doesn’t mind the way you wriggle around trying to adjust to his thickness and length, he’ll patiently hover above you, pressing soothing kisses along your face whilst staying as still as a shadow.

Even as your walls twitch and clench, he doesn’t budge, refusing to move until you are ready for him to. In a way, being connected with you like this makes him feel closer to you, and it brings a sense of peace that he cannot find elsewhere.

You are the source of it, the centrepiece of all his desires and he cannot swallow you down anymore. 

“I’m okay now,” you whimper.

He reels his hips back, almost pulling out before slamming right back into you and you cry loudly. “You sure?”

“More, Moze, please don’t be cruel to me.”

Cruel? He wouldn’t dream of it.

Setting a bearable pace, the room is filled with a cacophony of moans and continuous ‘plap, plap, plap’s of skin meeting skin. You are still the centre of his vision, eyes hardly straying away from your expression and body, keenly watching every microreaction of yours. He notices the way you shut your eyes tighter when he angles a particular way, cock breaching the most sensitive but pleasurable parts of you. 

It’s insatiable, his appetite for you. The only thing he wants to do is bring you to endless highs, over, and over, and over again.

Gradually, his pace speeds up over time, violating your insides with the neverending push-and-pull. Every time his hips snap back to meet yours, cock buried to the hilt, you feel the strands of your sanity slipping away. All you can do is babble his name and whimpers of how good he feels, hands reaching blindly for any part of him that you can hold.

He dives right into your open touch, torso leaning down to now hover directly over yours and the added heat of his body temperature makes you feel even more lucid. His shoulders are so broad, the planes of his chest defined, and stomach so toned that it drives you insane with desire; added with his precise strokes and thick cock, you don’t ever want him to leave. You don’t ever want him to stop. 

“Moze-” his lips are pressed against yours, swallowing the moan of his name and every other small noise you make as his member relentlessly spears you. 

He kisses you again and again, never straying too far, but parting often to let you catch your breath. 

“Moze, I’m-” you cry out in between kisses, “I’m gonna-!”

“Me too,” he gruffly responds, “relax for me, you’re clenching too hard.”

His words have the opposite effect because next thing you know, you’re cumming again, spasming around his cock as his strokes try to lure more out of you, draining you for all you’re worth. When you’re done, all of your nerves are fried, limbs weak and unable to hold themselves up for long without any support, but Moze hasn’t come yet, so all you can do is take his desperate and hurried strokes as he catches up to the last bit of pleasure.

Then, he comes to a halt whilst hot ropes gush into your cunt as he twitches inside you. Suddenly, his teeth latch on to the juncture of your shoulder and your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. 

You catch your breath in unison, waiting for him to finish completely before moving again, and when the final load is emptied, he’s capturing your lips in a kiss again. It’s hot, and your muscles feel like jelly, but he’s still desperate for more of you despite being as humanly close as possible. 

So, only moments after both of you have descended from the peak, he begins moving again, gently shushing any of your protests with a light kiss that breaks down your already weak defences. 

The squelches and plaps this time are obscene as he slowly eases in and out of you, grinding weakly whenever your walls twitch around him, but none of it is enough to quell his desire.

And he won’t stop until he has his fill. 

© todoriin 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site

[wlwmedarda]

I'm honestly just looking to rant and this might be long depending on how fast I get irritated the more I type so if this isn't coherent or well written I apologize in advance. Since it looks like Ambessa will take on a more antagonistic role in arcane season two, I would like to unpack the fandom's antiblackness that you guys are either blind to or aware and too pussy to call it out as my gut is telling me it's gonna increase and if no one is gonna start the difficult conversation then I sure as hell will.

Sevika:

Mel:

Starting off strong with the definition of "you guys want complex female characters but can't even handle her". Mel Medarda is in quite the predicament seeing how she's morally grey, a black woman, AND "gets in the way" of a mlm ship so she was kinda screwed from the start. A cunning politician disowned for her pacifism who acts as a sort of bridge to Noxus' slow introduction, and is THE ONLY CHARACTER IN THE SEASON 1 MAIN CAST SPECIFICALLY CREATED FOR THE SHOW. She's treated like satan incarnate or a Jezebel (highly suggest looking into that if you don't know what that is), GOOD character analysis is rare, and when she is talked about positively, it's so often chalked up to appearances that I'd rather yall not talk about her at all. Oh you love Mel? Then can we talk about her relationship with her mother? Unpack her dynamic with Jayce? Maybe more fanworks centered around her? I've seen yall's fake asses dropping the shittiest fucking takes about her only to turn around and gush over how pretty she is, and yall think you're slick about it and you're not. I would say I prefer the ones who are loud and proud about their hatred but that'd be a lie, they're two cheeks on the same ass; annoying and couldn't give a decent break down of her character if a gun was pointed at they head even she's perfect to dissect. I could talk about her more but we'd be here all day and so many black women even from outside the fanbase have already talked about yall so there's no need for me to add on 🤷🏾‍♀️🤷🏾‍♀️🤷🏾‍♀️🤷🏾‍♀️.

Quick question, have you guys ever tried to talk about her in a non sexual way? Yes, Sevika is undeniably sexy and you could argue that true stans of hers talk about her outside of horny time, but a good half of the fandom is a different story. In a similar case to Mel's, deep dives into her character are rare to find which is crazy when she acts as Zaun's own "kingmaker". She's loyal to her city and the cause, never to a specific person and will not hesitate to betray you. She could be your right hand man one day, and the next she might find a better kingpin to follow and stab you in the back like it all meant nothing. "Were you tempted?" "Not for a worm like him". Simple and subtle and probably my favorite Sevika scene; she comes to realize Silco is no longer the best leader for Zaun, but he's as good as it gets for now and so she sticks by him. I remember a YouTube comment breaking down how she's essentially the quintessential Zaun: a brute warrior molded by her environment, who defied Vander's peaceful ways and embraced Silco's cruelty. Her mindset and goal is interesting and you'd think it'd result in some fascinating meta or exploration of her upbringing when we got a hint that she potentially has some daddy issues right? Obviously, but what do we get instead? White sapphics treating her like nothing more than a sexual object. How delightful!

Ekko:

This might partially be Riot's fault because — and I hate to sound like a league lore nerd — Ekko is quite underdeveloped compared to the richer origins of his former pre arcane self, but I'm gonna hold off on that till the season finale to see how they handle him. Anyways, at this point the fandom clearly sees him as Jinx's trophy husband. When you talk about him, she is brought into the convo 90% of the time. That's exactly why I prefer black timebomb shippers over the nonblack ones because I trust they actually love Ekko as a character on his own. Even though I have my complaints regarding how's been written so far, I still know he's too good to be reduced to Jinx's loverboy. He fights and cares for his city, the only character that you can confidently say is pure of heart, and is the revolutionary leader Zaun really needs. He's just as smart as Jinx too, he is literally going to create TIME TRAVEL. Why does no one wanna talk about that? Can we be excited for his character development and arc not just for the timebomb scenes you'll get out of it?

Ambessa:

Can't even deny this woman is awful but her presence on screen enthralled me after a couple of rewatches and I also love bad mothers in media so I've settled on a love/hate relationship. Yes, she's definitely gonna have some influence on Caitlyn, which makes sense since she has now lost her mother; she's vulnerable and as we have seen, naive. She's practically free real estate for Ambessa. My recent worry though has been how the fandom seems to be willing to put all of Caitlyn's actions on her as if Cait isn't a grown ass woman who can make her own decisions. Of course being grown doesn't mean you're immune to manipulation, but I've seen some Silco and Jinx comparisons and it is NOT the same. Mind you we haven't even seen the first three episodes; we don't know how far Ambessa's manipulation is going to go and we can't really tell what the dynamic is gonna be like based off of clips and trailers that are likely shown out of context on purpose to throw people off. I'll never defend her actions, hell I'll join in on the lashings, but my black ass is also not gonna sit here and let yall talk about her weirdly or pin all of this on her.

Some might say I'm overthinking this, but I've been here since November 2021 and have sat back and observed for 2 years. You don't have to write deep, philosophical conversations 24/7, I'm sure it's not all in bad faith and I won't act like I don't thirst over Sevika or marvel at Mel's beauty. I'm not saying you have to like these characters and that you're racist if you don't. My frustration comes from the lack of nuanced conversations and hypocritical opinions surrounding black characters in this show. When you try to say something about this, you're hit with excuses; it reminds me of how man obsessed fujoshis act when they're questioned for not giving two fucks about female characters. They're either reduced to one character trait, only admired for their looks, or only discussed when it's about the white character they're connected to. Do NOT under ANY circumstance be black and morally ambiguous, you WILL be held to higher moral standards than everyone's wittle blorbos who can do wrong and are defended from all sides when you dare to take the rose colored stan glasses off and criticize them. What's really ridiculous is you hear the "complex characters" bullshit every two to three business days and some of you have the nerve to boast about this series being diverse while simultaneously ignoring the complexities in the characters of color. This is the main reason I took a step back and with season two around the corner I thought "Hey, maybe it'll be better this time!" and it was a mistake. Good to know yall still have an underlying racism problem you don't wanna address but with some extra classism thrown in. "What will we do once Arcane ends?" hopefully get a job, touch some grass, and reflect. Lord knows yall need it. The faster yall sizzle out the better. I'm done that's all I have to say lol goodnight 👍🏽👍🏽👍🏽👍🏽.

[xxchumanixx]

Hiii! If its not much trouble could I request a tim Bradford and reader fic where she's really shy and sensitive, but still diligent at work and his rookie? He usually had a soft spot for her bcs he has a crush on her but she messes up a case and gets yell at by him?? Calls her a crybaby and all?? But later he comforts her and confesses? Maybe she thinks he likes lucy up until that point?? Just a lot of angst filled with pining and fluff! Thanks sm and I love your workk💕

Headrush

Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Warnings/Tags: language! (Shut up, Steve), fluff, hurt, angst

Word count: 2.523

Authors note: Oh my god, it's been so long, I'm so sorry! Thank you a lot for your request! I really liked the idea and I hope you'll like how I wrote it.

Lots of love! ❤️

Please, as always

Enjoy!

"Shit, shit, shit!" you cursed under your breath, biting your lip as your fingers anxiously fiddled with the belt on your hips.

This was not how this case was supposed to go.

Not at all.

It was like a damn domino effect - one thing went down the hill, and so did the rest one after another.

A whole fucking shitshow.

That your suspect was lying dead on the street was just the cherry on top.

He had tried to run from you, not watching where he went. You tried to warn him, yelled that he should watch out, when a car hit him, and sent him flying over the street.

Tim stood beside you, eyes wide and mouth agape, not really believing what he saw. He wasn't sure whether to yell at you, comfort you, or just get back in the car.

He gritted his teeth, hands balling into fists. He usually was softer with you, than he was with other rookies he had.

You just didn't know that he harbored feelings for you that went far beyond being your TO.

A conflicting thing, really.

"You-" he started, cutting himself off, eyes flying over the scene. The dead man on the floor, the shocked civilians all around you.

The poor woman that drove the car that hit the man.

The ambulance covered the man with a sheet, calling the coroner.

That was what snapped him.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Tim spoke up, rasing his voice as he looked down at you. "What the hell did you think?" You flinched at his tone, some of your usual shyness and sensitivity shining through.

Tim bit his cheek, so hard he almost drew blood.

He felt bad, sorry even.

To yell at you was one of the things he wanted the least, but he had no other choice if he wanted you to be successful.

At least, that's what he told himself.

"Sir, I-" you wanted to defend yourself, but he didn't let you. Once he was in that stage of rage, it was hard to see an escape through the fog.

"No, of course you did not!" he went on, the look on his face both terrifying and breaking you.

To ever think you'd stand a chance with the man yelling down at you seemed like the stupidest thing in the world suddenly.

"How could you let him get this far?" he continued to rage, seemingly not caring about the people around you that started to watch the commotion. "You should have stopped him!"

You swallowed, a bitter pill you'd forced upon yourself by letting the suspect get this far. That you'd fallen pretty badly along the way, most likely spraining your ankle, wasn't important anymore.

Who knew if he'd even seen it?

"I- I'm sorry." you breathed out, doing your best not to lose your face in front of him. The day had started bad, and it got worse the longer it went on. "I shouldn't have let him get this far."

Tim scoffed, hands fisting his belt as he looked around you. "I shouldn't have let you handle this on your own." he spoke, voice a mix of regret and spite. "I should have known better."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut.

You knew you were ready, and damn he knew it, too. Mistakes were normal, no matter how long you were doing the job already. But with your last week as a rookie rolling around, he pushed you more and more beyond your limits.

You felt tears burn in your eyes, the ugly tugging sensation in your jaw when you tried your very best to hold them back.

But Tim had already seen them.

His head tilted in disbelief, eyes widening before they narrowed.

Not a good sign.

"Are you gonna cry?" he asked, voice full of disbelief. "Are you kidding me? What are you? A fucking crybaby?"

Told you so.

You cleared your throat, cheeks burning in shame.

"No, no, of course not." you mumbled, trying to steady your voice. Tim tilted his head more, sending you a look that told you to repeat yourself. "No, I'm not crying." you repeated louder, looking up at him.

To say his behavior hurt was an understatement.

"Get in the car." he hissed, motioning at the shop. You nodded, doing as he told you without protesting.

It wouldn't have done you any good, anyway.

Moral of the story suddenly played in your head, and you couldn't help but think how right Ashe was, as you climbed into the passengers seat.

You had learned a lot about Tim the last year, yet he surprised you with how cold and harsh he was right now.

You should have never let your stupid crush get out of hand like this. Maybe to be hurt like this, to be talked down by him like that - maybe that was your moral of the story.

Like they said: Never fuck the company.

Not that you and Tim had gotten physically close somehow, but that didn't stop your mind from imagining sometimes.

You just were glad you experienced him like this before anything could have happened.

Not that you had much faith in that, anyway.

____

You let out a sigh, as you finally made your way out of the station.

It had been a long day, maybe the longest of your life. After driving back you had to wait before being questioned about the incident. It went on for nearly two hours, in which they decided you weren't responsible for the suspects death.

Yes, he had run from you, but it was his own decision, and you had tried to warn him.

You body-cam proofed it.

You hadn't seen Tim since you'd gotten out of the shop, silently thankful for it.

You didn't know if you'd been able to endure another round of his scolding today without actually breaking down.

Seeing Lucy though, only pressed on your sore nerves more. Yes, you liked her as a friend, but the thought that Tim seemed head over heels for her warred with that.

Only a fool wouldn't see.

The cold night air hit your skin, effectively cooling it down and clearing your head a little. You hoped to get home and fall in bed, only waking up again when you would have forgotten this day.

But someone seemed to have other plans.

"Y/N, wait!" he called out after you, and you only then noticed that his car was still in the almost empty parking lot.

You debated whether to ignore him, act like you didn't hear, but your consciousness said otherwise. You turned around as he stopped in front of you, silently cursing yourself for being such a good person.

He seemed at a loss for words for a moment, lips parted, like he didn't expect you to actually wait. "Listen," he then started, brows furrowing slightly as his gaze drifted away for a brief second. "I didn't mean to be so harsh on you back there."

You frowned, blinking a few times in confusion. Was he a-

"I'm sorry."

You didn't know what to say, now at a loss for words yourself. "I- i'ts okay." you then said after finding your voice, biting your cheek. "You lectured me, and it's not like it wasn't justified, sir."

He gritted his teeth, you could see even in the dim streetlight.

"No, that was too harsh." he gave back, shaking his head, frown deepened. "It wasn't your fault he was hit by the car. You tried to warn him and he didn't listen."

You pushed your bottom lip forward, not sure where his sudden change in mood came from. "Look, sir-" you started, but he cut you off. "Stop that." he demanded, the frown on his face bordering on angry now.

Your lips parted in confusion, not sure what you did wrong now.

"Stop calling me sir." he said. "We both know that's needless. It's not like- I mean, you're one week away from becoming a p2. We both know you'll make it with flying colors. Call me Tim."

He was selfish, he knew it.

But if it meant he'd hear his name from your mouth even once, he'd do anything. He didn't know yet if you'd choose to stay after graduation, and he'd have to take what he got.

He was in way too deep.

You swallowed before you nodded, gaze meeting the ground. Your teeth maltreated your cheek, not sure how to react.

"I've never- I've never seen a dead person like this before." you suddenly spoke, looking back up at him. "I didn't know where my head was, and you yelled at me. I was overwhelmed."

It just bubbled out of you. Maybe the dim lighting made you bolder.

"That's not me." you continued, shaking your head. "I- I'm tidily, I always make sure to give my best, it just-" Without you noticing, tears formed in the corners of your eyes, and you gasped for air.

Tim's own eyes widened, as he realized you were about to panic.

He closed the distance, wrapping his arms around you.

It was pure instinct, every nerve in him telling him to hug you, to comfort you.

To not make him see you cry.

He couldn't.

"It's okay." he spoke softly, as your fingers fisted the material of his jacket. "It wasn't your fault. I'm sorry for yelling at you."

You couldn't help the tears from flowing, not when he held you like this, doing his best to make you feel better.

"I should have known." you sobbed, pushing the shame for crying onto his jacket aside for now. "I wasn't ready."

He shooed you, one hand carding through your hair.

He knew if someone saw you two, this would have ended badly.

But he couldn't bring himself to care.

"You are ready." he gave back. "More than ready. I've seen you out there, you always have yourself under control. You're diligent, something that not every rookie is. You may be shy, and maybe a bit sensitive, but that's something good. You know how to talk to people, you understand them. And I know this wasn't your fault. You did your absolute best, and that's exactly what I told them back there."

You swallowed, cheeks heating up at his words.

You didn't expect him to be so open and soft with you.

"You- you really think that?" you asked, sniffing as the tears slowly subsided. He chuckled softly. "God, you have no clue." he mumbled, gaze flitting over the dark parking lot.

You frowned, not sure what he meant. But before you could have asked, he continued on his own.

"I'm not good at this emotional stuff." he said with a huff. "But you are. And I'm grateful for it, I really am, because I learned to get better at it, because of you. And I'm supposed to be the TO here, not you."

You chuckled, not having expected him to learn something from you whilst training you.

"You should talk to Lucy, then." you suggested, the thought jabbing at your heart. But if he wanted her, he'd be prepared for the emotional talk now, then.

Tim frowned, looking down at you with confusion. He gently pushed you away enough to look in your eyes.

"What do you mean?" he wanted to know, trying to make out what you were telling him. Your cheeks heated up, but you knew there was no turning back now.

Might as well reap what you've sown by digging into his personal life.

"I mean that you can tell her how you feel if you're better at emotional stuff now." you explained, doing your best to look encouraging. He scoffed a laugh, nose crinkling slightly. "Wait, you think I-" he started, but cut himself off with another laugh.

You frowned, suddenly feeling uncertain. "Yes, I mean-" you wanted to explain yourself, but he cut you off, hands on your arms as he leaned a bit down to look into your eyes. "No." he said firmly, a grin on his lips. "I'm not in love with Lucy."

The thought almost seemed absurd to him.

Why would he want Lucy when you were here, standing right in front of him?

Your frown deepened, thoughts running a million miles a minute. "Wait, you're not?" you asked, voice carrying a hint of disbelief and maybe relief. He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "No." he confirmed. "I'm not."

Silence hung between you like a heavy fog, only broken by a huff leaving your lips. "Well, I'm not as good at reading people as I thought I am." you mumbled, biting your cheek.

He shrugged as if to say I noticed. "If you were you would have known I don't want Lucy." he said, empathizing her name.

You cocked a brow, looking up at him again. "What do you mean?"

He sent you a smile that sent your heart into a frenzy, and for a moment, you thought you'd have a headrush. "I mean," he began, eyes wandering over your face. "That I can't wait for you to be a p2."

You felt dumb.

"Tim-" you started, but cut yourself off, as realization suddenly hit you like a freight train. "Wait, what?"

He chuckled, a sound that seared its way into your brain the first time you'd heard it. "Yes." he confirmed. "I don't want Lucy, because I already want you, Y/N."

It felt like the night sky had decided to let all it's lucky stars rain down on you at once.

A mix of emotions rushed through you, and you felt like you'd actually have a headrush.

"What- How?" you stammered, words escaping your brain. "I- I mean, why me? Why not her?"

Tim cocked a brow at your words. He knew you'd say something like that, a clear sign of how well he knew you by now. "Because you're you." he said. "Because you care. You're smart, funny, cute. You are a good cop, and I couldn't ask for more in a person than you already are. I don't want Lucy, because I'm not interested in her the way that I'm interested in you."

You inhaled shakily, his words like a balm to your wounded heart.

"And if you'd let me, I'd like to take you out once you're officially a p2." he added with hope shining in his bright eyes.

A smile spread your lips at his words. "I'd love to go out with you, Tim." you gave back, causing his own smile to grow.

His eyes fell to the smile on your lips, and suddenly he cared even less about the open space of the parking lot.

"Can I kiss you?" he wanted to know, eyes finding their way back to yours.

Your smile widened, and you nodded. "You can."

It was delicate the way he pressed his lips to yours, like petals of a flower. One hand snaked its way into your hair, cupping the back of your head to pull you closer. Your own hands gripped his jacket, anchoring you.

It was all you could have wished for.

And suddenly, the headrush wasn't so unpleasant anymore.

Tag List:

@newobsessionweekly @laheysfilm @dhundhchrih @augustvandyne @rookietrek @nachofriess @dtftheavengers @wonderland2425 @freyathehuntress @skywalker0809

[gyuuberryy]

a tailored connection

pairing: designer!sunghoon x muse!reader

synopsis: sunghoon, a talented designer, has always harboured feelings for his longtime friend, you. when he invites you to be his muse, the sessions are charged with a tension that neither of you can ignore. as sunghoon’s compliments and intimate moments reveal deeper feelings, a surprising twist shakes your world. with your engagement to someone else looming and sunghoon grappling with his emotions, both of you face a turning point that will challenge everything you thought you knew about love and friendship.

genre: friends to lovers, both are fools in love

warnings: looot of tension, angst!! , kissing, crying, not really proofread

note: aaand with this royally yours comes to an end, i had a great time writing it! where can i get a man who makes me dresses like this :( i hope you enjoy reading this<3

word count: 16.8k

royally yours masterlist | prev:jake

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3

the sound of laughter echoes through the village streets, a memory woven into the fabric of your childhood. sunghoon had always been there, his presence as familiar to you as the sky above. you grew up side by side—first as playmates, then as something more complicated, though neither of you had the words for it yet.

it started with simple things. the way he’d hold out his hand to help you over the stones in the river, his grip firm but gentle. the way he’d always save the last piece of the bread he bought for lunch, handing it to you with a shy grin. and the way he’d linger just a bit longer when you hugged him goodbye, his arms wrapping around you like he was afraid to let go.

you were never apart for long, always finding reasons to be in each other’s company. as children, you’d run wild through the village, a pair of inseparable companions. the streets had been your playground, the trees your hideout, and the open fields your kingdom.

sunghoon was the one who taught you how to climb trees, his long limbs making it look easy as he scrambled up the tallest one in the village square. you’d followed him then, determined to keep up with him no matter what, your competitive spirit something he both teased and admired.

“come on, you can do it,” he’d called down to you one day, perched on a sturdy branch high above, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “i’m not leaving you behind.”

“i’m not going to be left behind,” you’d retorted, climbing faster, though your hands were trembling. you didn’t want to admit it, but heights terrified you.

sunghoon had seen through you, though, like he always did. when you reached the top, his hand had shot out to steady you, his touch reassuring. “see? i told you,” he said, smiling in that soft way that always made you feel warm inside.

that was how it always was—sunghoon pushing you to be braver, to go further, but always there to catch you if you stumbled.

as you grew older, the carefree days of your childhood evolved into something quieter, but no less meaningful. sunghoon’s passion for design began to bloom, his sketchbook always tucked under his arm, filled with dresses, cloaks, and the kind of ornate embroidery that would make any noble gasp. he’d spend hours at the village tailor’s shop, learning from the master tailor, and you’d sit in the corner, watching him work, admiring the way his hands moved with precision and care.

“why don’t you just play outside like the other girls?” the old tailor would often ask you, shaking his head with a smile. “this place is no fun for someone your age.”

you’d always smile back, knowing full well why you stayed. “i don’t mind. besides, i like watching sunghoon.”

sunghoon would look up from his work then, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “she’s my best critic,” he’d say, as if that explained everything.

but it wasn’t just about watching him work. there was something in the quiet moments between you, in the way you understood each other without having to say a word. he would sketch something and glance up, catching your eye, and you’d know exactly what he was thinking. he didn’t have to say it.

the bond between you deepened with every passing year, though the village seemed blind to it. to everyone else, you were just friends, nothing more. but there were moments—fleeting, subtle—when you felt something stirring between you, something neither of you dared to speak aloud.

it wasn’t until one late afternoon, when the two of you were sitting under the large oak tree at the edge of the village, that you truly realised how much he meant to you.

the summer sun cast a golden glow over the fields, the breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers. you were both quiet, simply enjoying each other’s company. sunghoon had his sketchbook open on his lap, his charcoal pencil moving lazily across the page. you were watching him, as you often did, wondering what it would be like to have your portrait sketched by him. would he see you differently if he looked at you that way? would the feelings you’d kept locked inside for so long show on your face?

“what are you drawing this time?” you asked, breaking the comfortable silence. it was always your way of trying to sneak a glimpse into the world that sunghoon poured into his designs.

he looked up, startled from his thoughts, his pencil pausing mid-stroke. “just... a dress,” he said, and though it sounded like a simple answer, there was a softness in his voice that made you curious.

“a dress?” you echoed, smiling. “for who?”

“for... no one in particular,” he murmured, closing the book before you could peek at it. “just an idea.”

you tilted your head, studying him. “you’ve been spending a lot of time on these designs lately. are you preparing for something big?”

he shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “maybe. i’ve been thinking about... making something new. something different. i don’t want to just follow the same old patterns forever.”

you nodded, understanding. sunghoon had always been ambitious, but his talent had begun to outgrow the small village you lived in. you knew it was only a matter of time before he would have to leave—venture into the capital or even beyond to showcase his work.

“whatever it is, you’ll be amazing at it,” you said, your voice steady, though your chest tightened at the thought of him leaving.

he glanced at you then, his expression unreadable. “you really think so?”

“of course,” you replied without hesitation. “i’ve always believed in you.”

the words felt heavier than they should have, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. sunghoon’s gaze lingered on you, something unspoken flickering in his eyes, but just as quickly, he looked away, his fingers nervously tapping the cover of his sketchbook.

“i couldn’t have come this far without you,” he said, his voice quiet. “you’ve always been there for me.”

you smiled softly, nudging him with your shoulder. “that’s what friends are for, right?”

but even as you said it, the word “friends” felt inadequate—too small to hold the depth of what you felt for him. and though you couldn’t say it aloud, you wondered if sunghoon felt the same.

as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the fields, the two of you sat in silence, side by side. in the fading light, everything felt suspended—like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

but neither of you moved, and the unspoken feelings between you remained just that—unspoken.

for now.

the day had started like any other. you were making your way through the village, the familiar sights and sounds surrounding you—children running through the streets, merchants shouting their daily specials, and the distant clang of the blacksmith’s hammer. but today, something felt different. there was an odd flutter in your stomach, though you couldn’t quite place why. perhaps it was because you were heading to sunghoon’s workshop, as you often did, or perhaps it was something else.

his shop had grown over the years, its modest space now brimming with elegant fabrics and mannequins draped in partially finished garments. sunghoon had worked tirelessly, his name slowly gaining recognition beyond the village, though he remained humble about his achievements. it had become a routine for you to visit him, to sit in the corner while he worked, offering your thoughts or simply watching the magic unfold under his skilled hands.

when you arrived, the door was slightly ajar, and you pushed it open to find sunghoon standing at his worktable, deep in thought. his back was turned to you, the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the window and casting a soft glow around him. he was focused, hunched over a sketch, his pencil moving in rapid strokes, as if he were chasing some fleeting inspiration.

you stepped inside quietly, not wanting to disturb him. he was always at his best when he was lost in his work—his mind far away from the village, immersed in a world of silk and satin, seams and stitches. but even in those moments, it wasn’t uncommon for him to sense your presence before you spoke.

today, though, he was more distracted than usual. he didn’t notice you until you were almost beside him, peeking over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his newest creation. “what’s this one?” you asked lightly, hoping not to startle him.

he jumped slightly, straightening up and turning to face you, a small smile forming on his lips when he saw it was you. “you’re early.”

you raised an eyebrow. “am i interrupting?”

“no, not at all,” he said, closing the sketchbook and setting it aside. “i was just... thinking.”

“you do that a lot,” you teased, leaning against the edge of the worktable. “what’s on your mind today?”

for a moment, he didn’t answer. his gaze drifted toward the window, his fingers playing absentmindedly with the hem of a piece of fabric. you could see there was something weighing on him, but sunghoon had always been the type to choose his words carefully, never speaking until he was sure of what he wanted to say.

finally, he turned back to you, his expression serious but soft. “i’ve been working on something new. something important.”

you crossed your arms, intrigued. “i figured as much. you’ve been spending even more time here than usual. what is it? a new collection?”

“not exactly,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “it’s... different this time. i want to create something that’s truly mine, something that will set me apart. but to do that, i need help.”

you blinked, surprised. sunghoon rarely asked for help, especially when it came to his designs. “help? from me?”

he nodded slowly, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart skip. “i want you to be my muse.”

the words hung in the air between you, heavier than you’d expected. muse. it wasn’t just a word—it was a role that carried meaning. in a way, you’d always been part of sunghoon’s creative process, offering suggestions or simply being there to share in his successes and frustrations. but this... this was something else entirely.

you shifted your weight, suddenly feeling a little unsure. “a muse? what do you mean?”

“i mean...” he hesitated, running a hand through his hair as he searched for the right words. “i’ve been designing dresses, outfits for people i’ve never even met. but none of them feel personal. none of them feel real. i want to create something that speaks to me, and to do that, i need someone who inspires me. someone i know. someone... like you.”

your breath caught in your throat. the way he said it, the way his eyes lingered on you—it was impossible to ignore the meaning behind his words. he wasn’t just asking you to be part of his work; he was asking you to be at the centre of it. to be the person he looked at, thought about, dreamed about while he created. and that idea stirred something inside you that you hadn’t been prepared for.

“i don’t know if i’d make a very good muse,” you said, trying to laugh it off, though your heart was racing.

sunghoon stepped closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “you’re perfect for it. you’ve always been perfect.”

the air between you shifted, growing warmer, heavier with tension. it wasn’t the first time he’d complimented you—he was always kind, always thoughtful—but this felt different. his words weren’t casual or lighthearted. they carried weight, an unspoken truth that had been building between you for years.

you felt the heat rise in your cheeks, your throat tightening. being his muse meant more than just standing still while he draped fabric around you. it meant letting him see you, really see you, in ways that no one else ever had. it felt intimate, like a part of you would be etched into every piece he made.

“what would that mean for us?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

sunghoon blinked, startled by the question. “what do you mean?”

“you and i,” you clarified, feeling the weight of the words. “if i agree... won’t it change things between us?”

for a long moment, sunghoon didn’t speak. he seemed to consider your words, his eyes searching your face as if trying to decipher your feelings. finally, he took a deep breath, stepping even closer, so close now that you could feel the warmth of his body. “maybe it will,” he admitted, his voice soft but steady. “but maybe it’s already changed. maybe it’s been different for a long time.”

his words hit you like a wave, the truth in them undeniable. he was right. things had changed—slowly, quietly—but neither of you had ever dared to acknowledge it. until now.

your heart hammered in your chest, the weight of his confession settling over you like a blanket. you could feel the tension between you, crackling like the air before a storm. there was something fragile, something precious hanging between you, and the slightest word or movement could shatter it.

but then, without thinking, you made your decision.

“i’ll do it,” you said, your voice barely audible, but firm.

sunghoon’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise and relief passing across his face. “you will?”

you nodded, your gaze never leaving his. “yes. i’ll be your muse.”

for a moment, neither of you spoke. the silence stretched, heavy with the unspoken feelings that had been buried for so long. and then, slowly, sunghoon’s lips curved into the softest smile—a smile that reached his eyes and made something inside you melt.

“thank you,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours, and for a brief, electrifying moment, it felt as if time stood still. you were acutely aware of how close he was, how much more intimate things had become between you in just a few short minutes.

you smiled back, though your heart was pounding. “i think it’ll be fun.”

sunghoon laughed softly, the sound low and warm, and the tension between you seemed to ease, just a little. but even as you both fell into a more comfortable silence, you knew that things between you had changed. there was no going back now.

the sun was beginning to set as you made your way to sunghoon’s shop, a soft, golden glow spreading across the village. it had been only a few days since you agreed to be his muse, but the weight of that decision still lingered in your mind. there was a sense of anticipation, an underlying current of excitement that thrummed through you, but also an edge of nervousness that you couldn’t shake.

you had always been comfortable around sunghoon, but this felt different. it wasn’t just visiting a friend; you were stepping into a role that felt intimate in ways you hadn’t quite expected. and you knew that once you crossed the threshold of his workshop today, something between you would shift again.

when you arrived, sunghoon was already waiting. the door was propped open, and you could hear the faint sounds of rustling fabric and the occasional scratch of his pencil against paper. you hesitated for a moment at the doorway, taking a deep breath before stepping inside.

sunghoon looked up as soon as you entered, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “you came,” he said, sounding almost relieved.

“of course i did,” you replied, trying to keep your tone light despite the quickening of your pulse. “i’m your muse now, remember?”

his smile widened just a little, and he motioned for you to come in. “right. my muse.”

the word still felt strange on your tongue, and hearing him say it made something flutter in your chest. you glanced around the room, noticing that he had cleared some space near the large windows where the light poured in. rolls of fabric were neatly arranged, sketchbooks stacked nearby, and a dress form stood at the centre, waiting to be draped with something new.

you stepped closer, feeling the warmth of the sunlight against your skin, but also the weight of sunghoon’s gaze on you. his eyes followed your every movement, a soft intensity in them that made the space between you feel smaller, more charged.

“so, where do we start?” you asked, forcing a smile to break the tension that was building in the room.

sunghoon set down his pencil and moved to stand beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours as he reached for a roll of fabric. “i was thinking we’d start by figuring out what you like. i want to design something that feels like you—not just any dress, but one that you’d wear and feel... beautiful in.”

the way he said the word beautiful made your stomach flip. you swallowed hard, trying to focus on the task at hand instead of the way his voice lingered on the compliment.

“what i like?” you repeated, frowning slightly. “i’m not sure. i mean, i’ve never really thought about it.”

sunghoon raised an eyebrow, glancing over at you with a small smile. “you’ve never thought about what you like in dresses? after all this time of coming here and watching me work?”

you laughed, a little nervous. “i guess i’ve always been more interested in what you were making for other people.”

“well,” he said, his voice softening, “now it’s time to think about what’s right for you.”

he moved closer, picking up a few pieces of fabric and holding them up to the light. “what do you think of these? what colours feel like you?”

you eyed the fabrics he held—a deep emerald green, a soft blush pink, and a striking midnight blue. each one seemed to carry a different weight, a different mood, and the idea of choosing one for yourself felt strangely personal.

“i’m not sure,” you admitted, reaching out to touch the green fabric. “i’ve always liked green, but... i don’t know if it suits me.”

sunghoon tilted his head, his eyes flickering over you, as if he were studying you in a way he hadn’t before. “it suits you,” he said quietly, the certainty in his voice catching you off guard. “it brings out your eyes. but so would the blue.”

you blinked, surprised by the compliment. sunghoon wasn’t one to flatter people needlessly, especially not you. his compliments usually came in the form of casual remarks, offhand observations about how a colour might work or how you carried yourself in a certain style. but this—this was different. there was something in his tone, in the way he looked at you now, that felt far more intimate.

you felt your face grow warm under his gaze, suddenly self-conscious. “you think so?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“i know so,” he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. “you have a way of making things look better just by wearing them. it’s not just about the dress—it’s about how you wear it.”

the room seemed to shrink, the air between you growing heavier with each passing second. you hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected him to speak so plainly, so openly. sunghoon had always been composed, professional, even around you. but now, there was something more vulnerable in the way he spoke, something unguarded.

you cleared your throat, trying to break the moment before it became too much. “well, what about styles then? i’ve always liked simpler designs. nothing too extravagant.”

sunghoon nodded thoughtfully, his eyes still lingering on you, as if he were trying to memorise every detail of your expression. “simple suits you,” he murmured. “but there’s something about you that deserves more. something elegant.”

“elegant?” you echoed, unsure of where this was coming from.

“mm,” he hummed, reaching for his sketchbook. “you’ve always carried yourself with a kind of grace—like you don’t even realise how beautiful you are.”

your breath hitched. you stared at him, your heart pounding louder in your chest as his words hung in the air between you. this wasn’t just a compliment—it was something else. something deeper. and the realisation of it hit you like a wave.

sunghoon, too, seemed to realise the weight of what he’d just said. he quickly looked away, focusing on his sketchbook as if he could take the words back by drowning them in his work. “i didn’t mean to... i mean...”

you stood there for a moment, unsure of how to respond. you had never thought of yourself the way sunghoon was describing you now, and the fact that he saw you like this—it was overwhelming. you could feel the tension crackling between you, the unspoken feelings that had always lingered beneath the surface suddenly threatening to rise.

“i just... think you should have something that shows who you are,” sunghoon continued, his voice quieter now, more careful. “not just as my muse, but as you. something that makes people stop and see you the way i do.”

your pulse quickened at his words, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if you could trust yourself to speak. the way he was looking at you now, with an intensity you hadn’t seen before, made it feel like the walls of the workshop were closing in.

you glanced down, trying to focus on the fabric in your hands, but the weight of his gaze lingered. “sunghoon... i don’t know what to say.”

he shook his head, stepping back slightly as if to give you space. “you don’t have to say anything. i just... i want you to feel beautiful in whatever i make for you. that’s all.”

there was a long pause, the only sound in the room being the soft rustle of fabric as you ran your fingers over the green material again. your mind was spinning, your heart racing, and yet you couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through you at his words. it wasn’t just the compliment—it was the way he saw you, the way he always had.

finally, you looked up, meeting his gaze once more. “i trust you, sunghoon. i always have.”

his eyes softened, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “good,” he said quietly. “because i promise, whatever we create together, it’s going to be something unforgettable.”

the light from the late afternoon sun bathed sunghoon’s workshop in a golden hue, casting long shadows that stretched across the room. you stood near the centre, nervously smoothing the fabric of your dress as sunghoon readied his tools. he had done this countless times—measuring clients for garments—but somehow, this felt different. more intimate. more real.

“alright,” he said, his voice a little too casual as he approached with a measuring tape in hand. “this won’t take long.”

you nodded, trying to keep your breathing steady as you watched him move closer. sunghoon had always been meticulous when it came to his work, his hands sure and steady, but today there was a faint tremor in them as he unspooled the tape.

“so, uh,” he began, his gaze flickering between your face and the tape in his hands. “we’ll start with your shoulders. just... relax.”

you forced a smile, though the tension in the air was impossible to ignore. “i’m relaxed.”

he shot you a look that said he wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t argue. he stepped behind you, and you could feel his presence—warm, steady—just inches away. the fabric of your dress shifted slightly as he gently placed the tape around your shoulders, his fingers grazing your skin ever so lightly. the contact sent a shiver down your spine, though you tried your best to suppress it.

for a moment, the only sound in the room was the soft rustling of the measuring tape as he adjusted it. you could feel your heart beating faster, your pulse quickening with each passing second. sunghoon, on the other hand, seemed to be holding his breath, as if he were just as aware of the closeness as you were.

“alright,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, more focused. “now your waist.”

he stepped around to face you, his gaze briefly meeting yours before dropping to the tape in his hands. his movements were careful, almost hesitant, as he crouched slightly, bringing the tape around your waist. you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry as his fingers brushed the sides of your dress, the heat of his touch lingering longer than it should have.

the proximity, the feel of his hands so close to you—it was almost too much. you bit your lip, fighting the urge to fidget under his intense concentration. sunghoon had always been calm, composed, but now there was an unmistakable tension in the air, a subtle awkwardness that made your heart race even faster.

he straightened up, pulling the tape taut as he noted your measurements. “i... uh,” he began, clearing his throat slightly, “i’ll need to get your bust next.”

you blinked, feeling your face grow warm. “oh. right.”

it wasn’t as if you hadn’t expected it—this was part of the process, after all—but somehow the idea of sunghoon taking that particular measurement felt... different. the room seemed smaller, the air thicker as you watched him struggle to keep his composure.

his hand hovered for a moment, clearly unsure of what to do. “i—uh,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “just... hold still.”

you nodded, though you could feel the flush rising to your cheeks as he brought the tape around your chest, his fingers brushing the fabric of your dress with the lightest touch. his face was close now—closer than it had ever been—his breath mingling with yours in the small space between you.

neither of you spoke. the silence stretched, heavy with the unspoken desires that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. his fingers fumbled slightly as he adjusted the tape, and for a brief moment, his hand brushed against your skin, sending a shock of electricity through you.

you inhaled sharply, your breath hitching at the unexpected contact, and sunghoon froze. his eyes flicked up to meet yours, wide and startled, as if he hadn’t meant to let the moment slip.

“sorry,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “i didn’t mean to...”

“it’s fine,” you said quickly, though your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

but he didn’t move away. his hand remained where it was, the heat of his palm radiating through the fabric. you could feel every inch of him—every breath, every subtle movement—and the closeness was dizzying. there was something in his eyes, something unspoken, that made your pulse race even faster.

you swallowed hard, your voice barely steady as you spoke. “sunghoon...”

he blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and quickly stepped back, dropping the measuring tape as if it had burned him. “i—i think that’s enough for now,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck again, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “i’ve got what i need.”

you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy. “are you sure? i mean, if you need more measurements—”

“no!” he said, perhaps a little too quickly, then cleared his throat. “i mean, no. we’re good. i’ve got everything.”

the tension between you was palpable, thick and heavy, but neither of you knew how to break it. sunghoon busied himself with gathering the tape and jotting down notes, though his movements were jerky, his usual calm demeanour nowhere to be found.

you watched him, feeling a strange mix of emotions swirling in your chest. there was an awkwardness, yes, but also something else—something that had been building between you for a long time, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting to spill over.

finally, sunghoon spoke again, though his voice was softer now, almost hesitant. “you know,” he said, not meeting your eyes, “you really do have... perfect proportions.”

your heart skipped a beat, his words catching you completely off guard. “what?”

he cleared his throat, rubbing his neck awkwardly once more. “i mean... for the dress,” he added quickly, as if trying to backtrack. “you have a really... balanced figure. for tailoring, i mean.”

you blinked, taken aback by the sudden compliment, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. it wasn’t just what he said—it was the way he said it. the way his voice softened, the way he fidgeted under your gaze, as if he were revealing more than he intended.

“i... thanks?” you managed, feeling your cheeks burn with a mix of surprise and awkwardness.

sunghoon gave you a tight-lipped smile, clearly as flustered as you were. “yeah. no problem.”

the silence that followed was thick and heavy, both of you too aware of the tension that had settled over the room like a heavy blanket. sunghoon quickly turned away, busying himself with his sketches, but the weight of the moment lingered in the air, unspoken but undeniable.

you took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart, but you knew—no matter how much you both tried to pretend otherwise—something between you had shifted. and neither of you were quite ready to confront it yet.

the days following that first measurement session seemed to blur together, each one filled with quiet moments, shared glances, and unspoken words that hung heavy in the air. sunghoon had thrown himself into the design, sketching feverishly as if creating your dress had become not just his project, but his obsession. every stroke of his pencil seemed deliberate, every detail in the fabric a reflection of how closely he had studied you—not just your body, but you as a person.

the workshop had become a second home to you, and you found yourself spending more and more time there as the dress took shape. each day, you would come in, greeted by the soft sounds of scissors slicing through fabric and the rhythmic hum of sunghoon’s needle as he stitched delicate patterns. his focus was unbreakable, yet there was always that moment when he would pause, look at you, and give a small, almost shy smile, as if he still couldn’t believe you were there, helping him create something so personal.

the tension between you grew thicker with every passing day. it was as if the fabric sunghoon was weaving was also binding the two of you together in ways neither of you had expected. there were the long stretches of silence, where the only sound was the soft brush of fabric against your skin as he worked, and then there were the moments when his hand would linger just a little too long as he adjusted the fit of a sleeve or pinned the hem of a skirt.

each session brought a new creation—a new dress, a new style. it had become almost routine: he would sketch out his ideas, asking for your thoughts on the design, and then you would model the fabric as he draped it over you, pinning it into place before moving on to the next step. but no matter how professional sunghoon tried to keep things, there was always that spark of something more lurking beneath the surface.

one afternoon, as you stood in the centre of the room, sunghoon paced around you, scrutinising the latest dress he had draped over your frame. this one was softer than the others, a light cream-coloured gown with delicate embroidery along the bodice. you could feel the weight of his gaze as he circled you, studying every fold, every contour, as if he were memorising the shape of you through the fabric.

“what do you think?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady, his eyes focused entirely on you.

you glanced down at the dress, running your fingers over the soft fabric. “it’s beautiful,” you murmured. “you’ve really outdone yourself.”

sunghoon didn’t respond right away. instead, he stepped closer, his brow furrowing slightly as he adjusted the neckline of the gown. his fingers grazed your collarbone as he worked, sending a shiver through you. he seemed to hesitate, his touch lingering for just a moment longer than necessary, before he cleared his throat and stepped back.

“i’m trying to capture... something,” he said, his voice trailing off as he picked up his pencil and notepad, scribbling down a few notes. “something that feels... like you.”

you blinked, surprised by his words. “like me?”

he nodded, not looking up from his notes. “it’s not just about the dress. it’s about how you move, how you carry yourself. i want to create something that feels like it belongs to you. not just any dress, but... your dress.”

there it was again—that intensity in his words, the way he seemed to see you in ways no one else ever had. you weren’t sure how to respond, so you simply nodded, letting the moment settle between you.

the sessions continued like this over the next two weeks, each one more charged than the last. sunghoon worked tirelessly, sketching new designs late into the night, and every day you would return to see the progress he had made. he would greet you with that familiar smile, sometimes shy, sometimes teasing, and you would fall into the rhythm of your muse-and-artist routine.

but there was something else growing between you, something neither of you could ignore. each time sunghoon draped a new fabric over your shoulders, each time his fingers brushed your skin as he measured or adjusted the fit, the unspoken tension between you deepened. his compliments, once casual and light, became more thoughtful, more personal.

one day, as he worked on the finishing touches of a new gown—a soft lavender dress with delicate lace trimming—he paused, glancing at you from across the room. “you know,” he said, his voice softer than usual, “i’ve always known you were beautiful.”

you froze, your heart skipping a beat at his sudden confession. he didn’t meet your eyes, instead focusing on the hem of the dress as he stitched. “i just... i don’t think i’ve ever told you that,” he continued, his voice almost hesitant.

the words hung in the air, and for a moment, you weren’t sure how to respond. sunghoon had always been complimentary in his own way—praising your grace or your proportions for the sake of his designs—but this was different. there was something raw, something vulnerable in his tone that made your chest tighten.

“sunghoon,” you began, but he quickly shook his head, cutting you off before you could continue.

“i’m not saying it for any reason,” he said quickly, his hands still busy with his stitching. “i just... i think it’s something you should know. you’re more than just a muse to me.”

your breath caught in your throat. the weight of his words was impossible to ignore now, the line between friend and something more growing blurrier with each passing day.

you watched him work, his brow furrowed in concentration as he focused on the task at hand. the quiet intimacy of the moment settled around you like a soft cloak, and for a moment, it felt like nothing else existed outside of this room—just you, sunghoon, and the delicate threads of connection that were slowly being woven together.

by the time he finished the lavender dress, the air between you had shifted once again. there was no denying the feelings that had been bubbling beneath the surface for so long, but neither of you were ready to confront them. not yet.

“i think it’s done,” sunghoon said quietly, stepping back to admire the dress.

you turned, catching his eye for a brief moment before looking away, the tension between you still thick and unresolved.

“it’s perfect,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

sunghoon nodded, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer before he turned back to his sketches, his hands already moving toward the next design. but as he worked, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something between you had shifted once again, pulling you both closer to the inevitable.

the day sunghoon finally called you to his workshop to try on the completed dress, your heartbeat quickened with anticipation. you had witnessed pieces of the gown as it came together—folds of fabric, tiny swirls of embroidery—but you hadn’t yet seen the masterpiece in its entirety. now, standing at the doorway, you felt a fluttering mix of nerves and excitement, an invisible pull drawing you into sunghoon’s world once more.

as you stepped inside, you found sunghoon waiting, his face a picture of quiet intensity. he nodded toward the mannequin where the dress hung, his eyes unreadable but somehow deeper, darker than usual, as if holding back something unspoken.

when your gaze finally landed on the dress, your breath caught in your throat.

it was breathtaking.

the gown was nothing short of exquisite—lavender silk flowed like water from the bodice down to the floor, shimmering under the afternoon light that streamed through the windows. the neckline was delicately embroidered, the threads so fine they seemed like whispers etched into the fabric, while lace fluttered over the sleeves, giving the piece an ethereal, almost dream-like quality. the entire dress exuded elegance, but more than that, it felt like you—a reflection of something so deeply personal that you almost couldn’t believe sunghoon had captured it.

you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the gown. “sunghoon... i don’t even know what to say,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of the fabric. “it’s perfect.”

he remained silent, watching you with a quiet intensity that sent shivers down your spine. his gaze didn’t waver as you admired the dress, his expression unreadable but brimming with something just beneath the surface.

“try it on,” he finally said, his voice low and steady, though there was a note of something raw in it.

nodding, you carefully took the dress from the mannequin and disappeared behind the changing screen, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. the fabric felt cool against your skin as you slipped into the gown, the weight of the silk settling around your body like it had been made just for you—which, of course, it had.

the dress hugged your curves in all the right places, the bodice fitting snugly while the skirt fanned out into a soft cascade of fabric. you ran your hands down the front, smoothing the delicate lace as a quiet gasp escaped your lips. it was perfect—no, more than perfect. it was everything you had dreamed of.

but there was one problem. as you reached behind your back to tie the strings that secured the dress, you quickly realised they were positioned just out of your reach. you stretched and fumbled, trying to catch the ties, but it was no use. frustration bubbled inside you, and after a few more futile attempts, you sighed in defeat.

“sunghoon?” your voice was hesitant, your cheeks warming as you called for his help.

“yes?” he replied, his voice soft but nearby.

“i... i can’t tie the strings on my own. could you—could you help me?” your request was almost timid, aware of the intimacy it required, but there was no other option.

a pause followed, but then you heard his footsteps approaching. he came closer, and the air between you seemed to shift, charged with a kind of tension that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“of course,” sunghoon said quietly. his voice had taken on a softer tone, one that sent a quiet thrill through you as you stood there, waiting, feeling the heat of his presence behind you.

you turned your back to him, exposing the bare skin between the open edges of the dress. the silence that followed was thick, palpable, as his fingers grazed the strings, brushing against your skin in the process. his touch was featherlight, but each accidental contact sent small jolts through you, your senses heightened by the proximity, the intimacy of the moment.

sunghoon worked with slow, deliberate care, pulling the strings through the loops at your back. his fingertips continued to brush your skin, his movements precise but betraying the tension in the way his breath seemed to catch when his hands touched you. you could feel his closeness—the heat radiating from his body, his steady breath that almost matched the rhythm of your own heartbeat.

in the mirror directly in front of you, you watched his expression as he tied the delicate knots. his brow was slightly furrowed in concentration, but there was something else, something simmering beneath the surface. his lips parted ever so slightly, his eyes darkening as they traced the movement of his hands against your skin. you couldn’t stop staring at him, watching the way his fingers worked, almost trembling as they lingered on your body longer than necessary.

your pulse quickened, your breath coming out a little too shallow, and you wondered if he could feel the way your muscles tensed under his touch. it was impossible to ignore the tension—something unspoken, something that had been building between you for weeks, was about to break.

“there,” sunghoon murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. his hands remained on your waist, resting lightly against the fabric as though he couldn’t bring himself to let go just yet.

you swallowed hard, watching him through the mirror. the look on his face wasn’t just one of pride in his work—it was something far deeper. his gaze softened as he admired the way the dress fit you, his fingers tightening slightly against your waist. “you look... beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “it suits you perfectly. is it comfortable?”

the words were innocent enough, but the way he said them—the hushed tone, the way his eyes never left yours in the reflection—made your heart race. you nodded, unable to form words, still lost in the haze of the moment.

“it’s perfect,” you managed to say, your voice trembling slightly.

sunghoon’s hands stayed where they were, his touch sending a heat through you that was impossible to ignore. your eyes met his in the mirror, the intensity between you crackling like a flame barely held back. his grip on your waist tightened just a little, his fingers pressing into the fabric as though he were anchoring himself.

for a moment, everything froze. the workshop, the world outside—none of it seemed to matter. all that existed was the way he was looking at you, the way his breath hitched as he stood so close. his fingers brushed against your waist, just under the edge of the fabric, grazing the skin there ever so slightly.

then you turned around, and suddenly, the space between you was gone.

you were standing so close that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, your chest brushing against his as you moved. his eyes darted to your lips, then back up to your gaze, conflicted but full of want. the air was thick with tension, so much that you could hardly breathe, and then, without warning, sunghoon’s restraint snapped.

he kissed you.

the kiss was swift, almost frantic, as if he’d been holding it back for too long. his lips pressed against yours with a kind of hunger that sent shockwaves through your body, stealing your breath. one of his hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, while the other remained at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of the dress as though he were afraid you’d slip away. the kiss deepened, your senses overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth against yours, the way his hands held you like he’d never let go.

your mind spun in a whirlwind of sensation. the kiss was impulsive, raw, filled with all the feelings he had been holding back for so long. you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—all you could do was respond, kissing him back with the same intensity, the same desperate need that had been growing between you for weeks.

but then, reality crashed down.

sunghoon pulled back, his eyes wide with shock and regret, his breath ragged as he stared at you. “i—” his voice faltered, his hand still lingering on your waist, trembling slightly. “i’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “i didn’t mean to—”

you were just as dazed, your heart still pounding, your lips still tingling from the kiss. “it’s... it’s okay,” you said, though the words felt hollow. the kiss had left you reeling, and you weren’t sure what to think, what to feel.

sunghoon’s expression twisted with regret, his hands falling away from your waist as he stepped back. “we shouldn’t have—” he shook his head, his face pale. “i crossed a line.”

you swallowed hard, feeling the tension between you shift into something heavier, something filled with confusion and guilt. “maybe we should forget this happened,” you whispered, though the weight of the kiss still lingered in the air.

he nodded, his expression tight, though the pain in his eyes was unmistakable. “yeah. let’s... forget it.”

but neither of you could. the kiss, the way his hands had held you, the way your heart had raced—it was etched into the fabric of your friendship now, impossible to untangle.

word had spread quickly about sunghoon's exceptional craftsmanship. it began with whispers among the town’s elite, impressed with the stunning gown he had created for you, and soon, nobles from far and wide were flocking to his workshop, eager to have their own garments custom-made by his skilled hands. what had once been a modest business now thrived under the weight of new orders, with sunghoon’s talent finally receiving the recognition it deserved.

every day the workshop buzzed with activity—fine fabrics and intricate patterns sprawled across every surface, and sunghoon worked tirelessly, sketching designs, selecting fabrics, and stitching together dreams. you often found yourself there, as his muse, watching as he brought these creations to life, offering input or simply keeping him company through the long hours. his success was yours to share, and you couldn’t have been more proud.

one day, a letter arrived from the royal palace itself. the princess had heard of sunghoon’s work and requested him personally to craft a gown for her upcoming ball. the letter was written in elegant script on fine parchment, a formal request for his presence at the palace to discuss the details of the gown. when he read it aloud to you, you could hardly contain your excitement.

“sunghoon, this is incredible!” you exclaimed, beaming at him as he held the letter in his hands. his eyes shone with a mixture of pride and disbelief, as though he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

“it’s surreal,” he admitted, glancing at you with a smile that warmed you from the inside out. “i never thought i’d be making dresses for royalty.”

“you deserve it,” you said earnestly, feeling your heart swell with admiration for him. “you’ve worked so hard, and now everyone can see just how talented you are.”

sunghoon’s smile faltered for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes as he looked at you. “i couldn’t have done it without you,” he said softly. there was a weight to his words, a depth of feeling that you felt but couldn’t quite name. your heart skipped a beat, but before you could respond, he turned away, folding the letter carefully.

the trip to the palace was an experience neither of you would forget. the sprawling estate, the opulence of the interiors, the sense of awe that filled you as you walked through the grand halls—it was like stepping into another world. sunghoon had been invited to meet with the princess and discuss her gown, and as his muse and close friend, you accompanied him.

the princess was gracious and kind, and she spoke with sunghoon about the design she envisioned, praising his previous work. throughout the conversation, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him, watching the way he carried himself with quiet confidence, his artistic mind already turning over the details of the gown in his head. it was hard not to feel a swell of pride, knowing you had played a part in his journey to this moment.

afterward, when the order had been placed and the royal commission secured, sunghoon suggested you both celebrate the occasion.

the restaurant was warm and cosy, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, far removed from the grandeur of the palace. the two of you had shared many meals together over the years, but tonight felt different. the weight of sunghoon’s newfound success hung in the air between you, the knowledge that his life—your lives—were changing in ways you hadn’t fully anticipated.

you sat across from him, toasting to his success with glasses of wine, laughter bubbling up as you reminisced about old times. “do you remember the time we tried to make that dress for my cousin’s wedding, and the fabric tore right before the ceremony?” you said, laughing as you recalled the chaos.

sunghoon chuckled, shaking his head. “how could i forget? i thought i was finished as a tailor before i even started.”

“but you saved it in the end,” you said, your smile softening as you looked at him. “you’ve always had this way of making things beautiful, even when they seem impossible.”

his laughter faded, and for a moment, there was a lingering silence between you. his gaze met yours, and the atmosphere seemed to shift—something unspoken hung between you, thick and heavy like the summer air. the warmth from the wine and the closeness of the moment made it difficult to focus on anything else but him—the way the candlelight flickered against his features, the way his eyes softened when they lingered on you just a little too long.

he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “you know, this success… it’s more than i ever thought possible. and i don’t think i could have done it without you by my side.”

his words struck a chord deep within you, the intensity in his eyes making your breath hitch. there it was again—that undercurrent of something more, something that had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to break free.

your heart pounded in your chest as you leaned in slightly, your faces just inches apart. the air between you crackled with anticipation, the proximity sending sparks down your spine. you could feel the warmth of his breath, the space between you narrowing with every passing second. your eyes locked, and in that moment, it felt like the world had fallen away.

the moment stretched on, and you could feel your heart racing, your pulse thundering in your ears. he was so close now, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, close enough that all it would take was one small movement, one tiny step forward, and—

“i’m getting married,” you blurted out, the words slipping from your lips before you could stop them.

sunghoon froze, his eyes widening in shock. the spell between you shattered, and you immediately regretted speaking, but there was no taking it back now. the air between you went cold, and you felt your stomach drop as the weight of your announcement settled over the table like a heavy blanket.

“what?” his voice was low, strained, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard.

you swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “my parents... they’ve arranged a marriage for me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “i’m engaged.”

the silence that followed was deafening. sunghoon stared at you, his expression unreadable, though you could see the flicker of pain in his eyes. his jaw clenched slightly, his hand tightening around his glass as if he were trying to steady himself.

“when?” he finally asked, his voice tight, controlled.

“the date hasn’t been set yet,” you admitted, feeling your throat tighten with guilt. “but... soon.”

sunghoon sat back in his chair, his gaze dropping to the table. for a long moment, he didn’t say anything, the silence between you stretching into something unbearable. you could see the conflict in his eyes—the hurt, the frustration, the confusion. the tension that had been building between you for weeks, months even, was now thick with an unspoken finality.

finally, he looked up at you, his eyes dark and clouded with emotion. “congratulations,” he said quietly, though the word felt hollow, like it had been ripped from him unwillingly.

your heart sank, a wave of disappointment washing over you. you had expected... well, you didn’t know what you had expected. for him to fight for you, maybe, to protest or say something that would change everything. but instead, all you got was a distant, polite congratulations.

“sunghoon—” you started, but he shook his head, cutting you off.

“i’m happy for you,” he said, though the strain in his voice betrayed his true feelings. “i’m sure he’s a good man.”

the words stung, more than you had anticipated, and you couldn’t help but feel a deep ache in your chest. this wasn’t how things were supposed to go. but what could you say? you were engaged, and he... he was congratulating you, just as any friend would.

“yeah,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible. “thanks.”

but neither of you was happy, and you both knew it.

the walk back home felt heavier than usual. the excitement and easy flow of conversation that had filled the night seemed to dissipate into an awkward, thick silence. sunghoon walked beside you, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, eyes focused on the road ahead. normally, you’d both talk about everything and nothing—jokes, shared memories, or the latest designs he had been working on. but tonight, every step felt strained, as if the unspoken words were choking both of you.

you could feel the weight of what had happened at the restaurant still hanging between you, as if the tension you hadn’t acted on had only grown with your admission. sunghoon had insisted on walking you home, just as he always did, though the usual warmth in the gesture felt distant now. neither of you had tried to break the silence, though you kept stealing glances at him out of the corner of your eye.

his face was unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line as he walked with an unusual stiffness. you wanted to say something, to break the thick silence, but no words came. the engagement had changed everything between you, and you hated how powerless it made you feel. there was a dull ache in your chest as you watched him struggle with the weight of emotions he clearly wasn’t ready to share.

when your house came into view, you slowed your steps, almost wishing the walk could last just a little longer. but it didn’t. you reached your doorstep, and just as you were about to thank sunghoon for the walk, the door swung open.

your mother appeared, her face lighting up the moment she saw the two of you standing there. “sunghoon! what a surprise!” she exclaimed warmly, stepping out and pulling him into an embrace before he could protest. “you look so well!”

sunghoon smiled politely, though you could tell he was caught off guard by her enthusiasm. “good evening, ma’am. i was just walking your daughter home.”

your mother beamed, glancing at you with that knowing look of hers. “he always does, doesn’t he?” she teased lightly. “such a good boy.”

“mama...” you muttered, feeling embarrassed.

but your mother wasn’t finished. “come in, come in! you can’t just leave him standing outside like that,” she scolded, ushering sunghoon into the house before either of you could object. you shot him an apologetic look, but he waved it off with a small smile as he followed her inside.

the warmth of your home enveloped you both, the familiar scent of dinner lingering in the air. your father was sitting by the fire, and when he saw sunghoon, his face brightened. “ah, there’s the young tailor everyone’s talking about! come, sit with us.”

sunghoon looked between you and your parents, clearly not wanting to intrude, but it was hard to refuse the hospitality of your family. you watched as he settled into one of the chairs near the fire, his polite smile fixed in place, though you could sense the unease in his posture.

your mother sat beside him, clasping his hands in hers as she looked at him with pride. “sunghoon, i’ve heard such incredible things about your work lately. everyone is talking about you, and we couldn’t be more proud.”

you could see the discomfort in his eyes as your mother’s words began to feel more like a reminder of the distance between you. he offered her a tight smile. “thank you. it’s been... unexpected.”

“and well deserved!” your father chimed in. “we always knew you’d make something of yourself, ever since you were little.”

your mother nodded eagerly, her gaze softening as she looked at him fondly. “we’ve seen you grow up alongside our daughter, sunghoon. you two have always been so close... practically inseparable.”

you stiffened at the words, knowing what was coming next.

“which is why,” your mother continued, glancing at you briefly before turning back to sunghoon, “it’s been so hard for her, this whole engagement business.”

your stomach twisted. the topic you had been dreading was now out in the open, and you didn’t miss the way sunghoon’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. he was trying to stay composed, but the flicker of surprise in his eyes was unmistakable.

“she’s protested quite a bit, hasn’t she?” your mother added, her tone half-amused, half-concerned.

sunghoon’s eyes darted toward you, his surprise evident. you could see the confusion in his expression as he processed your mother’s words. you hadn’t said yes to the engagement? not fully? he had assumed you had accepted it without question, but now...

you averted your gaze, feeling your cheeks flush under the weight of both his and your parents’ attention. you hadn’t exactly fought against the engagement with much force either. it was an unspoken understanding between you and your family that the marriage would happen eventually, even if your heart wasn’t fully in it. but now, seeing sunghoon’s expression shift, you could see the conflict in his eyes.

your mother continued on, oblivious to the tension now thick in the air. “it’s just nerves, of course. every girl feels a bit uncertain before a big step like this.” she smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “she’ll come around.”

you wanted to protest, to say something that would dispel the awkward silence stretching between you and sunghoon, but the words caught in your throat. instead, your mother’s next words hit like a hammer, unknowingly driving the wedge deeper.

“actually,” she began, her voice suddenly filled with excitement, “we were hoping you could help us with something, sunghoon.”

he blinked, taken aback by her tone. “of course, ma’am. what is it?”

“well,” she said, glancing at you with a grin, “who better to make our daughter’s wedding dress than the most talented designer in town?”

the room felt as if it had dropped several degrees, the weight of her request pressing down on all of you. you felt your stomach churn, a sinking feeling of dread settling in. you hadn’t expected this—he hadn’t expected this. you watched as sunghoon’s expression faltered for the briefest moment, his composure slipping as the full impact of your mother’s words hit him.

make your wedding dress. your wedding dress.

he smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “i’d be honored,” he said quietly, his voice strained.

your mother clapped her hands together, beaming with delight. “oh, that’s wonderful! i knew we could count on you, sunghoon.”

he stood up then, a sudden stiffness in his movements. “thank you for your kindness,” he said, his voice more formal now. “but it’s late, and i should be going.”

your mother stood as well, ushering him toward the door with a fond smile. “of course, of course. but we must meet soon to discuss the dress!”

sunghoon nodded, his gaze avoiding yours as he headed for the door. you followed behind in silence, the heaviness between you both suffocating.

at the doorstep, he paused, his hand resting on the doorframe as he turned to face you one last time. there was something broken in his expression, a quiet sadness that you couldn’t quite place. for a moment, it seemed as if he might say something—something real, something raw—but then, he simply nodded.

“good night,” he whispered, before turning and walking away.

as you watched him disappear into the night, your heart ached with the words left unsaid, the feelings unspoken, and the love you both were too afraid to fight for.

as sunghoon walked through the dimly lit streets, the cool night air did little to ease the storm brewing inside him. each step echoed in the stillness, but his mind was anything but calm. the evening had turned from tense excitement into a suffocating weight pressing down on his chest.

he replayed your mother’s words over and over in his mind: “who better to make our daughter’s wedding dress than the most talented designer in town?” the words had cut deeper than any blade, the cruel irony of it all making his heart twist painfully. he had dreamed of crafting something beautiful for you, yes, but never like this. not for someone else’s wedding. not for the marriage that would take you away from him.

sunghoon clenched his fists, his knuckles white as his nails bit into his palms. a marriage. to someone else. he could barely picture it, the idea so foreign and painful that it seemed absurd. but the reality was right there, looming in front of him like an unstoppable force. he had always known that this day would come. you were from a noble family, destined to marry someone of status. and him? he was a tailor, nothing more. his growing reputation in town meant little in comparison to the weight of your family’s expectations.

it’s for the best, he told himself, over and over, like a mantra he hoped would dull the pain. your life with that man—whoever he was—would be easier, more secure. you’d live the life you were meant to lead, filled with luxury, stability, and everything a noblewoman deserved. sunghoon had nothing to offer in comparison. even with his recent success, his craft could never provide you with the life that an arranged marriage could.

sunghoon’s pace quickened, the weight of his emotions making it harder to breathe. his mind whirled with a painful realization: it’s better this way. he had no right to confess his feelings to you now. no right to complicate your life any further. you were getting married, and he had to respect that. confessing his love wouldn’t change anything—it would only hurt you more, and he couldn’t bear the thought of being the cause of your pain.

he thought of the way you had looked at him tonight, how your eyes had softened when you admitted that you hadn’t agreed to the marriage yet. the flicker of hope that had briefly ignited in his chest had been swiftly extinguished by the cold voice of reason. you deserved better than him, better than a life filled with uncertainty and struggle. and even though it tore him apart inside, sunghoon knew he had to let you go.

she’ll be happier without me. the thought twisted like a knife in his heart, but he held onto it like a lifeline. it was easier to believe that than to face the truth—that he was simply too afraid. too afraid to fight for you, too afraid of what loving you truly meant. because if he did confess, if he asked you to choose him, what then? you would have to give up your life of comfort, your family’s support, and the future they had planned for you. and what if you regretted that decision later? what if he couldn’t be enough for you?

no. he wouldn’t let that happen. he couldn’t risk it.

by the time sunghoon reached his workshop, his heart was heavy with the decision he had made. he stepped inside, the familiar smell of fabric and wood filling the space around him, but it no longer brought him any comfort. he stood in the dim light, surrounded by the tools of his trade—the very things that had brought him success—and felt nothing but emptiness.

he wouldn’t confess. he couldn’t.

because he loved you too much to ask you to settle for less.

the tension between you and sunghoon hung in the air like a thick fog, clouding everything you had once held dear.

he avoided you, not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t bear to look you in the eye. each passing day, you found yourself hoping—desperately—that he would come to you, that he would say something to stop the impending wedding. but instead, sunghoon pretended to be okay. he carried on with his work, his life, as if the confession hadn’t happened. as if you hadn’t bared your soul to him and he hadn’t done the same. he buried his emotions, putting on that same calm, controlled front, and it drove you mad.

he wouldn’t fight for you.

your heart ached with the realisation, and it became painfully clear during the next few days that sunghoon had no intention of changing the course of things. the silence between you both was unbearable, the distance growing wider with each passing moment. and just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, your parents made it worse.

they scheduled an appointment with sunghoon for the most painful task yet: designing your wedding dress.

the irony of it was too cruel. sunghoon, the man who knew every inch of you, who had memorised your shape, your measurements, who had held you so intimately in his arms, was now tasked with crafting the gown you would wear as you married someone else. it was the final blow, the final insult, to a relationship that had been ripped apart by circumstances you couldn’t control.

when the day of the appointment arrived, you found yourself standing outside his workshop, dread pooling in your stomach. you didn’t want to go inside. you didn’t want to face him, not after everything that had happened, and certainly not for this.

with a deep breath, you pushed the door open, stepping into the familiar space that now felt cold and foreign. sunghoon was already there, standing by his work table with rolls of fabric laid out in front of him, but the usual warmth in his eyes was absent. he looked up when you entered, his expression neutral, professional. he greeted you with a small nod.

“let’s get started,” he said, his voice low, as if he too was trying to suppress the emotions that lingered just beneath the surface.

you could barely look at him. the air was thick with tension, and you forced yourself to speak, though your voice came out flat, distant.

“i don’t even know why i’m here,” you muttered, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “this is just… a formality.”

sunghoon’s eyes flickered briefly with something—hurt, maybe—but he masked it quickly. “your parents want you to have the perfect dress. it’s important to them.”

the atmosphere inside sunghoon’s workshop felt suffocating. you sat rigidly on a small chair, staring at the neatly folded fabrics in front of you while sunghoon prepared his tools. everything about the moment felt forced, mechanical, nothing like the ease and flow of your previous sessions together. you didn’t want to be there. and you were making it painfully clear.

sunghoon turned to face you, holding a few sketches in his hand, his face expressionless. but you could sense the tension in the air, the unspoken pain that lingered between you both. he wasn’t the same, and neither were you.

“so,” he began, keeping his voice calm and professional, “do you have any preferences for the neckline? maybe something you’ve always liked?”

you shrugged, not even looking up at him. “don’t know. don’t care.”

his brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing, nodding as if that response was perfectly normal. he glanced down at the sketches again, adjusting the paper. “okay… how about the fabric? i was thinking something soft, maybe silk? or—”

“whatever,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “doesn’t matter.”

sunghoon paused, his eyes lingering on you for a moment. you could feel his gaze, heavy with concern, but you refused to meet it. you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how hurt you were, how badly you wanted him to say something, anything, that would change this.

he sighed quietly, turning back to his worktable. “i just want to make sure it’s perfect for you,” he said softly, his voice gentle but strained. “this is an important day…”

you clenched your jaw, the words digging into your heart like shards of glass. an important day? for who? certainly not for you. he kept talking about the wedding as if it were inevitable, as if you were excited about it, and it made your blood boil.

“what about the waistline?” he asked again, forcing the conversation to continue. “something fitted, or maybe a bit more relaxed?”

“i don’t care,” you replied tersely, your tone sharp. “you’re the expert, right? just do whatever.”

the silence that followed was deafening. sunghoon stood still for a moment, his hands resting on the fabrics, his back to you. you saw the slight slump in his shoulders, the way his fingers gripped the edge of the table just a little too tightly, and for a second, you almost regretted your words.

but the frustration bubbling inside you wouldn’t let up. you had come here hoping, praying, that he would give you a reason to stop the wedding, that he would fight for you. instead, you were sitting here discussing necklines and fabric as if everything was perfectly fine, as if you weren’t on the verge of losing everything.

he turned back around, this time holding a measuring tape. “let’s… start with your measurements,” he said, his voice sounding tired, defeated.

you stood up reluctantly, moving toward him, your movements stiff and reluctant. you stood there in the middle of the room, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest.

sunghoon stepped closer, the tape measure in his hands, and for a moment, you both stood in silence, the tension between you thick and suffocating. his proximity felt overwhelming, but this time, it wasn’t filled with the same spark as before. instead, it was heavy, burdened with all the things you both refused to say.

he hesitated for a second before gently wrapping the tape around your waist. his fingers brushed lightly against your skin, but there was no tenderness in the touch. it was robotic, methodical, like he was forcing himself to distance every part of him from you.

“what about the sleeves?” he asked quietly, trying to fill the silence. “long or short?”

“whatever,” you snapped. “it doesn’t matter. none of this matters.”

sunghoon froze for a moment, his hands stilling against your waist. the silence stretched between you, thick with unresolved tension, before he pulled away, the tape measure slipping from his fingers. he turned to face you, his expression strained, frustration and confusion swirling in his eyes.

“what’s going on with you?” he finally asked, his voice low but firm. “why are you acting like this?”

you stared at him, your chest heaving with a mix of anger and sorrow. his question was the breaking point, the floodgates that had been holding everything back bursting open all at once.

“why am i acting like this?” you repeated, your voice trembling with emotion. “because you’re standing here, pretending like everything’s fine when it’s not!”

sunghoon’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing, his eyes searching yours for an explanation.

“this dress… this wedding… none of it matters to me!” you continued, your voice growing louder with every word. “i don’t want this. i never wanted this. and you know it, sunghoon. you know it better than anyone!”

he opened his mouth to respond, but you didn’t let him. the words kept pouring out, all the frustration and pain you had been bottling up for weeks finally spilling over.

“i’ve been waiting for you to say something, to do something—anything—that would make me stop this wedding. but you’ve just been standing there, acting like this is what i want when you know it isn’t!” your voice cracked, your hands trembling at your sides. “why won’t you say anything? why won’t you fight for me?”

sunghoon stared at you, the weight of your words hitting him like a punch to the gut. he looked down, his shoulders sagging as if the burden of everything you had just said was too much to bear.

“i… i thought this was what you wanted,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “i thought you deserved someone better than me. someone who could give you everything i can’t.”

you felt your heart clench painfully in your chest, the ache of his words almost unbearable. “that’s not for you to decide!” you shot back, your voice breaking. “you think i care about any of that? i don’t. i never did. the only thing i care about is you.”

the silence that followed was thick with raw emotion. sunghoon stood there, his expression torn, his hands trembling at his sides. he looked like he wanted to say something, like he was finally ready to fight, but the fear in his eyes held him back.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “i’m so sorry.”

the apology shattered whatever was left of your composure. you turned away, not able to stand the sight of him any longer.

“i don’t want to wear a wedding dress if it’s not for you,” you said quietly, tears brimming in your eyes. you swallowed the lump in your throat and forced yourself to leave, your heart breaking with every step you took toward the door.

sunghoon didn’t try to stop you. he just stood there, broken, as you walked out of his life.

it was the dead of night, the streets shrouded in silence, broken only by the soft crunch of your hurried footsteps on the cobblestone path. you didn’t look back. you couldn’t. not when you had finally made your decision. with nothing but the small bags clutched in your hands, you walked with purpose, heart pounding as you made your way toward sunghoon’s home.

the weight of the evening air pressed against your skin, thick with the lingering tension that had been suffocating you for days. since that fateful conversation at his workshop, the ache in your chest had only deepened, every moment spent away from him gnawing at you. there was no escaping it. you couldn’t go through with the marriage. not when you knew where your heart truly lay.

the small house loomed ahead, a single dim light flickering from the window, signalling that sunghoon was still awake. your pulse quickened, the gravity of what you were about to do hitting you all at once. you were throwing away everything—your family’s expectations, your arranged marriage, the life you had been destined to live—all for him. and yet, none of it scared you.

because sunghoon was worth it. he was the only thing you wanted.

you reached the door, your breath shallow as you hesitated for a split second, your heart hammering in your chest. then, without another thought, you raised your hand and knocked.

a few moments passed, the silence inside the house dragging on like an eternity before you heard soft footsteps approaching. the door creaked open, revealing sunghoon standing there, his hair tousled, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw you standing there, drenched in moonlight, with your bags in hand.

“y/n?” his voice was laced with confusion, concern flickering across his features as he glanced between you and the bags at your side. “what are you—what’s going on?”

you didn’t answer right away. instead, you stepped forward, crossing the threshold into his home without invitation, leaving him to close the door behind you. the room was dimly lit, casting soft shadows across the familiar space where so much of your time together had unfolded. it felt both comforting and surreal to be here now, on the brink of something monumental.

“i couldn’t do it,” you said at last, your voice barely a whisper but filled with determination. “i couldn’t marry him, sunghoon.”

he stood there, frozen, his brow furrowing in confusion. “what do you mean? the wedding—it’s—”

“i don’t want to marry him,” you interrupted, turning to face him fully, your eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made your heart race. “i don’t want any of this. the wedding, the life my parents planned for me—it’s not what i want. it’s never been what i wanted.”

sunghoon’s breath hitched, his confusion deepening, but you could see the glimmer of hope slowly dawning in his eyes. “then… what are you saying?”

you dropped your bags to the floor and stepped closer to him, the raw emotion swirling inside you finally breaking free. “what i’m saying is that i’m here, right now, because i’m choosing you, sunghoon. all i’ve ever wanted is you. i thought—i hoped—you’d feel the same. but you never said anything. and i can’t keep waiting.”

his eyes widened, a storm of emotions flashing across his face. he looked torn between disbelief and longing, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out.

“i know you think i deserve better,” you continued, your voice growing more urgent, your hands trembling slightly as you reached out to him, “but i don’t care about that. i don’t care about anything except you. all i wanted—all i ever wanted—was for you to tell me you felt the same. to fight for me.”

sunghoon swallowed thickly, his eyes locked on yours, and for the first time since you had shown up, he looked utterly vulnerable. “i do… i do feel the same, y/n. i’ve always felt the same. but i thought—” his voice cracked, and he took a shaky breath. “i thought you’d be better off without me. i was afraid i’d ruin your life if i held you back from everything you deserve.”

you shook your head fiercely, your heart pounding. “you’re wrong. you never would have ruined anything. the only thing that’s been ruining me is the thought of losing you.”

tears welled up in his eyes, his composure crumbling as the weight of his emotions finally caught up to him. he took a step closer, his hands reaching out to gently cup your face. his touch was warm, familiar, filled with the tenderness that had been missing for so long.

“y/n,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “i don’t deserve you… but i can’t let you go.”

your breath caught in your throat as the distance between you vanished. his hands trembled slightly against your skin, but the intensity in his gaze spoke volumes. you could feel the raw need, the longing that had been suppressed for too long, finally coming to the surface.

“then don’t,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “don’t let me go, sunghoon. i love you. i’ve always loved you. and i’m not going anywhere unless it’s with you.”

the words seemed to unlock something in him. without another second of hesitation, he pulled you into his arms, his lips crashing against yours in a desperate, passionate kiss that spoke of all the years of pent-up desire and unspoken feelings between you. it was everything you had hoped for, everything you had longed for—pure, unfiltered love.

when he finally pulled away, breathless and trembling, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed, as if savouring the moment.

“run away with me,” you whispered, your hands still tangled in his shirt. “we can leave this place, start a new life. i don’t care where we go as long as i’m with you.”

sunghoon opened his eyes, searching yours for any hint of doubt, but all he saw was determination—love. a soft, disbelieving laugh escaped him, his fingers tracing the lines of your face as if committing them to memory.

“are you sure?” he asked, his voice shaking. “are you really sure about this?”

you smiled, leaning into his touch, your heart swelling with the certainty of your decision. “i’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

sunghoon closed his eyes again, pulling you into a tight embrace, as if afraid to let go. “i love you,” he murmured against your hair, his voice raw with emotion. “i’ve always loved you.”

tears of relief and joy welled up in your eyes as you buried your face in his chest, holding onto him like he was your lifeline. this was what you had been waiting for. this was all you ever needed.

“we’ll leave tonight,” he whispered, his voice resolute. “we’ll start over, just the two of us.”

you nodded, a smile breaking through the tears as you felt the weight of the world lifting from your shoulders. this was your new beginning. your future with sunghoon, the one you had always dreamed of.

and together, you knew you could face whatever came next.

the moon hung low in the sky, casting its pale glow over the winding road that stretched out before you and sunghoon. the cool night air clung to your skin as you both moved in silence, hearts pounding in unison as you left the only life you had ever known behind. with each step, the weight of your decision lifted, replaced by a thrill that sent shivers down your spine.

you glanced over at sunghoon, his face illuminated by the moonlight, a mix of determination and exhilaration playing on his features. his hand gripped yours tightly, as if afraid to let go, as if letting go would mean losing you forever. neither of you had spoken much since leaving his house, but the unspoken understanding between you was stronger than ever.

the path ahead was unknown, but that no longer frightened you. in fact, it excited you.

as you crested the hill that overlooked your town, you both stopped for a moment, turning to take in the view one last time. the place where you had grown up, where your families lived, where your life had been planned out for you—it all felt so distant now, like a world you were no longer part of.

you turned to sunghoon, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite the enormity of what you were doing. “so… where are we going?”

he turned to look at you, his eyes filled with that familiar spark of ambition you had always admired. “there’s a city,” he began, his voice low and steady. “a place i’ve always dreamed of going. it’s known for fashion, for artisans, for people like me who want to make a name for themselves.”

you could see the excitement dancing in his eyes, the dream he had always kept close to his heart. “i’ve heard of it,” you said, your smile growing. “you’re talking about sorina, aren’t you?”

he nodded, his grip on your hand tightening. “yes. it’s always been my dream to open my own studio there. to create something that’s entirely mine. but… i never thought i’d actually go. i didn’t think i’d have the chance.”

your heart swelled with pride and affection as you looked at him. “well, now you do,” you said softly. “and you’re not going alone.”

his expression softened, and for a moment, he just looked at you—really looked at you, as if he still couldn’t believe this was happening. then, with a quiet laugh, he pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. “i don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.

you smiled against his chest, wrapping your arms around him. “you’re wrong. you’re everything i deserve.”

with one final glance at the town behind you, the two of you turned and began your journey to sorina, the city of dreams. the road ahead was long, but the promise of a new life with sunghoon made every step feel lighter. the thought of him creating masterpieces, of you being by his side as his muse, filled you with a hope you had never known.

and as the two of you settled into your new life in sorina, that peace only grew. sunghoon’s dreams were coming to life with every stitch, every sketch. he was thriving in a way that you had always known he could, and you were there to see it all. your role as his muse was more than a job or a title—it was the culmination of your deep connection, your bond that had grown through years of friendship and love unspoken.

there were moments when the thought of your parents crossed your mind. the guilt of running away lingered in the back of your heart at times, knowing how much they had hoped for you to marry into the match they had chosen. you wondered if they were angry, disappointed, or hurt by your decision. but as days turned into weeks, those worries faded. you knew your parents—they loved you too much to hold on to their disappointment forever.

"i’m sure they’ll forgive me," you said one evening, resting your head on sunghoon's shoulder as you both watched the busy city streets from your studio. "they’ll come to understand… eventually."

sunghoon looked at you, his eyes searching your face for any signs of doubt. “you really think so?”

you nodded, smiling softly. “i know they will. they’ve always wanted me to be happy. and when they see how happy we are… when they see all you’ve achieved, they’ll realise we made the right choice.”

he reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering against your cheek. “i hope so,” he said, his voice quiet but filled with warmth. “i just want you to have everything you deserve. i want them to see that.”

“they will,” you reassured him, your voice soft but firm. “they’ve known you all your life, sunghoon. they know how hard you’ve worked. they’ll see why i chose you. why we chose each other.”

sunghoon’s lips curved into a small smile, one that made your heart flutter. “we’ll make a life together that’s worth showing them. one day, when they see what we’ve built, they’ll understand.”

and deep down, you knew he was right. your parents loved you, and in time, they would see the joy that your life with sunghoon brought you. they would forgive the abrupt departure, the wedding that never was. because while it wasn’t the life they had envisioned for you, it was the one you had always dreamed of.

as sunghoon’s studio grew, and as the two of you thrived in sorina, you no longer felt the weight of your decision. you had chosen love over duty, dreams over expectations. and in the end, you knew it would all work out. one day, when the time was right, you would return to your parents—not as the daughter who had run away, but as the woman who had found her happiness.

for now, though, the life you had built with sunghoon was everything you had ever wanted. the city of fashion, the thriving studio, the man you loved—it was more than enough.

and with every stitch sunghoon sewed, every dress he designed, you were reminded that you had made the right choice. together, you had found your place in the world. and you had no doubt that the people you loved most would come to understand that too.

BONUS SCENE !

in sorina, life had unfolded beautifully, and not just for sunghoon. the city may have been known for fashion, but it was also a hub of opportunity for anyone willing to carve out their own path—and you had done just that.

while sunghoon spent his days sketching and tailoring in his studio, you found your own passion and footing in the city. before long, you’d built something of your own—a modest business in jewellery making, a craft you had dabbled in back home but now took seriously. the bustling markets of sorina were filled with artisans from every walk of life, and soon your intricately designed pieces caught the eye of locals and visitors alike.

at first, it was a hobby. a way to pass the time while sunghoon worked. but it didn’t take long for you to gain recognition. your designs, delicate yet bold, paired perfectly with the high-end garments sunghoon was crafting. your pieces began to complement his work, and you both realised the potential of collaborating together—not just in love but in business.

the two of you often worked late into the night, your small workbench tucked in the corner of his studio. sunghoon would be bent over his latest creation, needles and thread in hand, while you arranged shimmering stones and metals into intricate patterns.

“you know,” sunghoon said one evening, breaking the comfortable silence between you, “we’re going to need a bigger space soon.”

you looked up from your work, raising an eyebrow. “why’s that?”

he smirked, nodding toward the scattered jewellery and sketches of new designs littering the floor. “because you’re taking over my studio, that’s why.”

you chuckled, shaking your head as you placed a bracelet you’d been working on down on the table. “i think we both know you’re the one taking up all the space. these fabrics are everywhere.”

“touché,” he replied with a grin, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “but i’m serious. your business is growing. people are asking for your pieces specifically now. you’ve got clients lined up at the door. we can’t keep pretending this is just a side gig.”

you shrugged, but your smile betrayed your pride. “maybe. but it’s not like i’m doing this on my own. you’ve helped me a lot. half of the clients only know about my jewellery because it’s paired with your designs.”

sunghoon shook his head. “no. they come for you. you’ve worked hard to get here. don’t downplay that.”

his words warmed your heart, and you leaned back in your chair, watching him for a moment. “i guess we’ve both come a long way, haven’t we?”

he met your gaze, the familiar spark of affection lighting up his eyes. “more than i ever imagined.”

as the weeks passed, the collaboration between your jewellery and sunghoon’s garments became the talk of the city. nobles and royals who ordered dresses from sunghoon began requesting matching jewellery pieces from you. soon, you were no longer just sunghoon’s muse or his partner—you were an established name in your own right.

at events and gatherings, whispers of “have you seen her designs?” filled the halls, your name mentioned alongside sunghoon’s, but never overshadowed by it. the partnership between the two of you was equal, balanced by your mutual respect and admiration for one another’s talents. while sunghoon’s studio flourished, so did your own reputation. you set up a small stall in the heart of the city, your jewellery catching the sunlight and drawing the attention of passersby. with each new order, you found yourself standing more confidently in this new life you had built.

one evening, as the two of you sat in the now-expanded studio, reviewing orders and discussing the future, sunghoon turned to you, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“so, what’s next for you? you’ve got clients begging for your work, you’re practically a household name now,” he teased, nudging you gently. “maybe it’s time you open your own studio, too?”

you smiled, considering his words. “maybe. i’ve been thinking about it, actually.”

sunghoon raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “oh? you’ve got plans you’re not telling me?”

you laughed softly, shaking your head. “no, nothing concrete. but i do think it’s time i take things to the next level. i want to expand, maybe hire a few apprentices. i don’t want to just make jewellery—i want to teach others how to do it, too. there’s a lot of talent in this city that deserves to be nurtured.”

he looked at you with such pride in his eyes, it made your heart swell. “you’re incredible, you know that?”

you shrugged, trying to downplay your excitement. “i’m just doing what i love.”

“and you’re damn good at it,” he said firmly. “don’t forget that.”

it wasn’t long before you made that dream a reality. you secured a space in one of the city’s artisan districts, a small but beautiful shop where you could sell your creations and train apprentices in the art of jewellery making. the shop was an extension of yourself—chic, elegant, and full of the creativity that had always been a part of you.

soon, your shop became as well-known as sunghoon’s studio. the two of you were often talked about together, not as a couple who had run away from their old lives, but as two individuals who had built something remarkable side by side.

every piece of jewellery you created had its own story, just as every dress sunghoon designed had its own flair. and while you both supported each other’s work, neither of you relied solely on the other to define your success.

the life you had built together in sorina was not just about love—it was about the dreams you had both nurtured and the independence you cherished. you were more than sunghoon’s muse. you were a creator, a designer, a businesswoman in your own right.

as the sun set over sorina, casting a warm, golden glow across the city, you stood at the threshold of your jewelry shop, taking in the scene before you. the streets were alive with people bustling between vendors, artisans displaying their wares, and musicians playing softly in the distance. your heart swelled with contentment as you looked out over the life you had built, not just for yourself, but alongside sunghoon.

the sound of footsteps broke you from your thoughts, and you turned just in time to see him approaching. his face was illuminated by the setting sun, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he drew closer. even after all this time, your heart still skipped a beat whenever you saw him. there was something about the way he carried himself, the quiet confidence, the kindness in his eyes, that always made you feel safe and cherished.

"busy day?" he asked, his voice low and familiar as he stopped in front of you, his gaze warm.

you nodded, leaning against the doorframe with a soft smile. "busier than usual. i think word is spreading faster than i expected. what about you? how’s the studio?"

he chuckled, glancing back toward his own shop down the street. "same here. we might need to start hiring more help."

you laughed softly, and the two of you stood there for a moment, soaking in the peaceful atmosphere around you. the city was beautiful in the fading light, and for a brief second, everything felt perfect. but then sunghoon shifted slightly, his eyes locking with yours, and you saw something deeper flicker in them—something that had never fully disappeared.

without a word, he reached out, gently brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a little too long. the simple gesture sent a shiver down your spine, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension that had only grown stronger over the months.

“you’ve got a speck of something,” he murmured, his voice softer now, more intimate. “right here.”

you felt the heat rise to your cheeks as his fingers lightly grazed your skin. “thanks,” you whispered, barely able to find your voice.

sunghoon didn’t pull away immediately. instead, he stayed close, his eyes never leaving yours. there was something different in his gaze tonight—something tender, yet intense. and as you looked back at him, you felt the weight of all the moments you’d shared, the quiet yearning that had simmered between you since the day you’d arrived in this city together.

“do you ever think about… everything?” he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness. he didn’t have to explain further. you both knew exactly what he meant.

you swallowed hard, your heart racing. “i do,” you admitted quietly. “every day.”

his hand slipped down to your waist, tentative at first, as if testing the waters. but when you didn’t pull away, he drew you in closer, until your bodies were nearly touching, the warmth of his chest radiating against yours. you could feel the rise and fall of his breath, and it was intoxicating.

“i never imagined…” sunghoon’s voice was barely a whisper now, his lips close to your ear, sending another wave of shivers down your spine. “that we’d end up here. together.”

you leaned your forehead against his shoulder, closing your eyes as you took in his scent—so familiar and comforting. “me neither.”

for a long moment, you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, neither of you daring to move or speak. the world outside seemed to melt away, leaving just the two of you, suspended in time.

and then, without warning, sunghoon pulled back just enough to tilt your chin up with his fingers, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“i love you,” he whispered, the words escaping him like they’d been held back for far too long. “i’ve always loved you.”

your heart stopped, the confession hanging in the air between you, heavy and undeniable. you had known it, felt it, but hearing the words out loud still sent a rush of emotion through you.

“i love you too,” you replied softly, the words coming out as naturally as breathing.

sunghoon smiled—a slow, tender smile that reached his eyes. and before you knew it, he was leaning in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was soft at first but quickly grew more passionate. it was as if all the years of longing, of unspoken feelings and missed opportunities, had finally culminated in this moment.

you melted into the kiss, your arms wrapping around his neck as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer. his lips were warm and gentle, yet insistent, and you could feel the depth of his emotions in every touch. the world spun around you, but all you could focus on was him—the way his lips moved against yours, the way his hands held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, sunghoon rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet of the evening.

“i don’t want to wait anymore,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “we’ve waited long enough.”

you nodded, your heart swelling with a sense of certainty you hadn’t felt in a long time. “neither do i.”

you smiled, feeling a deep sense of peace settle over you. the future felt bright, and for the first time, you could see it clearly—both of you, side by side, not just as lovers but as equals. you were no longer running away from the life you didn’t want. instead, you were running toward the life you had built together, filled with love, passion, and the promise of a beautiful tomorrow.

you weren’t just sunghoon’s muse. you weren’t just a girl who had fallen in love. you were a woman who had taken control of her destiny, and now, with sunghoon by your side, you were ready for whatever the future held.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

taglist: @punchbug9-blog @firstclassjaylee @capri-cuntz @addictedtohobi @jaysfavoritegirl (the rest will be tagged in the comments since tumblr is acting up again )

[userautumn]

one thing i haven't seen talked about is how definitively and bleakly the birthday party scene highlighted how much christopher has grown since eddie last saw him. i don't think that's something eddie has begun to confront yet. in some part of his mind, he thinks the christopher that comes back (whenever that is) is going to be the same christopher that left. but it's not and he's not. he's not just stagnating like eddie is. he's living. he's growing. and the type of party that eddie set up with the banner, and the party hats, it was... cute. for a little boy. possibly even for the boy christopher was before he walked in on his dad hugging his dead mom. or who he thought was his dead mom. but that changes a lot, doesn't it? unparalleled hope followed swiftly by unparalleled disappointment is a hell of a thing to live through.

so he's older. not just chronologically. he's older on the inside in ways that could rival most adults. and eddie doesn't realize that. because christopher is, and always will be, his little boy, yes, but. in eddie's mind, christopher has become frozen in amber over the last few months. frozen in anger, frozen at thirteen, paused right in the moment before eddie breaks his heart. and he thinks he still knows his son. so he breaks out the noise makers, and the party hats, and... it's all so fucking stupid.

it's stupid because christopher is not a child, he's a teenager now with teenage interests that his dad's not privy to. it's stupid because a "surprise party" is not really a surprise when you thought for a few seconds your mom was back, and you don't know if you can ever trust another "surprise" from your dad ever again. it's stupid because eddie's kid has grown up, and eddie himself is still frozen in time. and that's a recurring theme in his life. he's frozen in the moment before christopher left. frozen in the moment that shannon died. frozen in the moment she asked for the divorce. frozen in the moment they met.

i don't think he'll know what to do or who he'll become when time unsticks.

i think that scares him.

i think that makes him sick. i think that's why he wants to pretend a little while longer. but time waits for no man, and his life, his son, is passing him by.

he's almost been left behind, and he needs to do a lot of work on himself if he wants to catch up.

[shortkinglogan]

Comparing Wade and Logan's healing factors

I keep reading fics that seem unsure about how their individual healing factors work and differ so I'm making this post to help clear it up for anyone who cares (if you just wanna make stuff up for fun more power to ya)

Let's start with

Logan

As far as what he can heal from, it seems as long as there is a small amount of his genetic code, and as long as it gets enough energy, he can regenerated from just about anything.

He needs tons of calories to maintain the healing factor normally.

He can even regenerated from just a skeleton and it only takes a few minutes to happen.

He isn't seen reattaching limbs but I'd assume this is possible under the right conditions, for the same reasons Wade can do it.

There's also the rest of his abilities that are directly effected by his healing factor.

Without the admantium on his bones, his healing factor isn't constantly working, and his senses and instincts become more powerful, making him more likely to go feral. He also cannot regenerated the admantium because it wasn't a natural part of him to begin with.

Feral Logan is like a mental state he regresses into, he has been without the admantium and still not fully feral, seemingly because he has some people to anchor him, though he is still more animalistic like this. He can even be pulled back out of that mental state by just the scent of someone he cares about.

Wade

His healing is very similar to Logan's, yet also very different.

Wade also can regenerated from just a drop of blood if it can get energy to do so, for Wade, instead of an energy crystal thing, it's Logan's energy, growing off him like an ear on a mouse.

His healing factor works about as fast as Logan's as well able to regenerated quickly when needed. Unlike Logan though, Wade has been seen reattaching limbs instead of just growing them back, but it makes sense both could do it, Logan just keeps getting those dismembered limbs thrown miles away or destroyed so he didn't get a chance as far as I know to do the same as Wade.

Now this i see being weirdly interpreted and I feel like I know what's going on.

Its not a "dying factor" it's still a healing factor, it's just weird because of how CANCER works. Cancer is not dead cells, it's mutated constantly growing cells, so a healing factor would not pick that up as something to kill off or heal from, so wades cancer just spread until his entire body, skin bones and all, are nothing but cancerous cells, and stopping the cancer stops the healing because it stops the cells from regrowing, this, stopping his healing (of he wasn't made of cancer he may still be able to heal even if the cancer was stopped)

What his healing factor is constantly working on however is the effects of all this cancer on his body, he probably experiences a different organ failing on him and regrowing almost every day. So what would happen if he had no cancer to make his healing factor constantly work? Could he go feral too?

Short answer no, in fact, Logan's feral state is more because of his other abilities than the healing factor, I feel like a Wade without the cancer would be like Nicepool, not in constant pain and trying to cover it up, not mentally unstable due to many brain tumors, and doesn't really have a reality hole in his brain.

Also in the comics at least, not MCU Wade, he is cursed with immortality by Thanos cause he was jealous Wade was with death romantically, so he literally cannot die, and the healing factor is no longer even a real player in his inability to die.

So in conclusion

Their healing factors work basically in the exact same way, just has a different effect on each of them due to their respective personal traits (cancer brain vs animal brain)

Neither is better than the other, they are equals, at least until Wade starts mackin on death and becomes immortal.

You just can't kill them without starving them first, and even then we know Logan will eat himself (and feed his flesh to Wade) before allowing either to starve.

Side note, they definitely can age (or at least, Logan does, Wade being immortal and all can't now) even with the healing factor, it doesn't stop aging, but it does make him able to live WAY longer than any normal human. Gotta give some love to old man Logan.

If anyone thinks I've missed something or has theories for things that aren't solid confirmed that differ from my own please lmk! 💙💛

[harmonic-intervention]

Since it is almost 911-day, and I am sure to be proven wrong about all of my headcanons (can't fucking wait!), I need to put some out there about my special guy. Don't even know if any of this makes sense, but here you go.

When Tommy opened his eyes, he stared at the burnt-out corpse of a helicopter.

Oh, he thought, I'm back here. His thoughts felt thick and slow, and he couldn't quite make sense of what he was seeing.

He had been here before.

He had crashed his chopper once before. He had done several emergency landings, but only actually fell out of sky one time, and that was in the army.

He couldn't fully remember. He couldn't remember what went wrong, and the theories that everyone else had were just that - theories. All he knew was that he lost control, he crashed, and was the only one to survive. Three were dead on impact, one died before recovery, one died as the medics were still working on him, and Tommy made it.

He hadn't been awake when they had gotten him, and he had only seen the photographs of the crushed chopper, so whenever he found himself back here, he stood outside of it, staring at the thing that clipped his wings for years to come.

After, he was discharged and sent home, and the thought of flying filled him with anxiety, so he didn't. He stayed on the ground, only able to stare up into the endless blue and yearn and fear. About so many things.

He blinked.

"Tom."

He turned around, no longer in the middle of nowhere staring at a broken chopper.

He was in the backyard of his aunt's house - his father's sister. The person who had spoken was Michael, one of his cousins, who, like the rest of the family, insisted on calling him Tom because Tommy is juvenile! Grow up!

"You know the rules, man," Michael continued, sounding almost apologetic.

Tommy remembered this day. His mother had just died a couple of months back and he was still getting used to the loveless house and the polite coolness of his father's family that his mother had done her best to shield him from.

His thoughts felt disjointed, and he couldn't quite remember what this was about. Someone said something that made Tommy feel awful, at the very least, and when he tried to speak out, Michael had stopped him.

You know the rules.

Like be seen, not heard, don't disagree with the adults, and, most importantly, don't be gay.

It was the moment that Tommy realized he needed to keep quiet about everything. Don't speak up, don't do anything but nod when faced with their opinions, be straight.

He blinked.

"Thomas."

There was only one person who called him Thomas, and only one person who did it like this - slurred together into almost one syllable, always sounding angry.

He was back in the living room of his childhood home, seventeen, a backpack slung over his shoulder, his father sat on the couch with a bottle of whiskey.

He had trouble grasping his thoughts for a moment - hadn't he just been in the yard? Much younger? What was that about a helicopter?

He knew what would happen that day. He'd kissed Andrew Jenkins behind the old hunter's shack three weeks ago, and the rumors had finally reached his dad.

"What did I always tell you?" his father asked, or tried to.

He had said a lot. Never anything worth listening to.

"Didn't ya hear me, boy? What did I always tell you!?"

Tommy's father was not a man who liked being ignored. He yelled and roared, spittle and drops of whiskey flying from his mouth. Tommy stayed quiet.

"No fucking son of mine will be one of those queers, you understand me, boy!? So, when I ask you whether what I heard is true, you better say no!"

Tommy had to think of something about a forged signature, of running away, of a camp and drills and training and men just like his father, of a helicopter.

"Is what I heard today true, boy?"

"You're a sorry excuse for a man." Tommy was reasonably sure that was not what was supposed to come out of his mouth. He never said anything like this. He only ever wanted to.

His father, in a blur, suddenly stood in front of Tommy. His face morphed into Gerrard's for a moment, then back into the haggard, cross-eyed man Tommy had known in his youth.

He was close enough that Tommy could smell his alcohol-stained breath, something he had become too familiar with. When he was young, his father had seemed scary, intimidating to him. Now, he seemed weak, not able to keep himself upright.

All his life, he had wished he had taken a swing at his dad, just once. Fought back, just once.

Violence ran in the family, after all.

He had a hand fisted in the collar of his father's shirt. He didn't know how it got there.

His father smiled. He had never smiled. Sneered, yes. Frowned, a lot. Never smiled. It didn't suit him. "Do it, you coward. Be a man."

He hadn't said that in this context. Not to Tommy. He had said it to his brother-in-law after Tommy's mother had died and a fight between his father and the rest of the in-laws caused them to never contact Tommy again.

God, Tommy hated this man. He didn't hate many people, he didn't think. Vaguely, he thought that he would normally just wash his hands of them and never think of them. That sounded better.

But he would never completely remove this. He was his father's son, after all.

He blinked.

"Tommy."

They had moved from the living room to the entrance. He wasn't seventeen. He was 40, holding onto his father's shirt collar, and in the open door of his childhood home behind him stood Evan.

He reached out a hand, and Tommy immediately dropped his father in favor of turning around and accepting Evan's grasp. His grip was strong, a bit tight, clutching at him almost in desperation.

"Tommy," he said again, but there was almost an echo there, far away and urgent. He seemed to be staring right through Tommy.

He gripped Tommy's shoulders with both of his hands. "Tommy, come on. You gotta be here."

"I- I am?" Tommy said, or he thought he did. His voice got lost in Evan's.

"Tommy, please."

He blinked.

Then again.

And again.

He smelled smoke. The side of his face felt tacky and the sun was painfully bright in his eyes. His head was pounding.

He tried to sit up, but everything in his head slid off a slope and he dropped back down, closing his eyes against the spinning tree tops.

He breathed against the nausea rising up in his stomach, but that just made him cough thanks to the smoke. God, his ribs hurt. He'd probably cracked a few.

His copter had gone down, he remembered suddenly.

He had told them that something wasn't quite right, but they had sent him up anyway. And then, he started having issues with the rotor controls.

He'd tried for an emergency landing, but when there was nothing but forest underneath him, there wasn't excactly room to safely land a chopper.

He remembered being conscious after hitting the ground. He remembered crawling out of there and throwing up as soon as he got his legs under him, before he stumbled away as the hunk of junk left of his copter burst into flames.

He had made as far as his legs could carry him until he collapsed to the ground.

His head hurt. Breathing hurt. He kind of just wanted to go to sleep.

"Tommy!"

He smiled a bit. Maybe he could go and find Evan in his dream again.

"Tommy!" Louder this time. Closer, it seemed. Urgent.

How long had Evan been shouting for him? He'd heard that same urgent undertone in his dream.

"Tommy!"

He could hear additional voices, now. He couldn't identify them. He could hear the sound of several heavy boots making their way through the undergrowth.

Good. He didn't think he could talk if he tried.

For a moment, the sounds stopped. Then picked up again, louder, and faster, and coming closer.

"Tommy!" A heavy body crashed to the ground next to him, and hands on his face gently, slowly helped him turn his head to look at Evan, kneeling next to him.

He slowly raised his hand. His shoulder hurt a bit, too, but not as bad as his head. Evan took his hand before he could try to figure out what to do with it.

"Can you talk? Where are you hurt?"

Everywhere? Tommy didn't think he had broken anything but his ribs - miracle of miracles - but he was pretty banged up. He'd probably be bruised all over. He was probably also concussed, now that he thought about it.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed, and it felt like nails scraping against the inside of his throat. Kept looking at Evan, despite the presence of other people appearing at his side, other hands trying to figure out what was wrong with him.

"Ev-Evan," he croaked, and almost regretted it immediately, if it wasn't for the relieved smile it caused.

"Yeah, it's me, it's Evan. We've got you, now. You'll be okay."

Tommy nodded as best as he could, and Evan didn't leave his side for a moment when he was picked up.

He kept mumbling his name over and over whenever Tommy's eyes shut for too long, whenever it looked like Tommy was about to slip away. He kept holding his hand.

"Tommy."

[toiletclown]

breathless. (part six. finale.)

spencer agnew x gn!reader

more fluff :,)

summary: six months after you decide to make it official, you both decide now is the time to start dropping hints.

a/n: this one was going to be part six and seven but i couldn't bare to drag it out much longer!! she's done! :D [ more serious a/n at the end ]

word count: 3187

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Six months later

It had been six months of bliss, and you were happy to report to anyone who asked that there was no end in sight. You and Spencer weren’t going to have a ‘honeymoon phase’, because you were so blatantly in love with each other it just wasn’t going to end. There was no getting complacent, no getting bored. You loved it. 

However, you both agreed that it was time to start being little shits on camera and on social media. Ian and Anthony didn’t care, because realistically what you did on social media was never a big deal to them. You were both freelancing anyway, technically speaking. On camera, they just asked that you didn’t rile the fans up too, too much. 

Amanda was on vacation, and Shayne asked if you both wanted to be the special guests on an upcoming Smosh Mouth while she was out. This was the perfect start to your plan.

“Hello, I’m Shayne and welcome back to Smosh Mouth. Today I have two of the most troublesome Smosh members with me, since Amanda is still on vacation. How are you doing today, guys?” Shayne introduced the both of you.

“Troublesome? I don’t know about all that, Shayne. I’m doing good, though! How are you, Shayne?” You started.

“Yeah –” Spencer began, but you cut him off.

“No, I didn’t ask you, I asked Shayne. You can wait your turn, Spence.” Your feet were touching under the table, a silent game of footsie like you were in middle school again. And if it was making your heart and stomach do flips so loudly you thought it would catch on the mic, that’s for you to know and the fans to eventually find out. 

“Damn, Y/N,” Shayne said between laughs. Spencer was playing along with your bit and waiting his turn, so Shayne continued on. “I’m doing pretty good today, Y/N. I must say, you’ve trained Spencer so well. He never listens when we tell him to shut up.”

“Hey!” Spencer erupted into laughter, so of course you followed.

“He’s a good boy, isn’t he?” You said, ruffling his hair and making it arguably sexier.

“Don’t.” He choked out, but he was still playing footsie with you. You still knew you were getting in trouble for that one later.

“Okay, so, how are you, Spinner?” You asked, head cocked to the side.

He was blushing beautifully, and you really, really hoped that was picking up on camera. You loved making him blush, but seeing it on camera always made it even better. You might even have a few screen recordings in your hidden folder of times you made him blush on set. But he doesn’t need to know that. (He has a similar folder, but not even hidden. You’ve seen it several times. It has over 100 clips in it.)

“Well, I’m –” You cut him off again.

“Oh, Shayne, you said you wanted to do album tier lists today, right?”

“Y/N!” Spencer whined, not entirely on purpose.

“Yeah?”

“Can I talk please?” He asked, left hand reaching for your right under the table, his way of silently asking you to pull back.

“Sure, Spin. Go off, king, speak your truth.” You smiled widely at him, knowing what he was going to say.

He rolled his eyes at you, lovingly, and let your hand go so he could gesture while he spoke. “Anyway! I’m doing good today too, Shayne. I got some pretty sick news this weekend.”

You played up your surprise for the camera. Eyes wide, you asked, “Oh?” 

Shayne also knew, because of course he did, but you let him ask anyway, “Yeah? What’s up, man?”

“I finally found a bigger apartment and I’ll be moving in in about a month,” Spencer started, “It’s closer to the office and right around the corner from one of my favorite coffee shops. I’m pretty stoked, honestly.”

That was your favorite coffee shop first, but now he loved it just as much as you did. Mainly because you took him there on one of your first dates, and now he insisted on getting coffee there at least once a week.

In his defense, their lattes were incredible. And their cinnamon buns.

“Oh, sick, dude! More room for your cats, too.” Shayne knew that you were also moving in, hence the ‘bigger apartment’, but you and Spencer both agreed that should be kept under wraps for now. You were giving the fans little crumbs of the gigantic sourdough loaf that was your love.

“Yeah, they’re more excited than I am! Oh, ouch,” Spencer yelped at the end, and forced himself to cover up the fact that you had just playfully kicked his shin. Little shit, I didn’t even kick him that hard.

“Sorry, I kicked the table by accident, which is genuinely the first time that has ever happened.”

Shayne was doing his best to hide his giggles, but he was failing massively. “How many times have you sat at this table, Spencer? That’s crazy, I have never done that.”

You were so thankful Shayne loves to ‘yes, and’ shit because he was making this so much easier. And funnier.

Spencer tried to glare at him, but he was laughing too, so he looked entirely unserious. “I do not know how I managed to do that, to be quite honest.”

“Album tier list though?” You asked, excited to talk about music.

You and Spencer had extremely similar tastes, but Shayne was still ‘discovering music’ so he didn’t know a few of the albums you mentioned. Spencer agreed with all of your choices but one. You ranked the Blue Album by Weezer at an A tier instead of an S (which was done simply to rile him up, and it worked). 

After you had all gone through your little TierMaker lists and agreed upon the ending rankings (yes, you moved the Blue Album to S), Spencer decided to throw a wrench in everyone’s plans.

“Oh, Peach, when we get back to the apartment we have to call maintenance again,” He said casually, while you were supposed to be getting ready for the next segment. “Shit, can you make sure someone cuts that?” He turned to Alex, who gave back a thumbs up.

“Wait, no, keep it in. Cut this though,” you laughed, deciding to play into it, “If we keep it in, they’ll all assume we have a place together. Then we can go to Twitter to ‘clarify’ that I was just coming to your place to work on a Games video. Give them crumbs, yes, but we can maybe drop a crouton here and there.” You smiled, proud of your improv skills showing their face.

“You two are diabolical, the actual reveal is going to be April First all over again,” Shayne said, a genuine smile on his face.

You returned it tenfold, so lucky to have such loving and supportive coworkers who doubled as friends. “I don’t think we will ever reach April First heights, but I appreciate the enthusiasm.” 

Spencer sat up, suddenly locked in, “Wait, Alex?” 

“Yeah?” They called from behind the monitors.

“Cut that, but keep the footage. We can use it later. You can just send it to me after?”

“I’ll let Rock know!” Alex replied, excitement in their voice.

“Demons, both of you!” Shayne was in a fit of laughter, again. It felt so good being able to make your friends smile so easily.

//

The next week, the Smosh Mouth episode drops. Normally there’s a two-to-three week turnaround for the SmoshCast videos, but since you and Spencer had begun dropping hints in videos, the viewership on videos with both of you in it had skyrocketed. You were both thoroughly surprised (and pleased) that your plan was going so well.

You both had a notes app check-list in your phone of silly bits to pull. So far, you had checked off: hugging more than three times in one video (Challenge Pit); you blowing Spencer a kiss (TNTL); Spencer blowing you a kiss (background of a Bit City ad-sketch); the entire Smosh Mouth episode, basically; shadow boxing, then pretending you were going to make out (Bit City); more romantic compliments, even more romantic bullying (Dread, Smosh Mouth, Culinary Crimes). 

Next up, a Twitter crumb.

Once the link to the episode was tweeted, Spencer quote tweeted it: “y/n thinks their the coolest person ever”

He deleted, then tried again: “y/n thinks they're the coolest person ever”

And then, you simply tweeted a screenshot of the lyrics to Slim Pickins by Sabrina Carpenter: “This boy doesn't even know the difference between there, their, and they are.” 

This was perfect, because in a matter of moments everyone was talking about the next line of that song. “Yet he’s naked in my room.”

//

After the Twitter Crumb, you both decided to slow down on the hints. This backfired, however, when everyone then thought you were fighting. You went back to being mostly normal, which was still physical and affectionate, but now the fans were so used to the new levels of it that they went 0 to 60 on “oh my god are y/n and spencer fighting what happened btwn them :(“

Angela stopped you at lunch to let you know. You were halfway through a burrito bowl, sad to have to stop. “Hey, Y/N? Have you looked at the comments on videos lately?”

You wiped your mouth and made sure you were finished chewing before responding, which took longer than you wanted it to. You had just taken a fairly large bite when she rounded the corner. “No, why? Is everything okay?”

“Well, everyone thinks you and Spence are fighting,” she snickered, sitting down and taking a sip of her drink.

“Fighting? Why, because I’m not calling him a good boy on camera anymore?” You laughed, then lowered your voice, “He won't let me anyway, he said he got ‘dangerously’ hard.”

Angela choked a bit at that, fully used to you and Spencer being overly vulgar, but not in regards to each other.

“Oh! Okay! Well, I’m gonna go find Chanse so I can throw up with him about that! Bye!” And she was gone.

“It’s the truth,” you whispered to no one, before getting back to your food.

//

After a month of going back to ‘normal’ you decided to stop torturing everyone. You decided since the last Sabrina stunt sent fans into a tizzy, you posted a photo of you and Spencer building legos together. Then two hours later, you posted ‘Juno’ to your story, specifically the part where she sings “Adore me / hold me and explore me / I’m so fucking horny / Tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one”.

Yeah, that did the trick. Ian and Anthony did give you a light reprimanding for that one, considering the firestorm that happened on Twitter, Reddit, and your Instagram comments. Whoops?

You decided to talk to Spencer afterwards, to see what his timeline on this was. If you were being honest, you were ready to kill the charade at this point. For one thing, your one year anniversary was five months away, and you weren’t sure you could even last that long. But also, while Spencer was definitely enjoying the game you two had built, he had never wanted to hide you. And maybe that was an enticing concept.

“Hey, baby?” You called, tapping your boyfriend on the shoulder. 

“Hey, honey, what's up?” He slid his headphones off and grabbed your hand. Some things never change, huh?

You kissed his forehead, grabbing a chair and sitting with him. “I was wondering. It’s still a little far away, if I’m being honest, but our one year anniversary is soon. Did you want to maybe do the reveal that day?”

He was blushing again, and you would never get tired of that. He was still blushing at you like he was two, four, six, eight years ago. “I think I’d like that.”

“Okay! I love you so much, Spence.”

“I love you more, Peach.”

//

Five months later, your one year anniversary ♡

Spencer had had Ian pull some strings and rent out Buca Di Beppo for your anniversary. Normally, Smosh rented one out for VidCon, but they were doing Smosh Summer Games again this year, and decided to not do VidCon this time around. So they rented it out just for you and Spencer.

Your life had changed so much over the course of a year, and you couldn’t be more grateful for it all. You were in such a better place now than you were then. In so many ways, financially, mentally, physically, romantically, sexually. 

Spencer was the best partner you had ever had, by a fucking long shot. Honestly, in your youth you picked pretty bad ones. Repeatedly. You only had one serious relationship as an adult, and you were locked in for good on your second one. Well, in your opinion, you were locked in for good. 

Spencer hadn’t proposed yet, which was fine. Your birthday was coming up, so you were really hoping he would pop the question then. Whenever you ranted to Ang about this, she would promptly remind you how young your actual relationship is. Amanda, however, encouraged you fully. She had always wanted you two to date, so you getting married would send her into orbit.

Arasha also wanted him to ask you. She had actually started pestering you about your dream ring, your ring size, along with your dream venue and outfit. Chanse had taken you to brunch a few times to ask how the “Plan with a Capital P” was going, because he refused to be serious about it. You kind of liked that, though, because it took some pressure off. 

Because you did want it. Badly. Angela, Tommy, and Damien thought you should wait. Chanse, Amanda, and Arasha thought it was time. Courtney and Shayne refused to take sides, same with Ian and Anthony. Typical couples.

The crew had also decided not to weigh in, minus Erin, Kiana, and Alex. Who were all on your side, for the record.

And what side was Spencer on?

Well, he wasn't on anyone’s side.

He was on one knee, in Buca di Beppo of all places, proposing to you.

And you fucking loved it.

//

“What, did you seriously expect us to have a serious proposal? We’re too funny for boring proposals.”

You were doing a Q&A Smosh Mouth episode about your relationship. After he proposed, and got some gorgeous candids taken by Courtney, you both hard launched on Instagram (and Twitter, and Reddit, and Tumblr. So on and so forth. It really was April First again.)

“Yeah, but Buca?” Shayne was laughing his ass off again, as he did every time either of you told the story to someone. “I mean, it’s a sacred place to us here at Smosh. I get it, I do. It’s just so fucking funny.” Back to his laughter fit.

“I mean, I still remember the first Buca trip I went on with Smosh. I actually sat next to Spence, and I didn't like the pasta I ordered. He gave me his.” You smiled fondly to yourself, feeling sentimental. It was one of your favorite memories. “It’s one of the first times I remember thinking, like, fuck, I like this dude a whole lot. And he’s my best friend. And, like, out of my league.” 

“Whoa, what?” Spencer asked, eyes wide. “Me?”

“Yeah?” You blinked at him, confused.

“No, dude, you're way out of my league, what the fuck are you talking about? Shayne, what the fuck is Y/N talking about?”

Shayne threw his hands up in surrender, entirely not speaking on this. 

“Are we having our first fight on Smosh Mouth right now?” Spencer asked, rubbing his thumb on your hand, which had been laced with his under the table the whole time. He was making a joke, and wanted to make sure you knew he wasn't serious. What a fucking angel.

“It seems so because I think you were out of my league, one hundred percent. But let’s agree to disagree and move on, okay?” You decided not to really ‘yes, and’ that one.

Shayne jumped in, eager to change the topic, even though he knows you two are joking. “Well, the reactions have been stellar. You really pulled it off so well, especially by posting that ‘blooper reel’ of all the times you both messed up on camera!”

You had secretly been a little worried people would be upset. Amanda and Angela assured you anyone who was upset wasn't a real fan. Which was fair.

Speaking of Angela, you came to find out in the following month that everyone ‘taking sides’ was actually just moving parts in a huge Rube Goldberg machine of a proposal plan by Spencer.

Your fiancé. God, it was still crazy to think about.

But while you ran around trying to get people on your side, everyone had already been given guidelines by Spencer on how to react. And Arasha and Angela were his number one operatives.

Angela, your best friend, seemingly not on your side about wanting to get married, planting a seed of doubt in your mind.

(Spencer apologized for the mind games that everyone played, but it all ended so perfectly that you couldn’t stay mad at anyone. Angela would be walking you down the aisle.)

Arasha, your number one wedding supporter, asking wedding-related questions, then feeding the info back to Spencer.

(He had your dream ring handcrafted. Your dream venue was already booked. You weren’t going to say no, anyway. Arasha was helping with planning.)

Damien and Tommy siding with Angela. Damien, a romantic at heart. And Tommy, one of Spencer’s closest friends.

(Damien was in charge of misdirecting you around the office, Tommy is going to be the officiant at your wedding.)

Amanda and Chanse siding with you. Encouraging you that everything was going to be okay, whether he proposed or not.

(Amanda is the ringbearer, Chanse is in charge of music, thank god.)

Courtney, Shayne, Ian, and Anthony not taking sides at all, showing you partners shouldn't take sides.

(And they did. And do. And so do you. But they did remind you to be more mature about it.)

You were marrying Spencer. Your Spencer. Spinner. Spence. Fucking Charles. After nearly ten years, you were finally marrying the dude you fell for the moment you met his eyes in that office lobby. When he shook your hand, there were sparks. You both knew from that moment it was over.

And yet it still took so long. And even despite that, you’d do it all again, because it leads to Spencer. The road might have been bumpy, and the weather wasn't always sunny, and you might have broken down a few times along the way, but it led to Spencer. And you’d drive, run, walk, skip, hop on one leg the whole way down that road, as long as he was on the other side.

And now, he would be.

Always, and forever.

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taglist: @lokidokieokie @chaoticlizzzzzz @babble28 @starstriker027 @langaslefthairstrand @vc55bughead @kneelforloki @cosmichahn @lisiliely

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real author's note time!!

wowie, this has been such a word of labor, love, and obsession. this fic finally pulled me out of my months (almost years) long block, because for once i wrote more than 6k, but i also finished it!!!!! it's been quite a long time since i've finished a fic. next up is the angela x reader anon requested, but i can't promise a time window for that one. i hope you have all enjoyed this fic as much as i have, i'm quite proud of it and of myself. whether you follow me or not, thank you for reading and engaging with my fic. you're the best <3

[nanamincreampie]

Quiet choso

Choso Kamo x Black plus size reader

Warning: 18+ mdni, Choso expriencing puppy love

( part 2 )

Quiet Choso who’s always been on the sidelines, keeping to himself but never missing a single detail when it comes to you.

He’s seen you in class so many times, always effortlessly put together. Your soft 4c hair, styled in a neat bun today, draws his eyes whenever you walk in, and your rich, deep skin glows, accentuating every curve of your plus-sized frame. It’s not that he’s staring, at least not in an obvious way, but his gaze always seems to find its way back to you, the way your dress hugs your hips, the soft outline of your waist, and the fullness of your thighs that press against the seat when you sit. He notices everything about you without trying.

He never says much, but he’s always listening, especially when you speak in study groups. The soft, calm tone of your voice commands his attention in ways that the professors never could. Even when you greet him in passing with a gentle "Hey," he only responds with a quiet nod or a brief “Hi,” his voice barely above a whisper. He’s not used to talking, especially not to someone who stirs him up like this.

Today, though, it feels different. You’re sitting in the library, the same place he often studies, and your presence is impossible to ignore. The fitted dress you’re wearing perfectly hugs your curves, and from his spot across the room, he admires how effortlessly beautiful you are. Every time you shift in your seat or tuck a curl behind your ear, his eyes linger just a second too long.

As he flips through his notes, his mind isn’t on the pages in front of him it’s on you. He tries to focus, but when he glances up, you’re smiling at him, soft and shy. His heart skips a beat.

You catch him watching, and with a soft laugh, you tease, "Choso, are you even studying, or are you just people-watching?"

His throat tightens, and he clears it, turning his eyes back to his notes. “I’m studying,” he mutters, though even he knows it’s a lie.

You stand up and start to make your way toward the stacks of books nearby, and his gaze follows you, admiring how gracefully you move. There’s an ease in the way you walk, your dress moving fluidly over your curves, every bit of your figure making his mind race. And when you bend slightly to grab a book from a lower shelf, he can’t help the way his breath hitches, eyes drawn to the way the fabric clings to your hips and thighs.

It’s then that another guy walks up to you, trying to make conversation. Choso clenches his fist under the table, feeling a sudden rush of jealousy as the guy leans in too close, his eyes wandering over your figure. He watches the interaction from a distance, his jaw tight.

"Come on, don’t you want to grab a coffee or something?" the guy presses, a little too eager.

You smile politely but shake your head, clearly uninterested. "No, I’m good. I’ve got a lot of studying to do."

Choso feels the tension in his chest ease a bit as you turn the guy down, and when you return to your seat, your eyes meet his again. There’s a playful glint in your gaze, as if you know he’s been watching.

"You alright, Choso?" you ask, your voice soft, genuinely curious.

He nods stiffly, trying to keep his cool. "Yeah, I’m fine," he says, though his tone betrays him.

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing slightly as if you’re figuring him out. "You sure? You seem… distracted."

Choso doesn’t answer immediately, unsure how to respond without giving too much away. Instead, he lowers his eyes to his book, biting the inside of his cheek.

You laugh softly and shake your head. "Well, don’t let me distract you too much. We’ve got exams coming up." You give him a teasing smile before returning to your notes.

And Quiet Choso, who sits there, unable to shake the feeling growing inside him, is left wondering just how much longer he can stay quiet about how he feels. Because every time you walk by with your curves, your soft voice, and that smile, it gets harder and harder to keep his thoughts to himself.

[raineandsky]

Hello, I was wondering if you could please write something where Villain thinks they are under a love potion slipped by hero’s allies. After every moment they see hero they feel they are in love with them. But when they confront the teammate they find, to their surprise that they gave them a ‘speak your heart’ potion to get them to confess their crimes and never expected them to have feelings for their friend. Coming to the shock and realization that they had indeed fallen for hero but had been ignoring it/suppressing it. Now they are at the point where they can deny it no longer. Thank you for your consideration and for reading this! I hope you have an absolutely lovely day! 💕

this was.... such a cute idea??? i liked writing this one, i hope you enjoy reading!! thank you as always for the request!!

Heroes are liars. The villain knows this well. They’ll lie, cheat and bribe their way into anything that might mean another villain in jail, another victory under their belt.

There are telltale signs of lying, of course. Looking away, shifting about, smiling awkwardly. The villain has learnt all of these, because they know that heroes are liars, but also tend to be bad liars.

This hero, from the villain’s deduction, is either an incredibly good liar or telling the truth. God, the villain wants it to be the former.

“Love potion turns blue,” this hero is saying. “When I poured the heart-speaker in your drink it went orange.”

The hero’s looking right at them, stock still, face blank except for what seems a little like horror. Liar, surely. He’s just a damn good one. “Bullshit. You’re— You’re fucking with my head.”

“I’m not doing anything!” the hero cries. “I’ve been following you around with a recorder because I was hoping you’d admit to your crimes! I wasn’t expecting any of this.”

The villain turns away from them—a mistake most villains know not to make, not that the villain particularly cares right now—and heaves a deep sigh. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Does it?

The villain is no stranger to love potions and their effects. How they noticeably warp their victim’s perception of reality, of who they can trust. The villain, subject to one such potion for one of the supervillain’s strange experiments, noticed that everything felt different, that their feelings on certain people had inexplicably changed. The effects also wore off after a day.

The villain’s been feeling like this for a week. Loose, almost detached, like honesty is the best policy even though their colleagues would scream for them to stop talking.

They’ve seen their hero more than once this past week. Carefully stamped-down, begrudging respect has blown up into desperate infatuation. Their hero says some well-practised lines about taking them down, the villain stutters out some of their own about never being caught, and then they fight, the physicality of it entirely overwhelming sometimes.

That’s more than a simple love potion has ever done to the villain.

Their hero is— how long has the villain been calling them that? That hero isn’t the villain’s anything except their nemesis. They need to get out of their own head before the heart-speaker drowns them in their own emotions.

“How… how long does it last?” the villain asks faintly.

“Well,” the hero says, “at least a week.”

“Oh my god. You don’t even know.” The villain scoffs in offence. “Jesus, I— I can’t see [Hero] again like this.”

“You’re freaking out, [Villain],” the hero butts in carefully. “You’re recognising your own feelings for the first time. It’s a lot. I get it.”

The hero doesn’t get it. The villain feels like the world’s about to end. “What the hell am I meant to do?”

“You could tell them.”

“Are you insane? No!” The villain wrings their hands, pacing thoughtlessly. “No, this isn’t right. The heart-speaker will wear off and everything will go back to normal. It’s fine.”

“I mean…” The hero glances down at the little audio recorder in their hand. It looks ancient, as most hardware does that comes from the agency. “I still have a ton of free space on this thing.”

“I’m not saying it out loud and I’m certainly not letting you record it.”

The hero shrugs, the lightest smirk weaving its way onto their stupid face. “I didn’t think you would. I do have some heart-speaker left. Enough for… someone else.”

On any normal day, the villain wouldn’t care too much about knowing what their hero thinks of them. But this day isn’t normal, and with this goddamn potion working its magic on them, the villain is painfully, embarrassingly desperate to know every little detail of their hero’s thoughts.

The villain squints at the hero to make it clear they’re not agreeing to this immediately, although their body language probably suggests otherwise. “Okay, well, it’s not your worst idea.”

The hero nods sagely. “I think I know which idea of mine you think is the worst. I’ll make sure this one isn’t to your detriment, though—it’ll be fun working with you, partner.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why, saving it for someone else?”

The villain wants to snap back at them for the tease as the hero laughs, but they can’t deny what the heart-speaker is forcing them to admit.

Yes.

[violettduchess]

A/N: I've been thinking a lot about shorter, little bite-sized bits of writing. I've seen them called drabbles or ficlets (I don't like either name tbh) but they are more manageable for me right now than longer fics.

I'll write them when I can and to keep them a bit organized, I'll group them together in a series I'm calling Moments in Time. Just short, little snapshots of different moments between characters, sometimes Reader and sometimes my OCs.

They may be fluffy or spicy or angsty or comfort or silly. Whatever strikes me!

Some will be based on requests still in my inbox, some will be just my own musings and things I want to write and maybe I'll take requests here and there when I can.

Anyway, thanks for reading all this. I appreciate you doing so💜Enough rambling: Here's the first one!

Keith x Reader

WC: 450

The rain pours down from weeping clouds, the kind that cover the entire sky, gray and heavy with unknown sorrows. You duck into the greenhouse, seeking shelter from the aquatic assault, your clothing heavy with water and sticking unpleasantly to your skin. The rain has plucked at your hair, freeing strands from your hair pins and curls them around its curious fingers. It leaves them framing your face, a flushed portrait of surprise and escape.

Catching your breath, you listen to the steady drumming sound that fills the usually quiet space of the greenhouse and breath in deeply. If the color green had a smell, this would be it. It’s petrichor and loam, it’s soft and sweet and earthy. The ground when it’s been tilled. The opening of rose blossoms. The blush of springtime, the kiss of summer, the waning sigh of autumn.

You don’t know he is in here too until he says your name. The consonants and vowels of it fill space between the raindrops, rumbling through the glass enclosure on the waves of his deep, sonorous voice.

Keith.

His eyes are brighter than lightning. They gleam gold, sharp and shiny as he takes in the sight of you. He misses nothing: the parting of your lips as your heartbeat quickens, the clenching of your fingers into the wet folds of your skirt, the tension in your shoulders when you find yourself alone with him.

The answering flash of desire in your own gaze.

He crosses the space, his long legs swallowing the distance between you greedily. This isn’t the gentle prince you’ve come to know. This is the other prince. The prince who is sharp-edged, dangerously beautiful and shockingly unapologetic. Fearless in the face of his own wants.

And now he wants you.

You’ve walked the line of yearning before with him but never crossed it. A brush of hands here, a knowing smile there. Always dancing along the precipice but never diving off into the dark unknown.

Not until now. Now when the world outside is raging, when rules are scattered in the unfettered wind and the rain is chanting:

Now.

Now.

Now.

Wordlessly, he pulls you into his arms and you yield willingly, anticipation surging through your veins in turbulent waves.

He kisses you.

He finally, finally kisses you and just like that, your life is forever divided into before and after. 

He kisses you and just like that, the world blurs. It’s washed away because there is nothing but the feel of his powerful hands on your waist, the exquisite taste of his mouth, the savory scent of him.

He kisses you and just like that you’re devoted. Obsessed. Captivated. You will crave him every moment you are apart and even more when you are together.

He kisses you, hungrily, greedily, with rapidly growing need. He sinks to the ground with you held possessively against him, lust and fervor rushing through you both, wild and unstoppable.

And just like that, you’re his.

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