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w1w2 · 11 hours ago

Text

Twin

Jennie x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 13k

Synopsis: After leaving Jennie before their debut, Y/N never truly moved on. But when she hears Jennie’s latest song, old wounds resurface along with unanswered questions. Will they finally face the past they never truly left behind?

Requested by Anon

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The dim glow of the studio monitors cast long, flickering shadows across the empty room. The only sound was the soft hum of the speakers, filling the space with something hauntingly familiar. Y/N sat motionless before the mixing board, fingers resting against the cool metal fader, her other hand curled into a loose fist on her lap.

A slow inhale. A sharp exhale.

She had produced this track for an artist under SM, a rising soloist with a delicate voice, the kind that carried emotion effortlessly. But no matter how hard she tried to separate herself from it, the song was not theirs.

It was hers.

The chord progression, the way the notes stretched like fingertips reaching for something already gone, the way the vocalist’s voice wavered, just barely, on the high notes. It wasn’t just music. It was a memory.

The kind of song that felt like déjà vu, like standing in the middle of a dream where you already knew the ending but wished, desperately, that this time it would be different.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Y/N allowed herself to sink into it.

And then the chorus hit.

Her breath caught, the sound cutting through her like glass. The ache in the melody, it wasn’t just familiar. It was identical.

Identical to the way Jennie’s voice used to tremble at 2 AM when exhaustion pressed too heavily on her bones. Identical to the way she used to hum mindlessly between practice sessions, back when they were just kids chasing a dream too big for their hands.

Identical to the way she had sounded the night Y/N walked away. A phantom pain bloomed in her chest, sharp and unforgiving.

Jennie.

The name echoed through her mind like an unfinished lyric.

Before she could stop herself, Y/N’s fingers twitched against the console and pressed pause. The silence that followed was deafening. A deep, suffocating kind of silence, the kind that filled the spaces where words were never said.

The kind Jennie had left behind.

Y/N swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as if it would push back the burn in her eyes. She had spent years perfecting the art of walking away, leaving the past where it belonged.

But some things, no matter how much time passed, never really left.

Y/N exhaled slowly, her pulse still uneven from the song that had been playing just moments ago. The weight in her chest hadn’t lifted, it had only settled deeper, like an anchor dragging her down.

Without thinking, she turned away from the soundboard, her gaze landing on the wooden desk drawer beside her. A familiar habit. A dangerous one.

Her fingers hesitated for only a second before curling around the handle.

The drawer creaked open.

Inside, a neat stack of envelopes lay in quiet confession. The edges were worn, yellowing slightly with age, some folded so many times the creases had nearly torn through the paper. A graveyard of words left unsaid.

Letters.

Dozens of them, written in moments of weakness. Moments when the silence was too loud. When she had wanted to reach out but couldn’t. When she had almost broken her promise to stay gone.

Her fingertips ghosted over the stack, tracing the curves of her own handwriting on the front of each envelope. Always addressed to the same person.

Back then, writing had been the only thing that kept her from drowning. Because if she wrote to Jennie, she could pretend, just for a little while, that Jennie was still listening.

Her hand wavered before settling on the letter at the very top.

The first one.

She had written it the night she left. Alone in a hotel room, the city lights blurring through the rain-streaked window, the world outside moving forward while she sat frozen in place.

She lifted the fragile paper, its corners slightly curled, the ink smudged in places where her hands had gripped it too tightly. Her handwriting was smaller than usual, hesitant. As if even the letters had known they weren’t meant to reach their destination.

But she didn’t need to open it. She already knew what it said.

Jennie, I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I need you to know. I never wanted to leave you…

Her chest tightened.

The words had felt like a confession then. Now, they felt like a wound that never fully healed.

She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the letter so tightly it crumpled slightly between her fingers. How pathetic was this? After all these years, Jennie’s name still had this power over her.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.

Y/N inhaled sharply, stuffing the letter back into the drawer, slamming it shut before turning around. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just been holding the past in her hands.

The knock had barely faded when the door creaked open.

“Y/N, you in here?”

Minhyuk stood in the doorway, a tablet in one hand, a takeout coffee in the other. His usual easygoing expression was tinged with something more hesitant today, like he wasn’t sure if he should be here.

“You didn’t answer my messages,” he said, stepping inside and placing the coffee on the desk. “Figured you were drowning in work again.”

Y/N forced a small smile. “Lost track of time.”

“Figured.” He gestured to the screens. “You working on the final mix for the new soloist?”

“Yeah, just tightening up the chorus.” She reached for the coffee, grateful for the excuse to keep her hands busy. The warmth seeped through the cup, grounding her.

Minhyuk hummed in approval, but then his gaze flickered, just for a second, toward the drawer she had shut only moments ago. He didn’t say anything, but she could tell he’d noticed her tension.

And then, just as she was about to steer the conversation back to work, he said it.

“Oh, have you heard? Jennie Kim is releasing an album.”

Y/N froze, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

Minhyuk didn’t notice, or maybe he did and chose to ignore it. “You must’ve heard about it. Everyone’s been talking about it since Mantra dropped. But there are rumors that the album includes a really personal song.”

Her stomach twisted.

She pressed her lips together, keeping her expression neutral. “Good for her.”

Minhyuk took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of the cup. “Looks like it’s gonna be a big one.”

Y/N nodded, forcing herself to appear indifferent. “She always does well.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, but there was something searching in his gaze, something cautious. “It’s just… a lot of people are saying it’s different this time. That it’s, like, deeply personal.” He paused, as if debating whether to say more. “Some fans think that one of the songs is about someone specific. Her ex to be exact.”

The words hit her somewhere deep, but she refused to let them show. Instead, she let out a small, dry laugh. “Fans say a lot of things.”

Minhyuk studied her for a moment longer before shaking his head with a smirk. “You really never crack, huh?”

She only shrugged.

Minhyuk hesitated but didn’t push further. Instead, he tapped his tablet against his palm. “Anyway, we have a meeting in twenty. Thought I’d remind you before you bury yourself in work again.”

“I’ll be there,” she assured him.

With that, he nodded and stepped back into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar.

The room fell silent again.

Y/N let out a slow breath, turning back to the desk. Her gaze fell to the drawer, the one that held years of words she never said, years of pain she never let herself feel.

She didn’t reach for it this time.

Instead, she grabbed her headphones and pressed play on the track she had been working on. She drowned out the silence with music.

The track she had been working on filled the studio, soft yet aching, each note stretching like a half-formed memory. It was a good song, melancholic, intentional, but something about it felt unfinished. Like a letter that trailed off before the final words.

She leaned back in her chair, eyes flickering to the coffee Minhyuk had left behind. The steam had faded, but the scent still lingered, warm, familiar. It reminded her of another time, another studio.

A different cup of coffee, set beside a messy pile of lyric sheets. Fingers wrapped around hers, a quiet giggle in the dimly lit room.

"Here, try mine. You’ll like it better."

A decade had passed, but the memory was still sharp. Y/N let her eyes close, just for a moment, letting it pull her under.

And just like that, she was back.

The YG practice rooms were never truly quiet.

Even at 3 AM, the building still pulsed with life. Music drifted through the halls, some tracks half-finished, others playing on a loop as trainees pushed through exhaustion. Sneakers scuffed against polished floors. Distant voices hummed unfinished melodies, notes blending into the steady hum of the air conditioning.

Inside one of those rooms, Y/N sat with her back against the mirror, legs stretched out in front of her, damp strands of hair clinging to her skin. Her limbs were sore, but it was the kind of ache that felt good. The kind that reminded her she was getting closer.

Across from her, Jennie lay sprawled on the floor, arms stretched wide, her chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. She was still catching her breath from their last run-through, sweat glistening at her temples.

“We’re insane,” Y/N muttered, tilting her head against the cool glass. “It’s literally the middle of the night.”

Jennie turned her head, dark eyes glinting under the fluorescent lights. “So? You’re still here.”

Y/N huffed, but a small smile tugged at her lips.

“Yeah, well. Someone has to make sure you don’t pass out from overworking yourself.”

Jennie grinned, slow and lazy, rolling onto her side to face her. “That’s cute. You think you’re the responsible one.”

Y/N nudged her shin with the tip of her shoe. “Shut up.”

Jennie laughed, that soft, breathy sound that Y/N had grown to love. It wasn’t the polished laugh Jennie used for cameras, nor the teasing one she shared with their members in training. No, this was different, quieter, realer, something only meant for moments like this.

The room settled into silence, the kind that stretched without pressure.The track they had been practicing to had ended long ago, but neither of them moved to play another.

With Jennie, silence never felt empty. It wasn’t the kind that begged to be filled with meaningless words or restless movements. Instead, it settled around them like a familiar melody, unspoken, but understood.

Jennie shifted beside her, pushing herself up onto her elbows, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling.

"Do you ever think about it?"

Y/N turned her head slightly, studying the way Jennie’s expression softened in thought. "Think about what?"

Jennie let out a slow breath, her voice quieter now. "The future. What it’s going to be like when we debut."

Y/N smirked, tilting her head.

"When, huh? Not if?"

Jennie turned to her then, one brow arched, eyes sharp despite her exhaustion. "Are you planning to fail?"

Y/N chuckled, lifting her hands in mock surrender. "Fair point."

Jennie rolled her eyes but didn’t hide the small smile playing at her lips. "Come on, just humor me."

Y/N sighed, leaning her head back against the mirror, pretending to think. “Alright. Let’s see… We debut, obviously. Become the biggest girl group in Korea. You’ll be the ace. Rap, vocals, visuals, everything. I’ll be the chaotic fan favorite.”

Jennie let out a quiet snort, shaking her head in amusement.

"Obviously."

Y/N’s grin widened. "We’ll travel the world, win Daesangs, perform at Coachella… make history." She said it like it was inevitable, like the universe had already carved their names into the stars.

Jennie’s smile softened, the teasing glint in her eyes fading into something quieter, something more fragile. She hesitated, just for a second, before murmuring, "Together?"

Y/N’s breath caught.

It was one word, simple, almost careless. But it wasn’t casual. Not when Jennie was looking at her like that, like the answer meant everything. Like Jennie was asking about more than just debuting.

Y/N swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. The air between them felt heavier, warmer, charged with something unspoken.

She wet her lips. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Together.”

Jennie held her gaze for a second longer before dropping her head back against the floor with a soft sigh.

“Good,” she whispered.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Their bodies were exhausted, but their hearts felt light. They were young, stupid, reckless, and completely convinced they could take on the world.

The countdown to debut should have been the most exciting time of their lives. Instead, it was suffocating.

Every morning began with a weigh-in. The number on the scale determined everything, how much they ate, how much they trained, how much they were worth in the eyes of the company. If it wasn’t low enough, there were consequences. Extra hours of cardio. Meals taken away. A warning that they were replaceable.

“Idols don’t have baby fat,” the trainers would sneer. “You either lose it, or you lose your spot.”

Y/N quickly learned how to quiet her hunger, how to sip on ice water until the gnawing in her stomach became something distant, something easier to ignore. Jennie was better at pretending it didn’t bother her, but Y/N saw the way she gripped the sink each morning, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Then came the rehearsals.

16-hour training days that stretched long into the night. Choreographers drilled them relentlessly, barking corrections that burned like lashes across their skin.

“Again. Again. Again.”

It didn’t matter if their legs shook from exhaustion, if their bodies screamed for rest, they weren’t allowed to stop. Mistakes weren’t tolerated. Trainees who couldn’t keep up disappeared without warning.

Evaluations were worse.

Every month, they stood in a cold, silent room while executives picked them apart like livestock at an auction. Their singing, their dancing, their faces, their bodies, everything was up for scrutiny.

“Your voice lacks color.” “Your expressions are lifeless.” “Your thighs are still too thick.”

Each critique carved into them, piece by piece, until they were hollow enough to be filled with whatever the company wanted them to be.

Privacy was a luxury they no longer had. Cameras watched their every move, managers monitored their diets, and every word they spoke felt like it could be overheard. They weren’t just trainees, they were investments, carefully molded into perfection. People stopped seeing them as girls with dreams and started seeing them as future idols, marketable and polished.

At first, Y/N convinced herself it was all part of the process. The exhaustion, the hunger, the bruises, just stepping stones on the path to success. Endure it now, and the reward will come later.

Jennie believed that, too.

“It’s just for now,” she’d murmur against Y/N’s temple in the quiet hours of the night, when the world outside the practice room ceased to exist. “Once we debut, it’ll get better.”

In those stolen moments, half-asleep, bodies aching, they allowed themselves to dream. They whispered about the future, about the world tours they’d conquer, the awards they’d win, the music they’d make together.

"Just a little longer," Jennie would say, fingers brushing against Y/N’s wrist, grounding them both. "We’re so close."

And Y/N wanted, desperately, to believe her.

But it didn’t get better.

The closer they got to debut, the worse it became. Training days stretched into sleepless nights, their bodies pushed beyond their limits, their minds fraying at the edges. Hunger settled in their bones, exhaustion blurred the weeks together, and there was no room to stop, no space to breathe.

Speaking out wasn’t an option. Complaining wasn’t tolerated. Refusing wasn’t allowed. Instead, they were met with the same cold reminder.

“Do you know how many girls would kill for this opportunity?”

So Y/N forced herself to keep going. She swallowed down her doubts, shoved away her exhaustion, ignored the nagging voice in her head that whispered, “Are you sure this is what you want?”

And then the rumors started.

Trainees gossiping in hushed voices, stolen glances from staff members, managers suddenly checking their phones more often when Jennie and Y/N were around.

At first, they ignored it.

Rumors were always circulating in YG. Someone was dating. Someone was getting kicked out. Someone had secretly undergone plastic surgery. It was just noise, the kind that came with living under constant surveillance.

But this time, the whispers followed them wherever they went.

“Did you hear?” “I thought they were just close, but…” “They’re reckless. Don’t they know how strict the company is?”

Jennie brushed it off, insisting it would pass. But Y/N saw the way she glanced over her shoulder more often, how her fingers hesitated before reaching for Y/N’s hand when no one was looking.

Then, the instructors started watching them more closely.

At first, it was just glances, lingering a second too long, a shift in tone, corrections that felt more like warnings. Then, it became something else. Their critiques grew sharper, no longer about technique but about image. Something had changed. Someone had been watching.

One night, as they were gathering their things after practice, a voice cut through the air.

"Jennie. Y/N. The executives want to see you."

A slow, sinking feeling settled in Y/N’s stomach, heavy and inescapable.

They knew.

The office was eerily silent when they stepped inside, the kind of silence that made it impossible to breathe. A long table stretched before them, lined with YG’s higher-ups, their faces blank, detached, impossible to read. The air was thick with something unspoken, pressing against Y/N’s ribs like a weight she couldn’t shake.

Jennie sat beside her, back rigid, hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her knuckles turned white. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them had to.

One of the executives leaned forward, threading his fingers together, his voice slow and measured, as if he were delivering nothing more than a routine business report. "We’ve been hearing things."

Y/N felt her pulse quicken, the cold weight in her stomach turning to ice.

"Things that cannot be tolerated."

The words were devoid of emotion, as if everything they had given, the sleepless nights, the injuries, the sacrifices, meant nothing in the face of company policy. It didn’t matter that they had spent years molding themselves into perfection, shaping every breath, every movement, every thought to fit into the carefully curated image of an idol.

As if they were disposable. As if they hadn’t bled for this dream.

"You know the rules."

No dating. No distractions. No personal lives. The meaning was clear. Idols belonged to the company. Not to themselves.

Jennie inhaled sharply beside her, the sound barely audible, but Y/N could feel the way she tensed, her fingers twitching slightly before curling into fists.

She already knew what they were going to say, but still, when the words came, they hit like a knife straight to the gut.

"End it."

Jennie didn’t move. She didn’t argue, didn’t beg, didn’t fight, not here, not in front of them, but Y/N could feel the way her body locked beside her, the way her breath turned unsteady, the way her silence screamed louder than any words ever could.

"If this continues, there will be consequences."

It wasn’t a warning. It was a command.

Silence stretched between them, suffocating, unyielding. Y/N forced herself to lift her gaze, to meet their eyes even as her throat burned with the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

Debut or love.

They weren’t allowed to have both.

The practice room was empty, yet the air felt thick, pressing down on them like a weight neither of them could shake. The mirrors stretched endlessly around them, reflecting back the ghosts of everything they had been, everything they were about to lose.

Jennie sat cross legged on the floor, her head bowed, strands of dark hair falling over her face like a curtain. Her hands were clasped in her lap, fingers curled too tightly, as if she were trying to hold herself together. Y/N stood a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself, but it did nothing to stop the unraveling.

It was almost cruel.

This room had been their sanctuary once. The place where late night practices blurred into whispered dreams, where exhaustion faded into laughter, where stolen moments made all the suffering feel worthwhile. Now, it would be the place where it all ended.

Jennie exhaled slowly, but Y/N could hear the tremble in it.

"Stay with me."

The words were soft, barely more than a breath, but they struck like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.

Y/N’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to stay. God, she wanted to.

But she couldn’t.

She couldn’t keep starving, breaking, hiding. Couldn’t keep swallowing herself whole just to fit inside someone else’s mold. Couldn’t keep hoping for a future that had never really been theirs to begin with.

Jennie lifted her gaze then, eyes glossy, filled with something raw and desperate.

"Just a little longer."

Her voice cracked, splintering at the edges, and Y/N felt something inside her shatter along with it.

That was all Jennie had ever asked of her. Just a little longer. Just a little more pain. Just a little more sacrifice. Just a little more of herself.

But what was left of her to give?

Jennie was built for this world. Born to endure. Made to shine. She could withstand the pain, the hunger, the scrutiny, because she saw something beyond it, something worth all the suffering. Y/N didn’t. Not anymore.

Her throat tightened. She forced herself to swallow, to breathe, to push past the ache clawing at her ribs.

"I can’t."

Jennie flinched, a sharp inhale, like she’d been struck.

Silence stretched between them, heavy, unbearable. Y/N’s body screamed at her to take it back, to say anything to ease the hurt in Jennie’s eyes, to promise that they would find a way to survive this.

But Jennie said nothing.

Her lips parted, as if she wanted to fight, to beg, to convince Y/N to hold on just a little longer, but the words never came. Slowly, her shoulders dropped, her fingers loosened, her posture crumbled just enough for Y/N to see the heartbreak bleeding through the cracks.

And Y/N knew.

Jennie would never beg. Not for this. Not even for her.

Even with unshed tears clinging to her lashes, Jennie was still Jennie Kim. Poised, composed, unshakable. The girl who was meant to stand beneath the brightest lights, adored by millions.

Y/N had never felt smaller. She took a step back. Then another.

Jennie’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. She wouldn’t stop her. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she loved her too much to make her stay.

At the door, Y/N hesitated. She looked back at the girl who had been her best friend, her first love, her home. She wanted to say something, anything, to make this hurt less.

But there was nothing.

So she turned and walked away. Jennie didn’t call after her.

The memory lived in the back of her mind, untouched for years, buried beneath time and distance. But some things never truly fade. Some moments linger, surfacing when least expected, like now, as she stood in her apartment, heart pounding, breath unsteady.

Y/N wasn’t running. Not really.

She told herself that over and over again as she threw a few essentials into a duffel bag, grabbed her headphones, and booked the earliest train out of the city. This wasn’t avoidance. It was just… space. A temporary retreat. A weekend to breathe.

But even as the train pulled out of Seoul Station, she could still feel it, the weight of the day pressing against her chest, the buzz of the city trailing after her like a shadow. It was inescapable.

Jennie Kim had finally released her first full-length solo album, and the world was losing its mind.

Seoul had been unbearable today, an electric storm of flashing billboards, trending hashtags, and endless conversations orbiting around one person. It didn’t matter where she went, studios, streets, every screen, every voice, every radio station played the same name on repeat.

Jennie. Jennie. Jennie.

The Jennie Kim. Global icon. Record breaking artist. The kind of star who didn’t just shine, she burned, leaving an imprint on everything she touched.

The album had dropped at midnight, and the industry had erupted.

Critics were already calling it a masterpiece, the kind of project that defined not just a career, but an era. Fans flooded social media, dissecting every track, every lyric, every hidden meaning buried in Jennie’s music. Industry giants were hailing it as one of the most important albums of the decade.

Y/N had spent years in the industry herself, just on the other side of it. She knew exactly what today meant.

And she wanted no part of it.

For years, she had kept her head down, working behind the scenes as a producer, crafting music for idols who still had stars in their eyes. She had built a name for herself in a different way, one that didn’t demand cameras flashing in her face, one that let her create without suffocating under the expectations that came with it.

She had done everything right. She had moved forward. She had left that life, that dream, that person behind.

And yet, no matter how much distance she put between herself and the past, some things never really let go.

So she left.

Booked a train ticket to Busan, let Seoul shrink behind her, let the rhythmic hum of the tracks drown out the noise in her head. Maybe, if she was lucky, a different sky, a different city would quiet the ache that still refused to fade.

The waves stretched lazily toward her feet before slipping away again, their rhythm steady, hypnotic. The scent of salt lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of grilled seafood and coffee drifting from the boardwalk behind her. Somewhere in the distance, the city hummed, soft, unobtrusive, distant enough to fade into the background.

Busan was quieter than Seoul, but even here, life pulsed on. Couples wandered along the shore, their laughter carried by the wind. A few kids chased each other near the water, their shrieks of joy rising over the waves.

Y/N stayed where she was, hoodie pulled low over her face, sneakers half buried in the cool sand. She had been sitting here for hours, watching the sky melt from soft blue to gold, then to dusky pink.

Her phone lay beside her, screen dim, playing through an old-school R&B playlist. The kind of music that had always been a comfort. Something soft. Something familiar. Something that didn’t hurt.

Ashanti’s voice drifted through her earbuds, blending seamlessly with the crash of the tide. She wasn’t really listening. The songs bled together, fading into the background, nothing more than a quiet hum to fill the silence.

She let her mind drift, let the wind pull at the loose strands of her hair, let herself breathe. For the first time in a long time, there was nothing pressing down on her chest.

And then.

"It’s like I’m writing a letter And I put in a twelve-ounce bottle of Heineken…"

Y/N’s breath stilled.

A quiet tension gripped her muscles before her mind could even process why. Something about the voice, the melody, the way the words settled in the air around her, it struck like a presence she hadn’t expected, hadn’t prepared for.

Then, recognition crashed into her, swift and unforgiving.

Jennie.

She jolted upright so fast that her hands slipped against the sand, sending grains spilling over her jeans. Her heart pounded as she fumbled for her phone, barely registering the cold metal beneath her fingers. The screen lit up in the dimming light, and there it was, staring back at her.

twin – JENNIE

The world tilted slightly.

Of all the songs in the world, of all the tracks that could have shuffled into her playlist, it had to be this one. Out of the millions of possibilities, it had to be her.

Jennie’s voice poured through the speakers, smooth and deliberate, carrying a weight that settled deep in Y/N’s chest. There was something sharp beneath it, something quiet and unrelenting, threading itself between her ribs like a whisper she couldn’t ignore.

"I didn’t leave ya, I still see ya When I’m bumping Ashanti, yeah, on the beach, yeah."

A slow, unsteady breath left Y/N’s lips, but it wasn’t enough to steady her. The air caught in her throat, tangled somewhere between disbelief and something heavier, something dangerous.

Her grip tightened around the phone, fingers pressing into the edges as if grounding herself would make a difference. But the truth was, it wouldn’t. Because this wasn’t just a song. It wasn’t some distant, abstract heartbreak ballad written for a faceless love lost to time.

It was them.

Every lyric, every pause, every aching note, it was a story, and she was in it. Jennie wasn’t just singing about the past. She wasn’t just weaving a melody out of old wounds and untold confessions.

She was remembering. She was reliving it.

And now, so was Y/N.

Y/N’s nails dug into her palm, the sharp bite of pain a desperate attempt to keep herself anchored, to keep the past from crashing into her all at once. It was a losing battle. The memories rose too fast, too strong, slipping through the cracks she had spent years sealing shut.

She had told herself that she won’t think about that night anymore, that time had softened it, blurred the edges, made it something distant, something she could acknowledge without feeling.

But music had a way of unearthing things.

And this wasn’t just music.

The practice room flickered to life behind her eyelids, the weight of silence pressing down like it had all those years ago. The air had been thick, stifling, full of things neither of them knew how to say. Jennie’s voice had been so small, so unlike her usual sharp confidence, just a whisper, but it had wrecked her.

Stay with me.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could erase the memory, as if she could unhear the way Jennie’s voice had cracked, as if she could unfeel the unbearable pull in her chest that had begged her to say yes.

But she hadn’t.

She had walked away.

And now, years later, sitting on a quiet beach miles away from the life she had once fought to escape, it didn’t matter how much distance she had put between them. The ache still lived inside her, dormant but never gone.

She had left Seoul to avoid this, to escape the inevitability of Jennie’s voice reaching her, pulling her back into a storm she had spent a decade outrunning.

And yet, here she was, sitting on the sand, staring at a name on her screen, heart breaking open like it was that night all over again.

The ocean stretched endlessly before her, waves lapping in a steady rhythm, unbothered, indifferent. She wished she could feel the same. But no amount of distance, no amount of salt air, could drown out the weight pressing against her ribs.

Two more days. That’s what she told herself. Just two more before she returned to Seoul, to reality, to the mess she had abandoned in her wake.

She should have known better.

Because the past had a way of finding her, no matter how far she ran.

The message came on an otherwise uneventful Tuesday, arriving with the kind of casual audacity that only Wendy and Irene could manage. Y/N had been lost in work, headphones slipping from her ears as she focused on layering harmonies, smoothing imperfections, and details only she would notice. It was muscle memory by now, adjust, refine, perfect. A process that left little room for distractions.

Her phone vibrated against the desk.

She ignored it at first, fingers still moving over the controls, mind still tethered to the track. But the messages kept coming, insistent, persistent. With a sigh, she reached for her phone, expecting nothing more than another dinner invite, another inside joke.

Group Chat.

Wendy: “Guess who has an extra VVIP pass for The Ruby Experience?”

Y/N frowned, the words not quite sinking in at first. The Ruby Experience. She had heard the name countless times in the past days, but never aloud, never in direct relation to herself. The realization settled slowly, creeping in at the edges before striking all at once.

Jennie’s concert.

The first solo concert. The one that had sold out in minutes. The one that was already being hailed as historic before the stage lights had even been tested. The one the entire industry had been waiting for.

A second message followed before she could even process the first.

Irene: “No excuses. You’re coming.”

Wendy: “It’s been years, Y/N.”

Years.

The word lingered longer than it should have, wrapping around her like an unwelcome echo.

She should say no. She wanted to say no. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, a response forming on instinct.

Y/N: “I don’t think,”

Another message cut her off.

Irene: “You owe me dinner if you decline.”

Wendy: “And drinks.”

Y/N huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. Cowards. They weren’t even pretending this was about the concert itself. They weren’t pushing just because it was an event, they were pushing because of her.

Because no one had to say Jennie’s name for her presence to be felt. Because no matter how much time had passed, Jennie Kim’s name still carried weight in her chest, still felt dangerous in her mouth.

Like something sacred. Like something broken. Like something she had never really learned to live without.

Y/N: “Fine. But if it gets weird, I’m leaving.”

Her fingers hesitated for the briefest second before pressing send, but it was too late. The message was out, irreversible, the decision made. And yet, as the confirmation flashed on her screen, a sharp knot twisted in her stomach, the finality of it settling in too quickly, too heavily.

She told herself it was just an event. Just one night. A fleeting moment in a crowded venue, nothing more.

But deep down, she knew better.

Because the past had never been content to stay buried, especially not when Jennie Kim was a part of it.

The venue pulsed with energy, an undercurrent of anticipation vibrating through the walls. Even from the seclusion of the VIP lounge, Y/N could feel it, the unmistakable electricity of a sold-out arena, the collective breath of thousands waiting for one woman to take the stage.

Ruby’s signature red bathed the space in a warm glow, a stark contrast to the sleek black leather couches and glasses balanced on polished tables. The industry’s elite moved around her, exchanging handshakes and half-empty compliments, but Y/N barely heard them.

She tried to focus on Irene and Wendy’s conversation, nodding at the right moments, laughing when expected. It should have been easy, pretending, performing. She’d spent years perfecting the art.

But then, the sound of her name, spoken with a mixture of disbelief and something softer, made her shoulders stiffen.

"Y/N?"

She turned.

Rosé stood just a few feet away, a champagne flute hanging loosely from her fingers, forgotten. Her blonde hair framed her face in soft waves, and despite the dim lighting, there was no missing the flicker of recognition in her gaze.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Years.

That’s how long it had been since they had last stood face to face. Since they had last spoken without a stage, a screen, or a continent between them. But there was no hesitation in Rosé’s expression. No bitterness. Just quiet surprise.

"You’re here," she said, as if confirming it for herself.

Y/N swallowed, forcing a small, knowing smile. "So are you."

Rosé let out a breath, shaking her head with a quiet huff. "Flew in from LA yesterday. There was no way I’d miss this."

Of course not.

This was Jennie’s night, the kind of moment no one who had ever truly known her would dare to miss, and they both understood that without needing to say it.

Rosé studied her for a moment, head tilting slightly, something curious, maybe even cautious, flickering in her eyes.

"I didn’t know you’d come," she admitted, her voice softer now, like she was searching for something unspoken in Y/N’s expression.

There were countless ways she could answer, a hundred variations of the truth sitting on the tip of her tongue, each one easier than the one before. But in the end, honesty slipped through before she could stop it.

"Neither did I."

Rosé stilled, lips parting just slightly, something shifting in her gaze, not quite surprise, not quite understanding, but something close to both. Y/N hadn’t planned to be here. She had spent years avoiding moments like this, convincing herself that distance was the only thing keeping her upright.

And yet, despite every reason not to, she had come anyway.

A beat passed, the noise around them fading into something distant, inconsequential. Then, as if remembering herself, Rosé straightened, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You know, I was going to say something smug about how you finally decided to show your face, but…" She hesitated, eyes softening. "I’m just glad to see you."

The sincerity in her voice caught Y/N off guard, settling uncomfortably in her chest. She exhaled, looking down briefly before meeting Rosé’s gaze again.

"Congratulations, by the way."

Rosé blinked, caught off guard for just a second.

"For Rosie," Y/N clarified, her voice even, measured. "And for APT."

For a moment, Rosé said nothing, but something flickered in her expression, first surprise, then warmth, settling into something quieter, something understanding.

"You kept up."

Y/N didn’t respond, but she didn’t have to. The silence between them spoke louder than any words could, carrying years of history, of distance, of things left unsaid.

Slowly, Rosé’s lips curved into a knowing smile, her voice light but edged with something fond. "You’re still terrible at pretending you don’t care."

Y/N exhaled, rolling her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. She shook her head, already regretting this conversation. "Shut up."

Rosé chuckled, and just like that, the years between them felt a little less heavy. There was still distance, still space carved out by time and choices, but in this moment, neither of them were looking at the past.

Only at what remained.

The moment the lights dimmed, the stadium roared to life. A wall of sound crashed over Y/N, the force of it rattling in her chest, reverberating in her bones. It wasn’t just excitement, it was worship. The kind of adoration reserved for legends.

Thousands of voices called her name.

"Jennie! Jennie! Jennie!"

The ground vibrated beneath her feet, the sheer magnitude of it swallowing the VIP lounge in its wake. And then a single note cut through the chaos.

Low. Resounding.

The stage bathed in red, and Jennie rose.

She emerged from the floor in a slow, deliberate ascent, bathed in crimson light, a vision against the darkness. The opening chords wove through the air like a spell, wrapping around the crowd, pulling them into her world.

The moment she lifted the mic to her lips, the stadium erupted again, the sound near deafening.

And still, she remained untouched by it.

Effortless. Untouchable. A force of nature.

From the lounge, Y/N sat frozen.

She had told herself she was prepared for this. That she was here as a producer, an industry professional watching a fellow artist perform. It was just a concert. Just music.

But as Jennie moved, fluid, commanding, every step measured, every glance deliberate, Y/N felt the slow, creeping realization settle deep in her stomach.

She wasn’t ready.

Not for this. Not for the way Jennie’s voice curled around the lyrics, each note rich and powerful, each song a declaration of who she had become. Not for the way she owned the stage like it had been built for her.

And certainly not for the way she still looked like the same girl Y/N had once loved.

And lost.

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the glass in her hands. She forced herself to focus on the technicalities, the impeccable production, the seamless transitions, the live band swelling beneath Jennie’s vocals.

But it didn’t help.

Not when the stage lights cast shadows along Jennie’s face in a way that felt achingly familiar. Not when the rasp in her voice dragged up memories Y/N had spent years trying to bury.

Jennie was everywhere.

In the way the crowd moved in unison, hanging onto every syllable she uttered. In the way the cameras captured the curve of her smirk, the flicker of something dark and playful in her eyes. In the way she carried herself, not as an idol, not as a performer, but as someone who knew she had already won.

This was the Jennie Kim the world saw. Untouchable. Limitless. A star so bright it was impossible to look away.

But Y/N knew better.

She knew the Jennie behind closed doors. The one who had once held her hand like she was afraid to let go. The one who whispered secrets into the hollow of her throat late at night, voice small and uncertain. The one who had begged her to stay.

Y/N blinked, inhaling sharply, pushing the memory away before it could fully form.

She was fine. She had to be.

This was just music. Just a concert. Nothing more.

And yet, as Jennie’s voice carried through the air, wrapping around the stadium like something tangible, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, she had already lost all over again.

It should have been over.

The hardest part was over, song after song, each a reminder of everything Jennie had become, everything she had achieved. Y/N had watched from a distance, hands curled into fists beneath the table, heartbeat steady even when it shouldn’t have been. She had endured the spectacle, the flashing lights, the deafening cheers that followed Jennie’s every move.

She had made it through.

But then, the arena went dark.

A hush swept through the crowd, anticipation thick in the air. Even before the first note played, something inside Y/N twisted, coiling tight like a premonition she wasn’t ready to face. The silence stretched, unbearably long, until a single beam of light pierced through the darkness.

Jennie stood alone.

Gone was the grand production, the dancers, the elaborate staging that had framed her for the past hour. Now, it was just her, a lone figure bathed in silver, shadows stretching long behind her. No distractions. No escape.

Y/N barely had a moment to exhale, to convince herself that it was over, that she had made it through the night without falling apart.

But then, the first few notes filled the stadium.

Soft, slow, unmistakable.

Her entire body tensed, breath stalling in her chest as a sharp, invisible thread coiled tight around her ribs, pulling mercilessly. She knew this melody. She knew it in the way one knows an old scar, in the way a phantom pain lingers long after the wound has closed.

No.

Not this song.

Not the one that had been theirs before either of them had the words to admit it. Not the one that carried every memory she had tried to outrun.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails pressing hard against her palms, as if she could ground herself, as if she could stop the way the past was crashing over her like a tidal wave.

The crowd erupted in recognition, thousands of voices gasping, screaming, chanting Jennie’s name. But Y/N barely heard them. The first lyric was already slipping through the air, delicate yet devastating.

"It’s like I’m writing a letter…"

It hit like a fist to the ribs. Her nails dug into her palms.

Jennie’s voice carried through the vast arena, rich and aching, wrapping around every syllable like a confession. This wasn’t just a song. It never had been.

Y/N had spent the past week trying to avoid it, switching the radio station, leaving cafes when it played, pretending she didn’t recognize the melody. But here, now, there was no running.

Her lungs tightened, her body refusing to move, as if any small motion would shatter the fragile hold she had on herself.

Jennie stood beneath the spotlight, singing their story to an audience that would never understand what it meant. The lyrics unraveled between them, each word unearthing things Y/N had buried deep, late night conversations whispered between shared breaths, fingers laced together beneath trembling city lights, the weight of a promise that had never been kept.

"I didn’t leave ya, I still see ya..."

A flicker of something passed through Jennie’s expression.

She wasn’t just performing. She was remembering.

The weight of it hit Y/N all at once, a force so sudden and overwhelming that it felt like the air had been stolen from her lungs.

This wasn’t for the fans. It wasn’t for the press or the charts. No, this was something else entirely, something raw, something intimate, something meant for one person alone.

For her.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the roar of the crowd, the lights, the thousands of eyes watching Jennie pour her heart into every note. A hand brushed against her arm, Wendy, a quiet attempt to steady her, but the touch barely registered. Y/N was already slipping, already spiraling, already being pulled back into a place she had sworn she would never go again.

The memories bled into her vision, sharp and vivid, slipping through the cracks she had tried so desperately to seal. Jennie laughing, head thrown back, warmth curling at the edges of her smile. Jennie whispering her name like it was something sacred. Jennie standing in the practice room, eyes wide, voice breaking on the words asking her to stay.

Her throat burned.

She clenched her jaw, willing herself to keep it together, but it was impossible when Jennie stood there, putting every ounce of herself into a song that had never stopped belonging to them.

The final chorus rose, a wave of sound crashing over the arena, but it was Jennie’s voice that cut through everything else. It wasn’t perfect, not in the way it usually was. There was something raw in it, a slight tremble hidden between the notes, a crack so faint that most wouldn’t notice. But Y/N did.

She felt it like a ripple in her chest, a pull deep in her ribs, as if the weight of Jennie’s voice alone was enough to unravel something she had fought to keep buried. It was in the way Jennie held herself, poised, effortless to anyone who wasn’t looking too closely, but Y/N saw the tension in her shoulders, the flicker of emotion in her gaze, the way her fingers curled ever so slightly around the microphone like she was holding on to something unseen.

And in that instant, every carefully constructed lie Y/N had told herself over the years began to crumble.

The distance she had put between them, the silence she had forced herself to accept, the belief that time would dull the ache, it had all been for nothing. Because no matter how far she had run, no matter how much she had tried to convince herself that she had moved on, the truth was right there, woven into every note Jennie sang.

Jennie Kim had never let her go.

The realization struck hard, pressing against her ribs, making it difficult to breathe. Y/N’s fingers tightened in her lap, nails digging into her palm, as if grounding herself could stop the way her pulse pounded against her skin. The weight of it was suffocating, terrifying, undeniable.

And worst of all, it wasn’t one sided.

Because as much as she had wanted to believe otherwise, as much as she had tried to move forward, as much as she had convinced herself that she had done the right thing, her body betrayed her. Her heart, hammering against her chest. Her hands, trembling where they rested. Her eyes, locked on the woman she had spent years trying to forget.

She had never let Jennie go either.

And now, with the music still ringing in her ears, with the memories clawing their way back to the surface, she wasn’t sure she ever would.

Y/N sits stiffly on the couch, fingers curled around the glass in her hands, the condensation damp against her skin. The ice has melted, pooling around her fingertips, but she barely notices. Her grip is tight, almost too tight, as if the glass is the only thing anchoring her in place. Around her, the room hums with energy, laughter, clinking drinks, the lingering excitement that always follows a concert of this scale. Voices rise and fall in waves, but they feel muffled, like she’s submerged underwater, like she’s observing the scene from behind glass rather than truly existing in it.

Irene and Wendy are still buzzing, animated in their conversation, their voices threaded with unfiltered joy. They’re already making plans, talking about heading backstage, about their turn to go see Jennie, about how incredible she was tonight. Y/N should join in, should laugh along, should pretend that she belongs in this space. Pretend that being here doesn’t make her feel like she’s standing at the edge of something dangerously steep.

She should go with them.

She should walk into that room, lift her chin, and pretend that time hasn’t twisted things between them. That she isn’t haunted by the past. That Jennie’s name doesn’t taste like nostalgia and regret every time it passes through her lips.

But the thought of it, of stepping into the same space as Jennie, of seeing her up close, of hearing her voice directed at someone else, warm and familiar, like Y/N was never a part of it, makes something in her stomach twist so violently she feels almost sick.

“I’ll stay here,” she says, forcing a smile that feels too tight, too rehearsed. “You guys go ahead.”

Irene hesitates. Wendy’s brows knit together. They don’t buy it.

“You sure?” Irene asks, already glancing toward the entrance leading backstage. “I mean, we can all—”

“I’m fine,” Y/N cuts in, light and easy, as if this is nothing. As if she isn’t unraveling at the edges just thinking about what waits on the other side of that door. She waves them off before they can argue, pasting on a look that she hopes is convincing. “Really. Go.”

They exchange a look, clearly unconvinced, but eventually, they relent.

Y/N watches them disappear into the crowd, their excitement carrying them forward. She waits, stomach tight, pulse steady and controlled. She keeps her posture relaxed, keeps her gaze focused on the swirl of bodies moving around the lounge, keeps herself still just long enough to be sure they won’t turn back.

Backstage is alive with the high of the concert, the air electric with celebration. The energy is infectious, staff members exchanging high-fives, dancers still breathless and exhilarated, the lingering echoes of the final song reverberating in their bones. Jennie should be basking in it, soaking in the afterglow of another unforgettable night.

“Y/N was here.” Rosé’s voice is quiet, almost careful, but it cuts through the noise like a blade.

Jennie freezes.

The world around her distorts, the sounds, the movement, everything suddenly muffled as if she’s been thrown underwater. Her pulse slams against her ribs, erratic and unsteady.

The words take a moment to register, but when they do, they land like a punch to the gut.

“What?” The word barely makes it past her lips.

Rosé looks at her, gaze searching, cautious. “She was here,” she repeats, voice gentle but firm, as if she already knows the impact this is about to have. “I saw her at the lounge. She didn’t come backstage, though. I think she left.”

Left.

Jennie swallows hard, but her throat is suddenly dry, the weight in her chest pressing down with something sharp, something almost unbearable. Y/N was here. She was here, in the same crowd, in the same space, breathing the same air. And she left.

Y/N left.

Jennie doesn’t remember making the decision to move. One second, she’s standing there, frozen, heart stuttering in her chest. Next, she’s pushing past people, slipping through the sea of bodies with single minded determination. Someone calls her name, congratulatory and bright, but she barely hears it.

There are things she’s supposed to do, press photos, a post-show debrief, a room full of people waiting to celebrate. But none of it matters.

She doesn’t care. She needs to know.

Her body moves on instinct, urgency propelling her forward, past the dressing rooms, past the equipment cases, past the dimly lit hallways that stretch toward the exit. Every step feels too slow, every second a widening gap between her and the answer she’s chasing.

She doesn’t stop to think. Doesn’t stop to consider what she’ll say, what she’ll do, if she even has the right.

She just runs.

The hallway is quiet.

Not the comforting kind of quiet, the kind that settles gently, that allows space to breathe. No, this quiet is sharp, heavy, pressing against Y/N’s skin like an unseen force, wrapping around her throat, making each breath feel just a little too shallow. The muffled hum of the arena lingers somewhere in the distance, but here, in this dimly lit corridor stretching toward the exit, there is nothing but the sound of her own footsteps.

She moves quickly, purposefully. One step, then another. Just a little further. She tells herself she won’t look back.

She almost makes it.

"And after all this time, you can’t even come say hi to me?"

The voice slices through the silence, smooth but edged, laced with something unmistakable, hurt, disbelief, something dangerously close to anger.

Y/N stops.

Her breath stutters, chest tightening as if invisible hands have reached inside, curling around her ribs. Her fingers twitch at her sides, a reflex, a tell.

Slowly, because she knows she has no choice, she turns.

Jennie stands a few feet away, still in her stage outfit, the remnants of performance clinging to her in the form of sweat-dampened hair and the subtle rise and fall of her breath. The stage lights may be gone, but they might as well still be shining on her, because she looks stunning, untouchable, every inch the Jennie Kim the world adores.

But Y/N doesn’t see the idol.

She sees the girl beneath it, the one whose eyes burn, dark and deep and brimming with something unspoken. The weight of that gaze settles over her like a storm, pressing against every carefully constructed barrier, seeping into the cracks she thought she had long since sealed shut.

The air between them is thick, charged, unstable. Years of silence, of distance, of unfinished conversations stretch out between them, coiling tight like a wire ready to snap.

Y/N swallows hard. Forces her spine to stay straight, her face unreadable. Tells herself to stay composed, to keep the past buried where it belongs.

But Jennie isn’t letting this go.

Not this time.

Y/N exhales sharply, pressing her nails into her palms as if the dull sting can ground her, keep her steady against the storm building in front of her. She forces herself to meet Jennie’s eyes, even as every instinct screams at her to look away.

"What do you want me to say?" she finally mutters, voice tight, brittle.

Jennie laughs, but there’s no warmth in it, just something hollow, something sharp enough to cut. "Maybe start with why you even came," she says, tilting her head, her expression unreadable. "If you were just going to leave again, why bother?"

"It was a mistake," Y/N blurts out, too quickly, too defensive. She hears it the moment it leaves her lips, the way it rings false, and from the flicker in Jennie’s gaze, she knows Jennie hears it too.

Jennie’s jaw tightens. "Right," she echoes, voice quieter now, but somehow heavier. "A mistake."

The word lingers between them, bitter and unforgiving.

Jennie shakes her head, her jaw tightening as something dark flickers across her face. “You always find a way to leave,” she says, her voice steady, but there’s something raw beneath it, something that cracks at the edges. “You show up just long enough to remind me you’re still out there, and then you disappear again like none of it ever mattered.”

Y/N flinches.

Because it’s not fair, but it’s not wrong either.

"It’s not like that," she says, but even she can hear the weakness in her own voice.

"Then tell me what it’s like," Jennie presses, stepping closer. The hallway feels smaller now, suffocating, as if the walls themselves are caving in. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like running away."

Silence.

Y/N’s breath shudders out of her. "I didn’t—"

"Coward."

The word is soft, almost a whisper. But it cuts deeper than any scream ever could.

Y/N’s chest tightens, a fresh wave of something painful curling in her stomach. She should leave. She should end this before it spirals into something neither of them can take back.

Jennie’s gaze shifts, just barely, something unreadable flickering in the depths of her eyes. And when she speaks again, her voice, her voice is different. Softer. Frayed at the edges, laced with something dangerously close to breaking.

"Do you know why none of my relationships ever worked out?"

Y/N doesn’t answer. She doesn’t think she can.

Jennie exhales sharply, shaking her head like she hates herself for saying it, like she already knows it’s too much, too late.

"Because none of them were you."

Y/N stops breathing.

Jennie lets out a quiet, shaky laugh, one that barely conceals the weight of the words that just shattered the last of the distance between them. "You’re my first love, Y/N. The one that still lingers in my heart. The one I never really let go of." Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t stop.

She can’t.

"Every time I tried, I just ended up leaving them. Because they weren’t you."

The confession settles between them like shattered glass, too sharp to step over, too painful to ignore.

Y/N’s throat closes, something clawing its way up her chest, something she doesn’t know how to contain.

Because this? This is what she always feared. This is what she never wanted to hear. Because there is no fixing this.

And they both know it.

Jennie isn’t done though.

She takes a step forward, and suddenly, the air shifts, crackling with something volatile, something just waiting to combust.

"You don’t even care, do you?" Jennie’s voice trembles, but not with sadness, this is something else. Something furious. "You stand there, acting like this is nothing to you. Like you didn’t just rip open a wound I’ve spent years trying to close."

Y/N swallows, but the lump in her throat refuses to go down. "I never wanted—"

"Don’t," Jennie cuts in, eyes burning. "Don’t tell me you never wanted to hurt me. You knew you would. You always knew. And you still left."

Y/N flinches, but Jennie presses on, the words tumbling out now, reckless and unrestrained. "Do you even feel anything, Y/N? Do you even care that I spent years wondering what the hell I did wrong? Why nothing was enough for you to stay?"

"Jennie"

"Do you know what it’s like to love someone who won’t even look at you?" Jennie’s voice breaks, but she doesn’t stop. She’s too far gone now. "To spend years convincing yourself they were just a dream, just a stupid, reckless mistake you were never meant to have?"

Y/N’s breath shudders out of her.

Because she does know. She knows all of it. She just never let herself say it.

"I looked at you," Y/N says, voice barely above a whisper. "More than you ever knew."

Jennie lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Right. And that’s supposed to mean something now? After everything?"

Y/N exhales, shaking her head. "I didn’t know how to stay."

Jennie’s eyes darken, disbelief flashing across her face, her frustration spilling over, unchecked. “Didn’t know how?” Her voice is sharp, cutting through the space between them like a blade. “That’s bullshit. You knew how to leave. You knew how to disappear. You just never tried to stay.”

She takes a step closer, the weight of years pressing down on every word. “We could’ve found a way. We could’ve figured it out, been together without them knowing. But you never even gave us a chance.”

Y/N clenches her jaw, her own frustration rising to the surface, raw and messy. "You think it was easy for me?"

"You made it look easy," Jennie spits back, arms crossing over her chest, a poor shield for the way she’s unraveling. "You walked away like I was nothing. And now what? You show up after all these years and act like you’re some tragic ghost, like we’re just unfinished business and not a fucking disaster you caused?"

Silence.

Heavy. Unforgiving.

Y/N inhales sharply, hands shaking at her sides. She could say something cruel. She could end this right here, throw up every wall she’s spent years building. But none of that would be true.

Jennie exhales, some of the fight leaving her, but none of the fire. "Would you have stayed if I asked you to?"

The words cut through the tension, raw and unguarded.

For a second, Y/N almost lets herself lie. She almost reaches for something soft, something that could make this hurt less.

But there’s only one truth left to give.

"You did."

Jennie goes still. Her lips part slightly, like she wants to argue, like she needs to, but the answer is already there, carved into the silence between them.

She had asked and Y/N still left.

Jennie blinks, and for the first time since this confrontation started, the fight drains out of her. She looks at Y/N like she’s seeing her for the last time.

Maybe she is.

The silence between them is suffocating. Final. Jennie doesn’t stop her this time. Maybe she’s too tired. Maybe she finally understands that Y/N won’t stay.

This time, she doesn’t even ask her to.

Y/N walks away, and Jennie doesn’t watch her go. She just stands there, rooted in place, listening to the quiet click of the door shutting behind Y/N, the finality of it settling into her bones like an ache she’s long since learned to live with.

The gift bags sit untouched in the corner of Jennie’s house, an afterthought amid the soft glow of the dimmed lights and the quiet hum of the city beyond her windows.

The night stretches on, heavy and unrelenting, pressing into the spaces between her ribs, curling around the edges of her exhaustion. The adrenaline that had once surged through her veins, keeping her upright, keeping her moving, has long since faded. The roar of the crowd, the flashing stage lights, the euphoria of performing, it’s all nothing more than a distant echo now, swallowed by the vast, suffocating silence that fills the room.

And yet, despite the quiet, despite the stillness, something lingers, something she can’t shake. A weight in her chest, a dull ache that refuses to ease, a ghost of something she thought she had buried years ago.

She tells herself it’s nothing. That she’s just tired, that the concert drained her, that the remnants of the night are clinging to her skin like dust. She tells herself she won’t look inside the bags, that there’s nothing in it worth her attention, nothing worth losing sleep over. Just gifts. Just the usual things. Just meaningless tokens of appreciation, wrapped up in pretty paper and tied with silk ribbons.

And yet.

The hours drag on, the stillness stretching thin, fragile. She remains on the couch, motionless, her mind a battlefield of warring impulses. She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t want to look. But the longer she sits there, the harder it becomes to ignore the way her gaze keeps drifting to that corner, to the forgotten bags sitting patiently in the shadows, waiting.

Eventually, she exhales, a slow, quiet surrender, and reaches for it.

Her fingers brush over the smooth edges, slipping past expensive perfumes, delicate jewelry, handwritten notes from friends who adore her. Everything feels distant, impersonal, nothing more than what she expected.

But then. Something different.

Not the weight of a designer box or the crispness of a formal letter. Something softer, thinner. Her brows knit together as her hand moves instinctively, fingers finding the texture of old paper tucked between folds of tissue. She freezes.

A thin envelope, barely noticeable, buried beneath the rest.

Her breath catches in her throat.

The handwriting, she recognizes it instantly.

A sharp, involuntary inhale.

Her chest tightens, her grip faltering as a tremor runs through her fingers. It feels impossible, like some cruel trick of the universe, like a fragment of the past has broken through time and landed in her hands.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares down at the letters scrawled across the front, her pulse pounding so loudly that it drowns out everything else. And for a long moment, she doesn’t dare touch it. Because she knows. She knows what this is. Knows who it’s from.

And she knows that whatever’s inside will change everything.

A wound that had never quite closed threatens to split open all over again. She tells herself to put it down, to forget she ever saw it, to leave it buried in the past where it belongs. But her body betrays her.

Her fingers tighten around the edges.

And, against every ounce of self-preservation left in her, she unfolds the paper.

Jennie reads it once.

Then again. And again.

Her eyes trace the familiar curves of the handwriting, the ink pressed into the page by a hand she once knew better than her own. The words blur together, not because she doesn’t understand them, but because she understands them too well. They pull her under, deeper and deeper, until she’s drowning in memory, past and present colliding so violently she can no longer tell them apart.

She grips the letter tighter, as if holding it firmly enough might stop the ache rising in her chest, might keep her from unraveling completely. But it doesn’t. It only makes it worse.

Because this letter, it’s not just words on a page. It’s Y/N. It’s every unspoken conversation, every almost, every what if. It’s the version of them that never got the chance to exist, a piece of a love that never truly ended, just stretched thin over the years, frayed at the edges but never severed.

Her vision blurs, but one sentence stands out through the haze, clear and sharp as a blade. The last one.

"We will make up, make things right when we get older."

A promise. A belief that there would be more time, that eventually, one day, they would find their way back to each other. That what was broken could be fixed, that the love between them could withstand the years, the distance, the choices that pulled them apart.

Jennie’s breath shudders out of her, ragged and uneven, as if her body is struggling under the weight of the truth she’s tried so hard to avoid. Her fingers tremble, the delicate edges of the letter crinkling under her grip, but she doesn’t loosen her hold. She clutches it to her chest, pressing it against her heart like it’s the only thing keeping her together, like if she holds it tightly enough, she can stop herself from falling apart completely.

Like if she holds it tightly enough, maybe, just maybe, she won’t feel the empty space Y/N left behind. Maybe it won’t hurt so much. Maybe she’ll stop waiting for a door to open that was locked long ago.

But the truth settles in her bones, heavy and unyielding. There is no making up. No fixing things. No someday.

Only this. Only a letter written in a time when they still believed in second chances.

The night outside is still, heavy with the kind of quiet that settles deep into your bones. The city is alive somewhere in the distance, but in Jennie’s apartment, there is only silence.

Only the sound of her own breathing, uneven, too fast.

She sits on the edge of her couch, shoulders hunched forward, elbows pressing into her knees, the letter clutched so tightly in her hands that the paper is starting to curl beneath her fingers. The ink has smudged slightly from the heat of her grip, but it doesn’t matter. The words are already burned into her mind, impossible to forget.

A bitter laugh bubbles up in her throat, but it dies before it can escape.

Older was supposed to mean a future. A someday. A second chance waiting on the other side of all the things that had once stood between them. But the years had passed, the world had kept spinning, and Y/N had never come back.

Jennie had spent so long trying to forget, burying the ache beneath sold out shows, flashing cameras, voices calling her name. She had told herself it didn’t matter anymore, that some things are meant to be left behind.

But now, here it is. Unfolded in her hands. A wound torn back open, and Y/N is gone. Again.

Jennie exhales sharply, chest tightening as she stares down at the letter like it might suddenly rewrite itself, like it might change into something she can handle. But it doesn’t.

She feels sick.

Not because of what Y/N wrote. But because Y/N never said it. Never gave her a chance to fight. Never told her the truth when it mattered, when it could’ve changed things. She had just… left.

Like she always did.

Jennie squeezes her eyes shut, jaw locking, trying to breathe through the frustration clawing at her ribs. It doesn’t work. The silence is suffocating, pressing in on her, thick with all the words Y/N never said.

Then, before she can stop herself, before she can think, she grabs her phone. Her fingers move on instinct, opening her contacts, scrolling fast. She already knows what she’s looking for, who she’s looking for. But the moment she reaches the end of the list, her stomach drops.

Y/N’s name isn’t there.

Of course, it isn’t.

Jennie swallows against the lump in her throat, gripping her phone tighter. It shouldn’t surprise her, not after all these years. But somehow, it does. Somehow, the reality of it, the fact that Y/N is so far removed from her life that she doesn’t even have her number anymore, hits harder than she expects.

Her heart pounds in her ears, too loud, too much. She stares at her screen, fingers hesitating over the empty space, over nothing.

Then her jaw clenches.

Fine. There’s another way.

She flicks back to her contacts with renewed purpose, scrolling with intent. She stops at one name, barely even registers the hesitation before she presses call.

The line rings once.

Twice.

A rustling sound, then a groggy voice, hoarse with sleep, thick with confusion. “...Hello?”

Jennie doesn’t waste time. “Irene.” Her voice is sharp, controlled, but there’s a demand woven into it. A raw edge she can’t soften. “Give me Y/N’s address.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Irene sighs, and Jennie can already hear the exhaustion in it. “Jennie, it’s late.”

“I don’t care.” She’s already standing, already grabbing her keys, yanking a hoodie over her head with jerky, impatient movements. She feels like she might combust if she stays still. “You knew, didn’t you? About the letter.”

Another pause. Irene doesn’t confirm it, but she doesn’t deny it either. That’s all Jennie needs to know.

She exhales harshly, fingers tightening around her phone. “Then you know I need to see her.”

A long silence stretches between them. Jennie waits, her pulse drumming against her ribs.

Then, finally, Irene speaks. Her voice is careful, slow. Like she’s bracing herself for what might happen next.

She gives Jennie the address, and Jennie doesn’t thank her. She doesn’t even say goodbye. She’s already moving, already shoving her feet into her shoes, already reaching for the door.

Outside, the city waits. But Jennie isn’t thinking about the streets stretching ahead of her, or the distance between them.

She’s only thinking about one thing.

This time, Y/N doesn’t get to run. This time, Jennie won’t let her.

Y/N stands by the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the endless sprawl of the city. The lights shimmer below, stretching far beyond what her eyes can take in, a thousand lives moving at once, laughing, talking, living.

But inside this apartment, there is only silence.

She should feel lighter. Should feel relief. The letter is gone now, sitting in the hands it was meant for. The weight of it, the words she never had the courage to say out loud, should have lifted.

But it hasn’t.

If anything, it’s heavier now, sinking deep into her chest, pressing against her ribs like something clawing to get out. Because no matter how many times she tells herself she did the right thing, that she walked away so Jennie wouldn’t have to, so Jennie could move on, so Jennie could hate her and finally be free of this. It still feels like she’s suffocating.

Her gaze flickers toward the table, where her phone sits untouched, the screen dark. She hasn’t checked it in hours.

She could. She could pick it up, unlock it, see if there’s a message, a missed call, something.

But she doesn’t.

Maybe because she already knows the truth. That there won’t be anything there. That this is done. Or maybe, just maybe, because she’s afraid that there will be something.

That Jennie won’t let her go so easily.

She exhales sharply and turns away from the window, blinking against the burn in her eyes. Enough. She made her choice. She has to live with it.

Her feet move slowly, dragging across the wooden floor, each step heavier than the last. She is so, so tired.

But the night doesn’t stay silent for long.

The sharp, unrelenting knocks cut through the silence, sending a jolt straight down Y/N’s spine. The sound echoes through the apartment, rattling through the stillness, too loud, too sudden, too desperate.

She freezes.

The air shifts, thickens, pressing in on her from all sides. The walls feel smaller, the floor unsteady beneath her feet. Her heart lurches against her ribs, hammering so hard she can hear it in her ears, a frantic, uneven rhythm.

Another knock, louder this time, harder, shaking the door on its hinges. There is no hesitation in it, no patience left.

Her breath catches. She doesn’t need to check. Doesn’t need to move, doesn’t even need to think. She already knows who it is.

The knocking comes again, forceful, demanding, a silent refusal to be ignored.

And that’s when she hears it. A voice.

Low. Rough. Angry.

“Y/N.”

Not a question. Not a plea.

A demand.

Her breath catches, her fingers twitching at her sides. She could pretend she isn’t here. Let Jennie stand outside, let her knock until she gets tired, let this moment slip away like all the others.

But she knows Jennie. Jennie doesn’t let things go.

The space between them feels thin, like something fragile holding back the inevitable.

Y/N forces herself forward, each step slow, uncertain, the air growing heavier the closer she gets to the door. Her fingers wrap around the handle, tight, too tight. She hesitates. Just for a second.

Just long enough to wonder if she’s making another mistake.

She pulls it open, and there she is. Standing in the dim glow of the hallway, hoodie rumpled, hair messy, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Her hands are clenched at her sides. Her eyes are dark, stormy, burning. But it’s not just anger.

It’s betrayal. It’s hurt. It’s something else, something deeper, something breaking wide open right in front of Y/N’s eyes.

Jennie swallows hard, her jaw tight, the muscles in her throat working like she’s trying to hold something back. Her breath is sharp, her hands shaking where they curl into fists.

For a long, stretched moment, neither of them speak. The air crackles, charged with everything unsaid, with every word that was written in ink instead of spoken aloud.

Jennie exhales, sharp and unsteady.

“Say it to my face.”

A challenge.

And Y/N? Y/N doesn’t know if she can.

#kpop imagines #girl group imagines #gg x reader #kpop x reader #blackpink x reader #blackpink imagines #blackpink jennie #jennie x fem reader #jennie x reader #jennie kim x reader #jennie kim x fem reader #kim jennie x reader

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scoupsakakitty · 6 hours ago

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Last Goodbye | idol!Scoups x Reader | angst

The door creaked open, and Seungcheol stepped inside, exhausted from the long flight, his body aching from weeks on tour. The familiar scent of home should have greeted him, the warmth of her presence should have wrapped around him like it always did. But the air was cold. Too cold. The silence was deafening.

"Y/N?" he called, his voice echoing against the bare walls.

No answer.

A sudden, sinking feeling clenched his chest as he hurried from room to room. The closet—half-empty. The bathroom counter—cleared of her things. The bookshelf—their memories missing.

His breath hitched when he saw it.

A single envelope on the kitchen table, his name scrawled in her familiar handwriting.

His fingers trembled as he picked it up, his heart hammering against his ribs. He hesitated before unfolding the letter inside, dreading every word before he even read them.

"Now I sit here, staring at a blank page, my mind flooded with so many thoughts that I don’t even know where to begin. Maybe your "forever" was never as long as mine, because yours ended so suddenly while mine kept going—without you. I looked into your eyes and saw a future, while you only saw a moment, a fleeting escape with no consequence. And my heart breaks for it.

I wanted you to love me without having to beg for it. That’s where we failed, isn’t it? And now, we’re strangers. Strangers with memories. You walk past me as if none of it mattered, as if we never mattered. And I don’t know what’s worse—pretending it didn’t or knowing it did and losing it anyway.

I never thought you could miss something you never truly needed. Because before you, I was fine. I didn’t need, I didn’t crave, I didn’t want. And yet, somehow, now there’s a hole where you used to be, and I hate you for it. I hate that you wanted me first. That you pulled me in—mornings with your texts, nights wrapped in your arms, the way you made me feel safe. I hate that you made me believe it was real when, in the end, it was just temporary for you.

Did you always know it would end? Or do you just refuse to admit it hurts you too? Because the truth is crueler than any lie—you hurt because you’re vulnerable, and to hide it, you hurt me instead.

And yet, despite it all, I admit it—I miss you. Even though I never needed you. Even though I shouldn’t.

But this is it. One last time. One last night of waiting for you, of hoping you’ll prove me wrong. One last reply to your messages. One last moment to see if you change like you always say you will. And maybe I shouldn’t, maybe I should let go right now, but the "what if" is too loud to ignore. What if, this time, it worked? What if all the pain meant something in the end?

But it doesn’t.

And I know that now.

So, this is the last time I forgive. The last time I let myself believe in you. Because I see it now—you never wanted me enough to fight for me. Not enough to stay, not enough to fix it.

So don’t come looking for me, Cheol. I won’t be here."

His vision blurred, his grip tightening around the paper until his knuckles turned white. His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps as he dropped into the nearest chair, shaking his head as if that could undo what was in front of him.

"No," he whispered. "No, no, no—"

The walls seemed to close in around him. The silence stretched endlessly, suffocating. He was too late. This time, there was no fight left to fight. No words left to say. Just emptiness, just the ghost of her lingering in every untouched space.

She was gone.

And this time, she wasn’t coming back.

Regret crashed over him like a tidal wave, drowning him in all the things he should have done, all the words he should have said. He had thrown her vulnerability back at her, made her feel small when all she ever did was love him. He had been too proud to fight, too stubborn to admit that he needed her just as much as she needed him.

He had let her suffer in silence, let her believe she was alone even when she had stood right beside him. And worst of all, just before he left for tour, he had told her he didn’t need her. That he didn’t want her.

Now, it was too late.

Now, she was gone.

And he could never take it back.

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ownedbythescribe · 2 days ago

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Fontaine: Lost In You

ıllı Synopsis: Lost in your eyes, in your voice, and in your touch. Even with a simple turn, these men are captivated. For them, there is only you.

ıllı Genre: Fluff, Slight Angst-Comfort

ıllı Notes: Gender-neutral reader

ıllı Warnings: Sensitive content in Lyney’s story. Tread carefully.

ıllı Author’s Note: I’m so rusty! Finishing this draft sitting in my phone. It’s a bit cringe, but I’m still trying to get back to writing.

🍁NEUVILLETTE — LEVIATHAN JUDICATOR

Palais Mermonia was once again swamped with work, especially right after Fontaine was plunged into the dark, cold waters that could vanquish a whole race. The memory of the ‘fulfilled’ prophecy was still fresh in everyone’s mind, and it was no wonder that despite the hustle of work, many still looked antsy. However, the person who held onto that memory the most was the Iudex, absently signing the papers on his desk without rest. Every Melusine working in the palace was worried for his health, so they reached out to the only person they knew would bring their ‘Father’ out of his stupor. His beloved partner.

What better solution than the care and comfort of your most cherished person?

With a skip to her sole, Sedene made it to your home, but as she knocked on the door, there was no sound indicating you were ever home. It confused the poor Melusine, so she checked the backyard, but you were not there. A disappointed sigh left her, wondering what she would tell the others once she returned empty-handed.

“Hm? Hello, Sedene! What are you doing here, dear?” She heard from behind, and that was when she saw you holding two paper bags. Beside you was a familiar figure that the Melusine could not help but bow in respect.

“Good day, Mx. (Y/N) and Lady Furina! I hope you two have been doing well. I see that you two just came from the market, but may I kindly ask if you could accompany me for a moment, Mx. (Y/N)? The Iudex is currently… troubled, and we do not know what to do.” Sedene asked, borderline begged by the look in her eyes. However, before you could answer, a tug on your shirt caught your attention. It was from Furina, looking unsure and quite scared.

It was not the first you saw this expression on her face. In fact, before the incident with Fontaine being flooded, you would notice this look on her as if heaven and earth had forsaken her. When you asked her to confide in you, she reverted to her haughty attitude, a wall she put up for years. In the end, you let yourself become a friend she could rest and forget the world with.

You gently held the young woman’s hand and squeezed it. A silent promise that you will be back for her. She wanted to protest, but the pleading look in your eyes made her nod in understanding.

“I promise to be back, okay, Furina? Why don’t you wait inside? I have some krones, macarons, and la lettre by the table, so help yourself. Don’t worry about imposing, you are never imposing on me, my husband, or anybody else. All right?” You assured the former god. She reluctantly accepted your hospitality and led her inside. Sedene helped out with the grocery for which you thank the Melusine.

Once done, you bid your farewell to the young lady and headed for Palais Mermonia where you were amicably greeted by the staff. You gave them a wave before stopping by the doors where your beloved was working. From your inventory, you conjured up the consomme, coffee bavarois, and water from Mondstadt for him to delight in.

With three small knocks on the door, you heard the Iudex give his consent to come in. The room inside was as spacious as you remembered, but his working table was a mess. There was a towering amount of paperwork to his left that you wondered if he would ever get it done by the end of the day or he would be spending the night in the office again.

“I’m sorry, dear Sedene, but could you please put the new papers by the small table? I’m afraid there are no more spaces in here. Apolo- Wait, (Y/N)? What are you doing here, mon coeur?” He gasped in surprise, standing up from his chair to greet you. A small sigh escaped your lips as you sat the food down.

“Sedene came to our home, dearest. She told me that you’ve been absent-minded in your work. Even the other Melusines have noticed your behavior.” You confessed. He stopped in his tracks and retracted his stretched hand that was ready to embrace your figure. You walked towards him instead and guided him to the couch.

“I think I know why you are like this. Is this because of Furina and Focalors? I don’t have the full details yet, and I will not ask you until you are ready, but trust me on this. The decision they made, they had the people’s best interest in mind. Although you may not believe in all the gods, I know that you can see the love reflected in their actions. They treasure the people you’re currently reigning in now. So, don’t think for even one second that you are useless. That you couldn’t even see through their acts. They did it because of love. So chin up, mon beau.” You grinned, stretching his frowning lips to resemble a smile. Although unusual, Neuvillette let out a tear or two after hearing your words. He held onto your hand before embracing you tightly, nuzzling his head on your delicate neck.

“There, there. You’re safe, you’re all right. Everything is going to be fine, Neuvillette, I promise.” You swore. The warmth you gave was enough to make him woozy. Chuckling, you shifted to a better position and laid his head on your lap, curling your fingers around his hair as a form of relaxation. He let out a sigh of contentment.

“Also, if you are worried about Furina after leaving the Court, don’t be. She is starting a new life, a much happier one than before. And I- we will be there with her. In fact, she’s at home, indulging herself with sweets! I swear that lady needs some nutrition in her body. I better cook her some later. If… If you can’t come home, don’t worry, I’ll be back again with your favorites, vegetables and fruits later. So, rest for now.” He heard as his mind started to doze off. He was unsure how he was this lucky to have you as his spouse. He was grateful you were his haven amongst the plethora of worlds.

🍁WRIOTHESLEY — CERBERUS

“All right, that should be the rest of it. Juriue, apologies, but could I see the calculations again? Just wanted to make sure we chose the right size of meter for this pipe. I don’t need the fortress to be spending unnecessary money for power.” You reasoned. The Fontainian researcher had no queries and handed out the printed sheets sent to the vendor.

Sitting down at your desk, you compared the paper to the ones on your desktop. After ensuring that it was the same, you returned the papers and urged him to seek Wriothesley for approval. However, before he could leave, you noticed a familiar silhouette approaching your office. You gave an exasperated huff.

“You sure have a lot of free time it seems, Mr. Warden?” You voiced, raising an eyebrow at his unexpected visit. He only chuckled before notifying Juriue to leave what needed to be signed on his desk. The researcher simply nodded and left, knowing that Wriothesley was there again on his usual… escapade, as others would call it.

“So, are you done checking the piping system, Mx. Engineer?” He asked, lilt evident in his tone. You gave him a dead stare then urged him to get a chair which he obediently did. You opened a few documents on your computer and showed the papers to him, explaining the current status of your work.

The piping system down the Fortress of Meropide was working well, but they will be needing maintenance soon, one which slightly worried you as there will be new schedules to hand out for what looked like will take two weeks. Sigewinne would have to recheck the workers' health often as well.

“Did you get all of that, Your Grace? Quite a lot of papers coming to you… and Neuvillette by the looks of it. Can’t have you two collapsing on us engineers now.” You smirked. He scoffed and told you that it would just be two weeks of being cooped up in the office. Afterward, he would be able to feel the joy of tea and relax again.

“As if you’re not already doing that, dummy.” You muttered. He gave you a playful glare.

“I’ll have you know, Mx. Engineer, I’m not slacking. Just taking the work at my own pace. I need to look after my health too. Otherwise, our dear nurse might just chase me down the fortress. Now, that would be horrible.” He acted. The mental image of Sigewinne chasing him with a huge needle made you snort, one that you immediately hid as how unsightly it might be. Wriothesley, however, found it adorable.

You coughed to hide your amusement then readied yourself to meet your students. Aside from being the senior engineer of the fortress, you made it your responsibility to teach the children (and a couple of adults) in the stronghold basic math and language. At the very least, if they decide to explore the overworld, they would not be wide-eyed and naive to the latest trend and system of Fontaine.

It might be debatable to some and reason out that the learned knowledge could be leveraged to devise devious escape methods, but you assured them that the current Duke was no moron. He might seem a little laid-back, but when it counted, Wriothesley was the most trustworthy leader there is. He promised and already made the Fortress of Meropide a better place (it was still open to some improvements in your opinion, but that would be for future discussions). You trusted him as much as you would your own life. Not to mention, you believed that everyone should be granted the right and sources to learn. If you could provide even an ounce of wisdom, you would gladly do so.

“Wrio, I have math class with my students soon. Do you want to stop by and see their progress?” You asked while gathering the remaining papers back to the folders they belong to.

“I don’t mind. Do you have another class after? Clorinde brought me new teas from Inazuma this time, and I was wondering if you want to try some with me.” He casually asked, inviting you to his office. You blinked in surprise before nodding enthusiastically. Although you did not want to give meaning to it, Wriothesley often sought your company whether it was to drink tea or simply listen to music. Some of the convicts would even tease you about it and call it a “tea date”. However, you just shook your head at the thought.

“You still have my cup in your office, right? I wonder if Clorinde also bought Hojicha. The last time I drank one was a couple of years ago before I got… arrested.” You mumbled the last sentence to yourself, but the Duke heard you all clear. He stood next to you and ruffled your hair a little.

“Hey!”

Wriothesley grinned before exiting your office, opting to wait for you outside. Although it messed up your combed hair, his strange gesture erased the memories of the past creeping into your mind. Whether a fair judgment was passed or not, the past must remain in the past.

Once you were done, you met him outside. A small smile made its way to your face as he reached out an arm for you to hold.

“What a gentleman, Your Grace.” You teased.

“Only for you, mon coeur.” He whispered, causing a red tint to spread across your cheeks. You playfully jabbed him in the sides, making him laugh out loud at your adorable expression.

🍁LYNEY — FELIS FUSCUS

Arlecchino was never fond of requesting assistance from her co-harbingers particularly on the dealings of the House of the Heart. This stemmed from the past interactions of the former head of the institution, Crucabena, with Dottore as children were sent as payment. Only a few exceptions would escape her grasp and that would be when a mission is beyond her children’s capabilities.

Hence, on one chilly afternoon, the Fourth Fatui Harbinger sought out the cooperation of the Eleventh’s assistant on one of their “business” at Fontaine. Tartaglia was reluctant to lend his subordinate once more as he needed your expertise in his mission, but he knew that working under the Fourth would further your espionage and infiltration experience considering the reputation of the House of the Hearth.

“I don’t really want to let you join their mission as we have something to see through in Nod-Krai, but Arlecchino has given me her word. If she ever gives you a difficult time, don’t hesitate to send me a letter or come back here immediately, understood? I’ll deal with the aftermath.” He whispered while you gave him a blank stare. Tartaglia often worries for your well-being as you tend to push yourself to the limit to accomplish tasks given to you, and day-by-day, he seemed to take the role of your older brother. As strange as it may sound, you did not dislike the thought.

“Master, Lady Fourth is not asking me to destroy the abyss but to join her children in an investigation and finish the necessary. No need to fuss over me.” You mildly reprimanded. The ginger head pouted at your words but resigned to his fate. He knew you had a strict streak in your bones, and that was exactly why he fretted over you.

“I know, but I’m also aware of your antics, (Y/N). Come back in one piece, all right? I’ll also be facing the Traveler for our usual weekly battle, so I need you to patch me up after!” He enthusiastically exclaimed to which you replied with a dead stare and a silent message ‘Do something stupid, and I’ll send you to Master Dottore instead’. He shivered at the threat before sending you off.

Once you arrived at Fontaine, you were immediately greeted by Lyney, excitement glimmering in his lavender eyes. His siblings, Lyney and Freminet, gave him an exasperated look which was returned with a confused glance of your own. They took your luggage and guided you inside, but not without prying the magician’s face that got close to yours.

“Too close, Lyney. Thank you for taking my bags, Lynette, Freminet. I hope you all have been well since the last time we saw each other.” You voiced. The two nodded with gentle smiles, while Lyney was pouting at the side as you failed to notice his new look. His siblings merely shook their heads before heading inside leaving you two by the hallway.

“You look great, mon ange. No need to pout.” You whispered in his ear then began following his siblings inside. Lyney stopped in his tracks, let out a cough and hid his face with his hat, one which did not escape your eyes. Predictable yet adorable.

Freminet walked down to your pace and ushered you to the Fourth Harbinger’s office, cozy yet foreboding. He knocked, and Arlecchino permitted them to enter. Inside, the harbinger was signing papers away. She looked up with a teasing smile.

“It’s nice to see you again, (Y/N). I’m ecstatic to find that Tartaglia has let you join our mission easily this time around. No fuss or anything.” She uttered.

“He made a fuss, don’t let his cool exterior fool you. However, Master is aware that you keep to your word, Lady Fourth.” You replied. Arlecchino merely shook her head and urged you to take a seat after dismissing Freminet. She gave you the full details of the mission as well as your ultimate role in it.

According to her, there had been rumors of young children disappearing and returning to their homes with no memories pertaining to their abduction. However, there had been visible marks on their bodies such as bruises and injection marks. Fortunately, no signs of sexual harassment. No patterns were found aside from the age range of 7 to 14 years old. It was odd, but Arlecchino already had a hunch as to why after her own investigation. It was up to you four now to see the mission through.

“As the Lady Fourth wises. I’ll keep to the back and ensure that nobody escapes. I assume that this mission will start tomorrow?” You inquired.

“Correct. Ensure that this problem is resolved. I will contact the Fortress of Meropede and Maison Gardiennage for the arrest once Lyney sends the signal. I wish you four the best of luck.” She bid before leading you out of the office.

Over the night, you had an in-depth discourse about the mission you will undertake with the trio. Soon, all that was left was to ease the creases out.

“If the worst comes to worst, I will use my vision to encase the whole place. You have three minutes until the whole place is engulfed, so can I count on you three to be fine?” You asked, a firm necessity that they will be able to secure their safety. Lyney wanted to protest, but you gave him a look.

“We can.” He gritted.

“All right. That’s more than enough.” You nodded, sending a thankful gaze his way.

The following day, you headed out to the suspected location of the laboratory. It was situated a distance from the city, in fact, it was in the Morte Region, somewhere around Fort Charybdis Ruins. Arlecchino had predicted its location accurately based on behavioral observation alone. Criminals, driven mad by science and history, often find solace in areas related to their discoveries or motives.

“I could hear several footsteps from the right. Hide, but be careful around potential traps.” Lyney forewarned. You used your cryo abilities to conceal your presence, while the three hid in their respective corner. Manifesting a mirror to spy on the source of the footsteps, you observed the figures and recognized one of the men as the main suspect. What caught your attention were the tank containers they were carrying. Enclosed in them were vivid azure liquids which you could surmise as either the substance they inject on the children or an ingredient to it.

“Ly—“ You were about to ask the magician when a scream erupted through the cavern. It came from the inner chambers. With a nod, the four of you rushed towards it, still hidden from the criminals. A singular medical table could be seen in the middle, but one alarming element was the blood dribbling down the table. It belonged to a child no older than 10. She was crying for help, but the man slapped her.

“Quiet! Nobody will hear you, so just accept this gift. After all, you are nothing but a sacrifice for my daughter. If what the ancient book says is true, my little darling will be back. Hahaha!” He sneered. Your eyes narrowed after hearing the reason for the experimentation.

Nathan Moreau, a document controller in the Maison Gardiennage. His daughter was reported to have a long-life disease that has no cure yet. Resorting to such means meant he was prepared to throw away his humanity for his blood kin. A soft sigh escaped your lips.

Soon, the same men carrying the tanks came in. He called for one of his lackeys to make the girl unconscious. He brutally slapped her, which you suspected would cause her to have a concussion. You four had to act fast. With a nod from Lyney, the trio went out of their hiding. Lynette immediately stationed herself near the captured children while Freminet used Pers as a distraction to cut the straps of the child and take her far from them. The lackeys growled and stomped towards them but Lyney fired his arrow and used his card to prevent them from coming any closer.

“Pesky little-! Who are you?! Better yet, who the heck sent you?!” Nathan roared. Lyney simply smiled and then used his magic to vanish from their eyes before taking down the lackeys. One of them was about to sneak away with Nathan, but you stepped out of hiding and tugged on the crystal rope you made.

“Not so fast. Nathan Moreau, you are to be sent to stand trial under the Iudex’s judgment. Struggle is futile.” You voiced. Nathan scoffed before rushing back to his desk and combining two liquids. You readied your daggers and launched them at his hands, cutting them.

Nathan let out a blood-curdling scream, but you took out the cards on the ground that Lyney left and used them to embed his foot by the ground.

“I told you. Struggle is futile.” You were about to knock him unconscious when the whole area suddenly rumbled. Soon, you found water engulfing the whole area.

“Lyney! Get yourself out of here!” You took a deep breath and used your vision to quickly engulf the place in ice. You were no god nor some powerful being, but you were able to master how to efficiently use your cryo vision on a large scale.

Noticing Nathan and his lackey slowly moving away from the scene, you manifested a cryo rope and tied them up before shutting their mouths with ice. A deathly glare peered at them, no words were said, but there was an imminent threat in your eyes. A single promise that if they move one more inch, they will not hesitate to do the worst possible.

As Lyney and the others ran out while holding the rescued children, he could not help but glance back in worry. The extent of your ability gradually crawled towards them, but it was taking its time with the water pouring inside. He sped up and kicked the door open before helping his siblings and the children up. Once that was done, he hesitated to go back without you.

“Believe in them, Brother. (Y/N) is not somebody who does their job half-assed.” Lynette assured.

“I know. It’s just… They can be reckless.” He muttered.

Not a moment later, the whole area was engulfed in ice. You walked out of the place with the two criminals in tow, quite exhausted from unleashing a widespread cryo energy. Lyney swiftly raced down to meet you and hold you in his arms.

“You’re all right. No scratches. Thank the archons.” He mumbled, a hint of relief and fear mixed in his voice. He reminded you of your master, a strange worrywart.

“I’m fine, Lyney, but these two need to be sent to the Maison.” You uttered, tugging hard on their ropes.

The magician could only sigh before sending a signal. Soon, the criminals were arrested, and the children were saved and given proper medical care. You let out a relieved sigh, especially for the child that was brutally slapped in front of you. As a small gift, you manifested an ice flower with a get-well-soon message on the paper (and maybe a short encouraging message). Trauma can take a lot of people to places, not the best ones.

“You’ll be all right. You’re safe now.” You whispered.

After reporting back to Arlecchino, you were given a two-day off by your master. One which you used to get some shopping done before settling yourself out of the bustling city to watch the night sky at Erinnyes. The twinkling sky reminded you of Snezhnaya and the life you once had before it was ravaged by the abyss. Distracted, you almost did not notice the figure treading towards you. The familiar whiff of rainbow rose and vanilla bombarded your nose. It was Lyney.

Suddenly in the mood for reminiscing, you told him about your old home and how much you miss it. He did not miss the sadness hidden behind your stoic stature. Unable to stop himself, he placed a hand on top of your head and rubbed it in comfort.

Ah, sorry, did not mean to. But I admire that silent strength, (Y/n). No matter the circumstance, you kept the very place you miss the most in your heart as motivation. I almost feel envious. Nonetheless, I have a feeling you will be fine. After all, you are one of the kindest people I know.” He confessed, smiling bashfully.

Your eyes widened at his words, ears reddening as you averted your gaze away from the lavender eyes that held so much warmth.

‘He’s so… I can’t believe this guy.’ You pouted. Raising your hand to caress his left cheek, Lyney suddenly felt coldness in his ear.

“Perfect.” A cryo rainbow rose was formed to decorate his face. He looked so ethereal in your eyes you could not help it. Lyney blushed and hid his face behind his hand. You grinned. Lyney was truly adorable.

Please do not copy or repost my stories, but notes and reblogs are always appreciated!

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #romance #fluff #genshin angst #genshin comfort #neuvillette #wriothesley #lyney #neuvillette x reader #wriothesley x reader #lyney x reader #genshin fanfic

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lootandlore · 1 day ago

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KISS IT BETTER

I recommend reading this first for context

➙ Stiles Stilinski x Goth!F!Reader

➙ Stiles finally had gotten a chance to take a break from the bench. He felt pretty prepared, thinking he was aware of any possible outcome. Except for of course—the one that occurred.

what to expect…flirty fluff, stiles getting injured, possible second hand embarrassment for like a split second if you squint, annoying ass jock, read the title.

More Stiles x Goth!F!Reader Here

STILES FELT as though the entire world was spinning. His chest heaved and his back arched as he struggled to pinpoint what the hell had happened.

One moment he had been running across the field, glancing from the players to the crowd. Then the next, he was laid out flat. His head aching violently. Vision splitting like that of a cartoon character who’d been hit with a frying pan.

“Stilinski! Hey! Are you alright?”

He could make out the voice to be coach, the usually uncaring sarcastic man showing a bit more concern than usual. Likely due to the light amount of blood that drew down the side of his face. Starting at his temple.

Stiles groaned in response, only starting to piece together where he’d gone wrong when a blurry figure clad in black shoved through the crowd. Practically shoulder checking a concerned Scott and Isaac.

“Are you alright? Is he alright?” She hurriedly asked. Her voice sounding angelic to the boy.

“He’s probably concussed, shoulda stayed on the bench” one of the various players uttered, failing to be helpful. Snickering to himself as he leaned into another player to see if his lame attempt at a joke landed.

“You know what fuck face, you’re asking to be concussed so either do something helpful or shut up” she glared from her now crouched position beside stiles.

“What did you say to me freak?”

She stood, Scott filling in the empty space she left behind. Stiles trying to listen in as his two friends assisted coach in standing him up.

Nearly begging for the others to let him stay a moment longer to make sure she was alright on her own. Only to be dragged off without a second thought.

“I said, shut up otherwise I’ll make sure that you won’t be able to leave the bench until graduation” she answered. Ignoring the label she was given.

“As if you’d have that kind of pull” he scoff.

“I never said I needed any pull—“ she beamed, black stained lips pulled back to show her white teeth “—just a bat and your home address”

“Believe it or not, even a freak can access those details without so much as breaking a sweat when she works on the school paper” She stepped closer, whispering in an oddly sweet tone.

The jock backed up a step with a cold expression. Eyes wavering with untold emotion as she hummed happily and walked off to find where they’d taken stiles.

It took her less than three minutes to make her way into the boys locker room. Passing a semi confused Scott and Isaac on the way.

“You know, for my first lacrosse game it’s been anything but uneventful” she grinned as she found the boy with his elbows on his knees. One hand holding an ice pack to his temple.

“I-t-this is the boys locker room” he stuttered, clearing his throat and sitting up straight. Wincing when he moved quicker than he should have.

“Good to know that even a head injury can’t knock the stutter out of you” she teased, moving to sit beside him. Her legs, once again clad in sheer black, brushed his own.

“W-what I don’t—okay listen, I don’t stutter” he tried to deny, however even with the intention to be stable and sure—he found himself stammering in her presence. Frowning at his unsteady words.

“Aw don’t frown, it’s cute. Promise”

He would have melted had she given him time to process the compliment. Her hand coming out to gently grasp his wrist, tugging it low until she could see his wound.

There was a faint abrasion, likely caused by a rock that had been stuck in the turf. She clicked her tongue and released his wrist as soon as he had it placed back in the necessary location.

“How did you manage to get so distracted?” She questioned, having seen him lose complete focus from the audience. His running had become so staggered that an opponent was able to tackle him down. Knocking his stick out of his hand despite him not having the ball in the first place.

She had half the mind to go and slap the damn kid on their ass and drag them to the locker room to apologize.

“I—“ he blushed and closed his mouth. Nearly choking on air as he struggled to force himself to be as open and blunt as she had been recently.

She had complimented him twice now, even buying him Star Wars merchandise. How could he not want to just shower her in compliments?

He watched with ruby red cheeks as she tilted her head. She was being so patient with him. Her black lips quirking up softly. Eyes shimmering with reassurance. Rimmed with coal and Smokey shadows.

“I saw you in the audience and it caught me off guard” he finally blurted, earning a blink of surprise from the girl.

He quickly spouted off further reasoning. Rambling on and on about how it wasn’t her fault and that he likely would have gotten distracted anyways. Only to then take it back and explain that she was the only one who could distract him like that however he could have saw something weird in the distance or even tripped over a rock.

If she hadn’t lunged forward to press a chaste kiss to his jawline then maybe he would have continued.

She grinned as he spluttered and dropped his ice to the floor. Leaning down she grasped the ice and set it on his lap. Moving forward to press a second kiss to his upper cheek.

“One thing to know about my lipstick, is it is most definitely not smudge proof” she hummed, grabbing his chin and turning his head to press another kiss to his other cheek.

“Is this okay?” She murmured. Moving down to his jaw, then back up to his brow bone. Leaving one mark after the other. Each slightly lighter than the last.

“Y-yeah I—“ he choked on air, mumbling profanities to himself as she placed on near the center of his throat before migrating up to his forehead.

“Why—why are you—doing that exactly?” He asked unsteadily. Voice wavering with every touch of her lips. Body reacting in many ways, so much so that he couldn’t help but mentally thank her for placing the ice pack in his lap.

“N-not that I’m complaining” Stiles added hurriedly.

“It’s my fault that you got hurt isn’t it? It’s only fair that I kiss it better” she shrugged, placing a final kiss to the tip of his nose with a loud smack.

Stiles, dazed and red beneath the black kisses couldn’t be bothered to care about his pounding headache. Nor did he seem to pay any mind to the utter confusion that plagued his best friends features when he came back to check on him.

He was too busy thinking about how if this was what it would be like to be injured from here on out? He wouldn’t mind it at all.

#teen wolf #stiles stilinski #stiles x goth!reader #stiles x reader #teen wolf x reader

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nadinebrooks-sides · 2 days ago

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Here is the link to my masterlist.

Will Graham x Reader: The Space Between Us

The first time (y/n) stepped into Will Graham’s lecture, it had been on a whim. The door had been left slightly ajar, and she’d slowed as she passed, her curiosity getting the better of her. (y/n) wasn’t usually one to intrude, but the cadence of his voice, measured and deliberate, pulled her in.

She lingered near the back, half-hidden in the shadows of the dimly lit room. The class was composed of young recruits and seasoned agents. They sat together in rapt silence as Will dissected the mind of a killer with unnerving precision. His words were clinical, methodical, yet there was something deeply personal in the way he spoke, as though he bore the weight of every case he analyzed.

(y/n) told herself she’d only stay for a few minutes, just long enough to satisfy her curiosity. But minutes turned into the entire class, and before she realized it, she was sitting among the trainees, jotting down notes despite not being enrolled.

The next time, it wasn’t an accident. She returned, slipping into an empty seat before he even arrived, pretending not to notice the side glances from students who recognized she didn’t quite belong. Will never called her out, never questioned her presence. If anything, it seemed as if he ignored her completely.

Most of the time (y/n) simply listened to the handsome man. She liked to watch him - the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when he lost himself in thought.

It wasn’t until weeks later, about halfway through December, that he finally acknowledged her.

“Please stay for a moment,” Will said at the end of one of his lectures, his voice low and unreadable. She looked around at the other students hoping someone would let her know what Will was like, but nobody even made eye contact. They all slipped out the back door trying to move on to their next endeavour.

(y/n)’s stomach twisted in nervous anticipation as she lingered near the desk, watching as the last of the students filed out. Will didn’t look at her right away, instead shuffling his papers, straightening them as though he was still deciding what to say,

Finally, he met her gaze. “You’re not in this class.”

She swallowed. “No, I’m not.” No reason to lie.

He studied her for a beat, his expression unreadable. “Then why are you here?”

“Because I find this interesting.” (y/n) finally responded after a moment of considering her thoughts.

A flicker of something - amusement, perhaps - flashed in his dark eyes. “Interesting,” he echoed,

“Your lectures make me think about things differently,” she nodded, feeling strangely self-conscious under his scrutiny.

“And what do you do here …” he trailed off, realizing that the first thing he should have done was ask her name. How rude of him. He noticed that she did have a name badge similar to his, so he knew that she worked somewhere around her.

“I’m (y/n),” she gave Will a small smile. “I do blood spatter analysis. I just started a couple of months ago after graduating with a degree in Criminal Psychology. I find that I have a lot more free time than I was expecting with this job so sometimes I like to walk around the building.” (y/n) realized she was rambling and told herself to stop talking. “It’s nothing as intense as forensic psychology though.”

Will tilted his head slightly. “Blood spatter isn’t light work. When I worked in the field, I relied on those reports.”

“No, but it’s a different kind of heavy.”

For the first time this evening, his lips quivered in the ghost of a smile and she felt an odd sense of accomplishment at having drawn it out to him.

From then on, their quiet, stolen moments became routine.

Some evenings, they spoke in hushed tones after class, her curiosity getting the better of her as she asked questions about cases she heard in the hallways, theories, and the complexities of human behavior. Other nights, they didn’t talk at all - just sat in silence as Will graded papers and she worked on research, their presence enough to fill the space between them.

Those nights, their presence was enough to fill the space between them. Those nights, the glances they exchanged felt heavier than words.

He never said much about himself, but she picked up pieces here and there - his disdain for large crowds, his affinity for stray dogs, his ability to see inside the minds of men most people would rather pretend don’t exist. And in return, she shared pieces of herself too.

Sometimes when she couldn’t make it to a lecture, she found herself missing it. Missing him.

Will never mentioned the young analyst to Hannibal. He wasn’t sure why, but he suspended it because talking about her would make whatever this was feel more real.

But Hannibal knew.

He found Will one evening, stepping into the dimly lit lecture hall just as she said something that made Will - Will Graham, the man who rarely smiled - laugh.

She turned at the sound of the door, her breath catching slightly at the sight of the man who had a reputation as a genius psychiatrist. There was something about him that put her on edge, though she couldn’t explain why.

Will straightened, his expression quickly morphing into something more guarded. “Hannibal.”

The doctor’s gaze flickered to her. “Who might you be?”

“I-uh-well-” (y/n) shifted between her feet, suddenly feeling self conscious,

“She works as a blood spatter analyst - just started a couple of months ago.” Will responded for her.

“I see.” Hannibal smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

(y/n) felt exposed under gaze, as thought he was peeling back layers of her she didn't even realize existed. It was unsettling,

“I should go,” she murmured, grabbing her belongings and showing them into her bag.”It was nice to meet you, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal gave a slight nod as he watched her hurry out of the room. After thinking for a moment, Hannibal realized he had never introduced himself or said his name. Guess he was well known around here.

As soon as she was gone, he slowly turned to Will. “She’s quite young.”

“She’s an adult,” Will’s jaw tightened.

“Of course,” Hannibal said smoothly. “But I do wonder … are you drawn to her because she offers something new? Something untainted by the darkness that you carry?”

Will didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Hannibal’s words wormed their way into his mind, planting seeds of doubt where there had been none before. What he and (y/n) were doing was harmless so why would he think about it? They were just friends.

The following morning he found himself in Hannibal’s office, needing to talk about a case they were working on, however the conversation drifted away from that.

Seated cross from Will in Hannibal’s meticulously arranged office. He folded his hands atop his knee, his expression unreadable as ever. “You seem … lighter lately, Will.”

Will had always prided himself on his ability to analyze the smallest shifts in behavior, yet when it came to his own, he was utterly blind.

Hannibal saw it immediately.

Will’s brow furrowed slightly. “Lighter?”

“Yes,” Hannibal continued smoothly. “I have observed a change in your demeanor. Less burdened. More engaged. A certain energy that was absent when I first met you.”

Will shifted on the coach, his fingers tapping lightly against the arm of the chair. “I wouldn’t call it energy. Just …” He wasn’t sure if he was ready to share how he felt about (y/n) just yet.

Hannibal titled his head, an amused glint flickering his eyes. “A pleasant distraction, I assume?”

Will hesitated, glancing away, suddenly aware of the trap being laid before him. If he denied it too much, it would only fuel Hannibal’s curiosity. If he acknowledged it, he would be inviting scrutiny into something he wasn’t even sure how to define himself.

“The young woman that you met a couple of weeks ago, the one that works in blood spatter. She stops by my classroom sometimes.” Will admitted, finally keeping his voice deliberately neutral. “I don’t know when it happened, but I felt myself pulling away from her and I don’t know why. She didn’t do anything wrong. If anything, it’s the complete opposite.”

“Ah.” Hannibal nodded as if he had just been handed the missing piece of a puzzle he had already half-assembled. “And does her company provide you solace?”

Will exhaled through his nose trying to gather his thoughts. “She’s … easy to talk to. She listens and I’ve been feeling a little off not speaking to her.”

“Have you thought maybe that’s for the best Will?” Hannibal question. “Maybe subconsciously you knew that the two of you were not made for each other’s worlds and you pulled away.”

“What’s that supposed to mean Hannibal?”

“Just an observation,” Hannibal smoothly replied. “And she is young, is she not?”

Will’s stomach twisted at the remark, his shoulder tensing. He forced himself to meet Hannibal’s gaze. “She’s in her twenties.”

“A student, essentially,” Hannibal mused, his tone carrying the slight inflection of condescension. “Still shaping her worldview. Impressionable.”

“She’s not a child Hannibal,” Will’s jaw tightened. He knew exactly what Hannibal was trying to get at. “She’s not naïve either.”

“I didn’t say she was a child nor naïve,” the doctor countered smoothly. “Those were your words, but you and I both know there is a vast chasm between your world and hers.”

Will said nothing, but Hannibal could see the seed had planted. The careful arrangement of doubt, slipping through the cracks of Will’s already conflicted mind. He let the silence settle before delivering the final push.

“You must ask yourself, Will … is it fair to invite her into your world? The darkness you navigate daily, the weight of the horrors you shoulder - do you truly believe she belongs there?”

Will clenched his hands together, his throat suddenly dry. He wanted to dismiss Hannibal’s words, but they rooted deep. He saw her smile in his mind’s eye, heard the way she laughed at his dry humor, felt the warmth in her presence -

And then he saw what Hannibal wanted him to see. The blood. The nightmares that would come if she stayed too close. Will felt like he had no choice but to push her away.

That night, when she walked past his classroom, she found the door closed. Locked.

He was pulling away,

And she had no idea why.

Over the next month, Will tried to reason with himself, convincing himself it was for the best. His psychiatrist’s words echoed in his mind like a cautionary tale - words laced with concern, with subtle warnings about the fragility of youth, the disparity in their worlds. But the more he tried to push her from his thoughts, the more the absence of her dug into him like a blade, sharp and unyielding.

So when he found himself standing in the unfamiliar hallway where she worked, his hand hovering over the door frame, he knew he had already lost the battle.

He stepped inside the small, brightly lit office space. The environment was a stark contrast to his dimly lit classroom. There were movie posters on the walls, bookshelves filled with textbooks and books for leisure readings, a couch on the back wall with patterned pillows and stuffed animals. There was soft classical music playing from an old speaker.

(y/n) was seated at her desk, eyebrows furrowed in focus, the tip of her pen against her perfect lips.

Will cleared his throat.

She looked up, startled at first. And then -

The emotions that flashed across her face were unreadable. Surprise. Hesitation. Hurt.

“Will?” Her voice was careful, guarded.

He felt the weight of her gaze on him, dissecting him in the same way he had done to others so many times before. Only, with her, it was different. He was never the subject of scrutiny when she looked at him. He was just Will.

“I was in the area,” he lied.

“Bullshit,” she countered. “You’ve been avoiding me. If you don’t want me around, just say it Will. I can handle rejection. I’m not a child.”

“It’s not that simple (y/n). But I did notice that you stopped coming by.”

Her lips parted slightly, as if caught off guard by his honesty. Then just as quickly, she composed herself. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Of course I’d notice (y/n).” He stepped closer, shutting the door behind him as he did.

She studied him carefully, as if searching for the reason he was really here. “You pulled away first.” There was no accusation in her tone - just fact. “So, I figured I should stop being a distraction.”

Will felt himself flinch. “You were never a distraction, In fact, you were the complete opposite.”

“Then what was I?”

The question hung between them, heavy and fragile.

“You were, I mean you are someone I look forward to seeing every day.”

Something flickered in her eyes, something that made his pulse quicken. “I thought you didn’t see me that way. Maybe I was too young to be part of your world.”

“Is that what you think?” His jaw tensed.

She looked up at him, meeting his gaze head-on. “It’s what Hannibal thinks.”

Well cursed under his breath. Of course, she had figured it out. She was too intelligent for her own good.

“He made you doubt this,” she said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

Will closed the distance between them, leaning against her desk. “It’s not about doubt. It’s about…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Not wanting to taint something good.”

She let out a small breath of laughter, though there was no humor in it. “You think you’ll ruin me?”

He didn’t answer, but the silence was enough.

She shook her head, reaching out before she could stop herself, fingers lightly grazing his wrist. “Will,” she murmured. “I know what I want.”

His skin burned under her touch, his heart hammering in his chest.

She continued, voice steady. “I don’t care how complicated you think this is. I don’t care about the things you think you have to protect me from. I know you.” She squeezed his wrist gently. “And I know that I want you.”

Will exhaled sharply, tilting his head down as if gathering the strength to respond. When he looked up, something had shifted. Something raw, something real.

“And what if I say I want you too?”

Her lips parted, her breath hitching slightly.

Before she could respond, Will reached out, his fingers curling under her chin, lifting her face towards his. He searched her eyes for any hesitation, any flicker of doubt. There was none.

He kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. It was slow, careful—like a confession in itself. And when she melted into him, responding with equal fervor, he knew that this—whatever this was—was no longer something he could deny.

When they finally pulled away, her forehead rested against his, a small smile playing at her lips. “You think Hannibal knows?” she whispered.

Will let out a soft chuckle. “Oh, he definitely knows.”

She laughed, and the sound settled something deep in his chest.

For the first time in a long time, Will Graham didn’t feel like a man standing on the edge of destruction. He felt something else entirely.

Hope.

#will graham #will graham x reader #will graham hannibal #hannibal nbc #will graham x you #will graham x female reader

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asterthought · 4 months ago

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Yeah... Uh... I was procrastinating the start of the last book of Hiccup's memoirs by drawing.

(Sorry about the big watermark, I didn't think it would look this big and didn't occur to me to sign every single one of the doodles)

Close-ups under the cut so this doesn't take much space in yall's feed <3

Camicazi's pose came out purely because of the space I had on my page, and I loved how she turned out! She looks like a spiky blonde gremlin lol

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opens-up-4-nobody · 1 year ago

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...

#had an interesting conversation with my sister the other day. odd i guess bc my sister is pretty smart #on paper shes smarter than me. or at least less dyslexic than me #but she didnt seem to kno what cancer is. i mean like how it works. i mean. cancer is a mistake. a confluence of unfortunate accidents #leading to unrestrained cellular growth. when it metastasizes. when it moves to other parts of the body. those same cells continue growing #if u have smooth muscle cancer and it moves to your kidney. you body is trying to grow more smooth muscle on your kidney #at least as i understand it. and she asked why it wants to kill you. it doesnt want anything. it just is. its not a thing of malicious #intent. its neutral. it grows. it takes up resources. it takes up space. and it grows and grows until the organ it grows on stops #functioning properly. like a parasite she said. but no. not like a parasite. it grows like an empty space. a mass of flesh. a constant #obstructive pressure. it grows like only a tumor can. i dunno. it didnt seem to connect with her that this thing didnt want to kill our mom #but it did anyway. and she felt weird about how long she lived after they took her off any support. but thats how cancer kills #it stops an organ from functioning and most of those r important so it only takes one. so her heart kept beating for 12 more hrs bc it was #meant to beat for 40 more years. but not much it could do without working kidneys and without working blood #but that's life. that's death. that's nature. its all nutral even if it feels horrible to the individual.#i dunno. i thought it was interesting. shes 25 and her mother had cancer for 10 years so id think shed kno more #we're at a weird phase now bc its been a week since she died and everything feels normal. we'll see what happens at the wake this week #its been interesting for sure bc she was sick for 10 years but my parents didnt prepare at all for her to die #so my dad is scrambling to put together the pieces shr left behind to make sure that all the bills r paid and whatnot. he had to guess her #computer password. she didnt tell us what she wanted us to have. she didnt tell us the importance of her jewelry and who it belonged to #before her. i dunno. we're seeing the outline of my mothers Pathology in what she left behind. both in the physical objects and in the #feelings she imparted. i dunno. its been weird #unrelated

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theflyingfeeling · 6 months ago

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how dare stores not sell the exact kind of products I'm looking for

#soooo as i have little to do these days i've started organising various places in my apartment #started with the bathroom cabinets. then the wardrobe #for the past days i've been organising this in-built closet in my bedroom #which i've used to store off-season clothes but also just all sorts of crap (lots of it is different kinds of papers)#however i've been wanting to make it just a closet for off-season clothes (and suitcases etc.)#because i fear all the paper i've been keeping there have been making the air in the closet sort of...musty ugh #but as i've taken out all the random crap and left just the off-season clothes i realise most of the stuff i've been keeping there...#...was all the random crap 🙃 which i have no place to put now 🙃#i mean i have one large cupboard in the kitchen above the fridge that's mostly empty but like that's not very convenient is it lol #some of this stuff i want to keep at hand so i managed to cram something into the tv stand drawers in the living room #but there's still soooooo much stuff that would require a whole another fucking closet #which i don't have!! and while i do have the space for one i want to keep my apartment kinda spacey #so i thought of buying a bench to put in the bedroom and store something in nice-looking boxes under it #and i could put idk a casual throw on the bench to hide the boxes under it and to make it look like a bit more ✨interior design✨ u know lol #but i just absolutely can't find a bench that's 1) the right colour & style 2) has one shelf underneath so the boxes won't be on the floor #i've been so close to having a sexy little meltdown about all this numerous times btw but i've been brave!! believe it or not #sooooooo i don't know what to doooooooooooo i have too much crap with no place to put them in #(and mind you I already got rid of SO MUCH crap)#also does anyone have any tips on where to store rolls of gift wrapping paper 🥱 length 70 cm #the only places out of sight where they fit are this off-season closet and the wardrobe but i don't!! want to!! put them there!!#but i also absolutely do want them out of sight as i use them about 1-3 times a year #i hate owning stuff so much ugh

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pricetagged · 4 months ago

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butcher paper

Here's a young (maybe 19-early 20s) Simon struggling with his emotions, working as a butcher's apprentice, and fixating on the pretty student waitress at the café next door (':

Content: plus size f-presenting reader; allusions to domestic abuse (Simon's past); fat-shaming (not Simon); little bit of violence, unedited. (Link to Ao3)

He's not sure that it counts as desire. Interest. It crawls over him, makes him feel aggressive, makes him want to dig his teeth in and shake and snarl.

It's hunger.

And he knows hunger. Knows it like he knows the cigarette burns on the back of his hand. Knows it like he knows his old man's a waste of space and that he has to defend his mum and protect Tommy and- and-

He's the man of the house, only the house is rotten. Woodloused frames, crumbling bricks. Gutted. Empty shelves hidden behind broken doors. Chipped plaster, electricity cutting off. Squeaky steps that always clued them in when the old man was on a rager (not that it helped, creaking out a warning but giving no clue where to run. The percussion leading to a gallows' jig; the heavy step before the hit).

But the old man's gone now. And Simon is left trying to fill in the boots he doesn’t know how to wear. All growth spurt and gangly limbs and anger. So much anger at the old bastard. Tear-soaked anger at his mum sometimes (buried deep behind the shame that he feels when he thinks of her black and blue. Anger and shame, bitter roots that he chews at to soothe the clench of in his jaw and the grind of his teeth). And then he sees you through the window. Through the peeling CHRISTMAS SPECIAL sign highlighting ham joints and turkey and pigs in blankets.

You're so soft.

You look like you’ve lived a life well-fed and well-loved. Something round and sweet and helpless, like the puppies he and Tommy had seen dumped in the park while they snuck cigarettes and swigged from cheap supermarket cider.

And that brings him back to the hunger. He's an awkward creature, shuffling to the café where you work part-time. He's more feeling than man, all rage and appetite stuffed into a skin suit. You sense it too, nerves tugging at the tilt of your smile as you approach the scavenger that swept in to sit at the cheap plastic tables in this greasy spoon. He sits awkwardly, too, hunched over the table like his stomach is gnawing at him. Big hands snapping the disposable plastic coffee stirrers and shredding the napkins. That first day, he just stares at you. Sneers a little when you flutter over to take his order.

You slosh the tea a little when you serve it.

He sees the burn bloom, watches as you suck at the sting with plump cheeks and a rosy little mouth, and he just wants to dig in and scratch hard to see you do that again.

It becomes a habit, watching you. He finds out bits and pieces listening as he rends and chops and saws through muscle and bone, stinking of sweat and iron. You're here as a student. You're living in student digs (good, best that you avoid the up-and-downs and rough streets that would fit a student budget), and you're a real sweetheart. Old Sal who has been running the café for the past 30 years leans a heavy elbow on the display counter as he chats with the boss.

"She's lovely, taken to it like a fish to water," his raspy, smoke-charred voice is cheery as he waits for the bacon and sausages to be weighed and wrapped. "Only asked for Thursdays and Fridays off since she has afternoon classes then. Otherwise, I almost have to round her out of the shop, doing more afternoons and weekends than my own kid."

You're hardworking too, then. He wonders if it's because you're hungry too, needing something to do with your time, living on pot noodles and supermarket ready-meals like he'd heard some students do. It's strange how that thought sits uncomfortably, makes him want to hunch over you and bring you his scraps.

That week, he decides to talk to you. Only the words get caught, don't come out quite right as he stares at the way your jumper clings to the soft curves under your faded apron. When you turn around, bustling to other customers, he can't help but stare at the line of your skirt. It's real pretty, decent, sitting just above your knees but Christ, he wishes that it would roll up a little higher. That it would catch on the corner of a table or hitch up as you raise your arms and swish past with a tray full of fry-ups. He almost gets lucky as you bend over to mop up a spill just across the room. Your thighs widen as they press against the table, tights stretching thin and sheer and he just can't tear his eyes away-

(The hunger in his stomach turns hot and biting, makes his cheeks flush and his mouth dry-)

But it's ruined. Fly in the soup, hair in the dish, as you catch him and your eyebrows pinch together as you look away. There's something guarded, bitter, in your lovely eyes, and the dryness in his mouth turns wet and sour. You seem to take pains to avoid him, swapping out with Sal's son so that you can work the counter instead of the floor.

"'m Simon," he grunts as he goes to settle the bill. "Work at the butcher's across the street."

You clearly didn’t expect an introduction, shoulders relaxing and hesitant smile blooming as you give your name in return.

"Yeah, I know. Sal mentioned you a few times. He's tried to give me the rundown of practically everyone on the street, feels like."

"Y'should come in t'the shop," the invitation rushes out in a way that makes him feel clumsy. Perhaps that’s why he did it; to have you in his space, with his head and his footing right. Here, he feels every inch the artificial man. Pieced together, too big and too looming, with no help or guidance on how to talk to soft things and pretty girls.

You grimace a little, eyes focused on the till as you count out his change. "Not really on a butcher-shop budget right now."

"'S'alright. I can keep something aside for ya," he doesn't mention how it would come out of his wages. How it would come out of what he brought home to his mum and Tommy. It didn't matter, though, when he was used to going without.

"That's - that's really nice, actually," Your sweet face is glowing now, and he feels like he could bathe in the warmth of it. "Next time you come by lunch is on me."

He sees the way you tuck your chin and smile as he walks away, and that bottomless pit in his guts feels just a little more full.

(He doesn't quite catch the snickers of the boys at table three, whispering and nudging each other as you come to take their orders. This time.)

He stares more and more through the window of the shop, watching as you come and go. Watching the way you greet the regulars and skirt around the group of lads who like to linger in the evenings. There's something sharp, nasty, to the way they circle around the entrance. The way they cackle and hoot when the one with the eyebrow piercing smirks and whispers to his mates as they force you to brush past. They're a pack of hyenas, shrieking and smug as they toy with the poor little thing that's walked past their watering hole. He's seen this type before, practically grew up with them. His old man was probably one of them, perfecting his cruelty while young, cementing it as part of his nature.

It has Simon sharpening his knives while he grits his teeth. Has the boss tutting at him when he cuts too close to the bone.

He knows there's something violent in him. The old man tried to bring it out then snuff it out, getting scared when the knife that he sharpened was able to cut him in return. He's no stranger to bloodshed. No stranger to the calloused, deprivation-dimmed apathy that breeds like algae in the environment where he was forged. Dripping, slimy, suffocating.

Doesn't mean he likes it, though.

(He'd gone back for those puppies, you know. Felt wrong leaving them. Felt like a rebellion against his old man's sick life lessons as he dumped the box outside the doors of a local veterinary clinic).

So he keeps his eyes peeled, stakes out the café like he owns it. Stares down anyone who looks at you wrong until they look away, muttering under their breath. 'Fucking freaky dead-eyed git.' It seems to work.

And you seem to like it, sparing more smiles for him. Bringing him bigger portions than normal and topping up his cup before he even needs to ask.

"I know you've been working since seven, Simon. Gotta keep your strength up," You seem bashful as you slide the plate across, and he just eats it up.

You've been looking at him, thinking about him. It's not something he's familiar with, having someone care for him. His mum loves him, of course. Tommy too. But it’s not the same, not when it's been his job to take care of them. His job to step up to the mantle and into the shoes that his father should've filled. Watching the sway of your wide hips as he tucks into the steak and kidney pie with gusto, he feels satisfied. The hunger is there, always is, but it's not gouging at him under the skin. It's satiated, pleased. The kind of comfort that leaves his eyes heavy and his belly warm.

It's a routine you fall into, and everything is rosy-

Until it's not.

He's closing up shop, wiping down the counters and getting ready to haul down the shutters when he sees them. Those stupid pricks, travelling in their pack and signaling that their quarry is in sight. Look, there it is alone and limping and- You're in a rush, leaving later than usual and shrugging your coat on carelessly as you shout your goodbyes to Sal. You're in that skirt again, the one that makes his lower belly tighten and mouth feel dry.

"Oi, look! Dirty scrubber has her fat arse hanging out!"

It sets them off, chittering and howling as you freeze wide-eyed and lip-quivering.

"Gonna be sick, mate. Don't want to see your knickers, love. Didn't even know they came in that size."

He doesn't even see red. Doesn't see anything but your pretty, round face crumpling as you try to tug your skirt out from where it got caught under your coat.

The ringing of the bell by the door muffles the sound of the first punch. His fist crunches into that prick's nose, and he wants nothing more than to keep going until his face is little more than meat and pulp and blood. He can taste it, smells the blood in the air like a shark.

But you're watching.

"Bit bored with y'taking the piss out of her," he snarls it as he hauls the man by his jacket, shoving him hard against the wall until his head thwacks against the bricks. Easy as hauling a side of beef. "Why don't ya try me next?"

The man seems dazed, head spinning and nose dripping. His mates, too, look floored. Ready to scatter and abandon their leader to the bigger beast. Only the promise of more blood keeps them watching, feeds their nasty appetites and he's just itching to let them see. Watch what happens; it's coming for you next.

"Speechless now, eh? Had so much to say earlier," he's spitting the words out, teeth snapping as he leans down so close to the man's face that he can see how his pupils constrict. "Apologise."

And he's smarter than he would give him credit for. Smart enough to whimper out his 'sorry, sorry, sorry' as he drops to the filthy, damp pavement when Simon swivels towards the others. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way his hands and apron are splattered with the gore of man and animal, has them scattering.

"That goes for the rest of ya! Don't ever want t'see your ugly fucking mugs around here again," he spits on the ground, itches at his jaw with his wrist as he watches them run.

He can't hear them anymore. Can't hear anything over the sound of his heavy panting and pounding heartbeat.

It's cold out. He's only realising it now, standing in the December chill with just an apron over his jeans and t-shirt. It has him shaking, flexing his hand as his knuckles start to sting and swell. He welcomes it, welcomes the familiar bite as he pushes down the savage, ragged anger rippling through his chest.

"Simon-"

"Y'alright?" he cuts you off, faces you head-on.

And all the rage saps out. You're not cowering away. There's no disgust on your face. No tears or embarrassment either, no. You've got a crumpled packet of wet wipes in your hand, reaching out for him. Concerned.

"Figure you'd want to get that prick's blood off you soon as possible," you give him a sad little half-smile. "Didn't have to do all that for me, Simon."

"Yeah, didn't have to." He concedes as he steps closer to you. Crowds into your space until you're toe-to-toe and he can feel your warmth. He brushes his fingers against yours, lets them linger on your soft skin as he reaches for the wipes. "I wanted to."

-----------------------

Let's all pretend that this was okay and ignore the fact that I still haven't posted the wips that I keep going on about 🫠💖

Just a little self-indulgent drabble idea that I had today, thinking back to watching 'My Mad Fat Diary' as a teenager, feeling nostalgic ~ (The Finn-defending-Rae scene had 18yo me in a chokehold lol).

#you have a sweet little blossoming romance until tommy starts acting up and simon joins the army #but youre his first love and who knows...there may be a future for you years down the line #when old grizzled simon spots a familiar pretty face walking the streets of manchester while he's on leave #and really，him watching you and looking out for you is a relationship tradition at this point (:#idk im not confident with this and its not great but the idea was lingering and idk self indulgent #simon riley cod #simon “ghost” riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley/reader #ghost cod #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod imagine #báirseach writes #cw implied abuse #cw fatphobia

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violentdelights-violentendss · 1 year ago

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When BSD men have to carry you.

Pairing: Fem!Reader/BSD Men

In this post: ✨Osamu Dazai, Chuuya Nakahara, Ryunosuke Akutagawa, Doppo Kunikida, Atsushi Nakajima, Yukichi Fukuzawa, Edogawa Ranpo, Fyodor Dostoyevsky✨

Synopsis; Various scenarios where the BSD men have to carry you in their arms.

Guys should I double space or single space my paragraphs? Let me know…Bro this turned out to be a BEAST! Please requests are open!! Request for bsd or any other character!

Edogawa Ranpo

You had been walking home with your boyfriend, strolling peacefully as the dying sun elongated your shadows on the empty pavement. Your hand rested in Ranpo’s right hand, his left hand holding a lollipop he was happily licking.

Your eyes were staring at your feet, but your mind was elsewhere, thinking back to day you had spent in the office, more precisely Kenji’s small cousins coming to visit him from the countryside. The very unplanned visit had obviously caused chaos in the already disorganized life the Armed Detective Agency lived (Kunikida had almost died on the spot), but soon everyone started having fun. One precise moment had remained etched to your brain, recalling memories of your childhood you yourself had forgotten: Dazai carrying the little children on his back, twirling them around as they laughed.

The last time you had been carried in someone’s arms was so long ago the memory was fuzzy, and almost non-existent in your brain. Slowly, you wondered if your genius boyfriend would maybe comply to your very childish wish. The words bubbled in your chest, quickly pressing against your lips. You tried to calm down your beating heart, slightly embarrassed, but before you could even utter the first syllable, Ranpo turned to look at you, his eyes glittering in the sunset.

“I’ll do it just because it’s you.”

“H-how did you know what I wanted to ask?” Your boyfriend’s mind never ceased to amaze you.

“I was watching you today at the agency, and I immediately knew what you were thinking when you looked at Dazai.” Your cheeks became an even darker shade of red, and you nibbled on your lip, feeling embarrassment running all over your body.

Ranpo cleared his throat, and you glanced back at him, finding him kneeling in front of you, his lollipop hanging lazily from his lips. Your heart skipped a beat, and a happy giggle flew out of your mouth before you climbed on your boyfriend’s back. He quickly adjusted his hands to hold you more comfortably. “Hold on tight.” He called to you, before standing up.

You gasped, throwing your arms around his neck, and nuzzling your lips against his neck. “Ah, (Y/N)! That tickles!” He whined, making you laugh even more.

Ranpo started walking again, heading towards your home. You were on cloud nine, happily expressing your joy by kissing every inch of Ranpo’s skin that you could reach. “I love you, I love you!” You kept repeating, an idiotic smile practically glued to your lips.

“The things I do for you!” He exclaimed, faking annoyance, even through his heart beamed with joy, knowing he was the one who had made you smile so brightly you were rivaling the sun.

Ryunosuke Akutagawa

You had been lying down on the couch in Akutagwa’s office for the past hour, patiently waiting for him to finish working on some paperwork that had to be absolutely handed in by the end of the day. You had first come in as you two had planned to walk home, but your boyfriend had quickly explained the situation. Working in the same organization, you understood, and simply pressed a kiss to his pale skin before settling down comfortably, and waiting for him to be done.

As time sluggishly went on, the cozy warmth in Akutagwa’s office and his delicate cologne that permeated everything around you, slowly started to make you drowsy. The constant scratching of his pen against the paper did not help either, and you were soon slipping in and out of consciousness.

Akutagawa finished the last report he had to write, exhaling quietly, a little bit of tension easing from his shoulders. He slipped the lid on his pen, ordering the pages on his desk, knowing his assistant would deliver them as soon as you two would leave. Akutagawa stood up, stretching his back. “(Y/N), I’m done, let’s go…” His words trailed off when he turned to face you, finding you to be adorably sleeping on his couch.

The sight almost melted his heart, before he sadly realized he had to wake you up, even though he knew you had had trouble sleeping last night. He sincerely did not want to wake you up, desiring you to get the sleep you so needed. Akutagawa brainstormed for a few moments, thinking how to solve the issue, before an idea stepped forward: quietly, and delicately, Akutagawa commended Rashomon to slither towards you, picking you up with the most care in the world to not wake you. The dark coils carried you to your boyfriend’s back, placing you vertically against him, so your chest was pressing against his back. The black tendrils wrapped around your torso, safely locking you to Alutagwa’s back, making you become an almost human backpack. Your boyfriend reached to place your limp arms around his neck, and commanded Rashomon to hold your legs against him, so they wouldn’t accidentally drag on the floor and hurt you. And finally, one more coil gently supported your neck, your cheek now pressing against Akutagawa’s shoulder.

He made sure that you were soundly asleep before he walked out of the office, non caring of the other Port Mafia members who glanced at you two, clearly confused. The only unfazed one seemed to be Chuuya, but what could surprise him after years of living with Dazai?

The whole way home, Akutagawa made sure you were always sound asleep and comfortable, timidly holding your hand when he was sure he was very very very far away from the Port Mafia headquarters. When you two were in the elevator in your apartment complex, Akutagawa looked at you through the reflection, feeling his heart flutter when he realized you had started drooling in your sleep. You were truly the most beautiful women in the world.

He quietly shut the door of your apartment. Akutagawa gently laid you down on your bed, making sure you weren’t about to fall off the edge of the bed, before he finally allowed Rashomon to retreat. Just as he turned around to go grab his phone, he felt your warm hand on his wrist. He turned around, seeing you sleepily look at him, your eyes caked in sleep and barely remembered dreams.

“Come lay in bed?” You asked sluggishly.

Akutagawa could not resist. He quickly climbed bed next to you, welcoming you in his embrace, watching as you used his chest as a pillow. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, suddenly wincing. Before Akutagawa could ask what was wrong, you mumbled, “There’s a wet spot on your back,”

Akutagawa could not help the small smile on his face, kissing your forehead. “I know. Don’t worry about it.” You complied, quickly slipping back into slumber, and Akutagawa soon followed, closing his eyes.

Osamu Dazai

You had spent the whole day walking around Yokohama with Dazai, holding his hand tightly, eating whatever your hearts desired. Your last wish for the day was to go on the Ferris wheel, offering a night view of the twinkling city, making it resemble a field of fallen stars.

The both of you were at the very top of the Ferris Wheel; you were admiring the view, and Dazai had his head resting on your shoulder, observing the view of the city as well. His dark curls tickled your shoulders. “Did you have fun today, belladonna?” Dazai asked quietly, not wanting to destroy the magic of the moment.

“I had the best time of the my life. The only thing that put a blemish on today’s perfection was this skirt.” You pointed to the short skirt you had decided to wear that today.

Dazai glanced down after hearing your words, perplexedly staring at the article of clothing he had quite enjoyed on you: the skirt was beautiful on you, accentuating your gorgeous body. “Why was it a bad choice?” He asked, playing with the hem of it.

“Well, not the skirt in itself, but I usually wear some biker shorts underneath, because my thighs rub against each other and it hurts like a bitch! And I forgot them today!” You quickly hitched it up to show Dazai the reddened skin between your thighs. “And today’s heat did not help. Every step is an agony.” You admitted, hastily shoving your skirt down when you realized the ride was coming to an end.

Dazai chivalrously helped you out of the Ferris wheel, holding onto your arm. He noticed how you subtly tried to waddle instead of walking, not wanting your thighs to brush together again. “Bella, seeing you in such a dramatic situation makes your poor boyfriend’s heart bleed!” He dramatically stated, over exaggerating every word.

You chuckled. “I, your valiant boyfriend will sacrifice my knees for you.” He called, quickly kneeling in front of you.

“Are you sure, Dazai? I don’t want to hurt you…”

“My dear, you could never hurt me.” Dazai smiled at you, looking over his shoulder. You blushed, finally deciding that you could not walk anymore, and you gratefully climbed on his back, pressing a kiss to his head and whispering a soft, “Thank you.”

Dazai adjusted his hands to hold you comfortably and started walking home. “Am I not a gentleman, (Y/N)?” Dazai asked, turning to look at you and wiggle his eyebrows.

“Well, I am not so sure.” You laughed.

“Oh! You doubt my honor? For what reason, my lady?” Dazai whined.

“Well, I don’t think a gentleman would use this opportunity to touch my ass.” Dazai’s hands had been initially supporting your thighs, but his elegant fingers had soon slid further back, deciding to hold your butt, and you were sure that had not been just to carry you better.

Dazai tsked loudly. “T’is simply the fare to pay for this unique transport system.” You laughed, letting your head rest against his broad shoulders.

The rest of the walk home was peacefully, the two of you talking about random subjects. When you got home, Dazai gently rested you on the bed. “Do you want me to apply cream on the irritated skin?” He asked, starting to unbutton his shirt.

“Yes, please.”

Dazai quickly grabbed some Aloe Vera gel from the bathroom, coming back to the bedroom. You had removed your skirt, and were now lying in bed in just one of Dazai’s old shirts and your underwear.

Dazai knelt in front of your legs, quickly and efficiently applying the cream to all the irritated areas. After finishing, you pressed a kiss to his lips to thank him.

“Hey, (Y/N),”

“Yes?”

“Since you can’t close your leg until the cream has dried, can I eat you out?”

“Dazai!” You screamed, throwing a pillow at him. Your boyfriend ducked just in time.

“Hey! It’s not my fault! You’re lying there with your legs spread so enticingly!”

You threw all the pillows you had on the bed at Dazai’s head, and yet, somehow, he managed to have his way, keeping your legs spread way long after the cream had dried.

Doppo Kunikida

The day had been spent with the rest of the Armed Detective Agency at the beach, splashing in the water, running around and chasing each other in the water. You had built a sandcastle with Atushsi and Kyouka, sun-bathed with Dazai, and had taken strolls along the shoreline with your boyfriend, Kunikida.

You were currently helping Kenji and Rampo make another sandcastle, while Kunikida held a book in his hand, sitting in the shade. He wasn’t reading the book, too focused on watching you laugh and giggle, the story in front of him long forgotten. The sun was slowly descending, disappearing behind the thin line of the horizon.

Slowly, every member of the Agency had retreated to their rooms, and now only the four of you remained, wanting to enjoy every moment left in the dying day.

Kunikida glanced down at his watch, stretching his neck, and thinking maybe it was time to head home, leaving the day at the beach to became a memory. “(Y/N)!” He called, waving his arm to catch your attention. You turned around, smiling. Kunikida gestured to his watch, and you threw a thumbs up in his direction, quickly waving goodbye to Kenji and Rampo, before sauntering over to your boyfriend. You pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, before you started helping him pack your towels and the various books the two of you had brought to the beach.

Holding one bag each, you started the walk back to the hotel, feeling the warmth of the cement underneath your flip-flops. “Today was so fun!” You squealed, sliding your hand in Kunikida’s.

“It sure was.” He answered back, threading your fingers together.

“I think my favorite part was when Dazai managed to convince the president to lie down in the sand and then made him a mermaid tail with the sand!” You giggled, also recalling Kunikida’s exasperated expression when he had caught Rampo trying to eat a snack that had fallen in the sand.

Kunikida chuckled. ��It was a fun day today. We should take more holidays together.” He thought, already starting to meticulously plan the next one in his head.

You nodded, a sudden wave of exhaustion scaling your back and implanting its fangs in your head. Kunikida started mentioning other destinations that would be fun to visit, but your throat suddenly felt parched and your head boiling. You didn’t hear his words, the world starting to melt into confusing figures around you. Suddenly, the ground seemed to have been yanked away from you.

You managed to whimper Kunikida’s name before your legs gave up and you tumbled to the ground. Kunikida turned around, his smile evaporating when he realized your eyes had rolled to the back of your head and you were fainting. The bag he was carrying toppled to the ground and he dove to catch you, holding you in his arms.

“(Y/N)? What’s wrong?” He asked, fear gripping his insides.

“Don’t worry, Kunikida. I think it’s just heatstroke. I did run around underneath the blazing sun for most of the day.” You chuckled dryly, trying to not worry your perpetually panicking boyfriend.

Your words did little to help Kunikida, who started digging through the bag closest to him, trying to find a water bottle he knew was there, his mind already flooding with self-deprecating thoughts because he had not thought about making sure you wouldn’t catch heatstroke.

Knowing your boyfriend, you could read his thoughts reflected in his gorgeous eyes, and gently squeezed his hand. Kunikida turned to look at you, water bottle in hand. “My darling over-thinker, it’s fine. This is not your fault.”

Kunikda gulped, nodding curtly, before opening the bottle and helping you drink half of it, pouring the rest on your head to help you cool down.

You waited a few more moments, resting in Kunikida’s lap before nodding. “Okay, I’m fine. Let’s keep going.” You tried to stand up, but before you had even managed to place one foot perpendicular to the ground, Kunikida had wrapped one arm around your back, and the other underneath your knees, lifting you up in his arms. You gasped, holding onto his neck.

“Kunikida! What are you doing?” You asked, as you watched him start walking.

“I am not making you walk when you are in these conditions.” He said, not wanting you to get even more tired. Seeing you collapse had already made him lose thirty years of his life; he didn’t need a repeat.

“But Kunikida, darling, I’m fine! I’m not that sick! And I’m too heavy for you!” You rambled, trying to get down. Your wiggling only made Kunikida hold onto you more tightly. The moment you uttered the last sentence, Kunikida stared at you, clearly waiting for you to take back what you had just said.

You pouted, realizing you could not win this fight. You rested your head on his shoulder, letting him take care of you.

The minute you got back to the hotel, Kunikida laid you down on the bed, raiding the mini fridge for ice, and gently placing it on your wrists and ankles. Only when you were lying in bed, slowly gaining back the sparkle in your eyes did Kunikida feel his heart stop beating a thousand times a minute, and let himself collapse on the bed.

Let’s just say, for the rest of the holiday, you were basically dragged back into the shade by Kunikida every 30 minutes.

Yukichi Fukuzawa

The evening was finally over; you had spent the whole night at a charity event held by the most powerful people in all of Yokohama. Your boyfriend, being Fukuzawa, the president of the Armed Detective Agency, had to attend, and to make his evening a little bit more bearable, he had asked you to accompany him.

The night had been relatively fun, talking to various people and enjoying some expensive champagne. The only tense moment was when the two of you had stumbled on Mori, who for some reason, was there as well. Luckily, no fight erupted between the two men; they curtly nodded at one another and then moved on with their own affairs.

The best part of the evening, for you, had been when they had played some slow, romantic music, and invented everyone to dance with their partners. You had enjoyed swaying in Fukuzawa’s arms, getting lost in his eyes. But you were paying the price now, your feet aching at every step in your stiletto heels. Every step feeling like shards of glass stabbed your already aching skin.

You and Fukuzawa were heading home, but every step was torture, a grimace carving itself in your face. “My dear, what is wrong?” Fukuzawa asked, his deep voice momentarily distracting you from the pain.

You glanced at him, your heart fluttering when your eyes caught his handsome face glimmering in the moonlight. You nodded down to your feet, lifting your dress’ skirt slightly to reveal your two personal torture machines. “My heels: they’re killing me.”

“Would you like to take them off?” Fukuzawa asked, glancing down at your black heels. He had never worn any type of heeled-shoe, but could imagine what they felt like.

“I wish, but I can’t walk home barefoot.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“What? No, Yukichi, I can’t let you carry me! Our house is far.”

“(Y/N), every step you have been taking these last few minutes makes you visibly wince in pain. I cannot let the woman I love suffer so.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, and couldn’t help but thank whichever divinity had gifted you this man. Using his shoulder for your balance, you slipped off your high heels, immediately becoming way shorter. You grimaced in pain when you noticed the shoes had managed to create various blisters on your feet. Your right foot had been more unlucky, raw skin visible in the silver light, and even a few trickles of blood.

Fukuzawa gently kneeled down in front of you, inspecting your feet. You saw concern paint his eyes, and his lips pressed a soft kiss to both your ankles. “You should have told me sooner,” he scolded gently, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You nodded shyly, knowing he was right. You bent down to retrieve your heels, holding them with the tip of your fingers.

As soon as you straightened your back, you suddenly felt Fukuzawa’s warm hands hold you, before you were hoisted into his arms, suddenly finding yourself to be almost kissing your boyfriend’s lips. You blinked, using your free hand to grasp his shoulder. “I thought you would carry me on your back,” you admitted, not complaining that Fukuzawa had decided to carry you in his arms instead. You could feel his warm, and solid chest against your body, making you feel safe and cared for.

“I already get to see you so little, I would like to spend the rest of the night with your beautiful face in my line of sight.” Fukuzawa said, glancing at you warmly. You leaned forward, pressing a fervent kiss to his lips, knowing that Fukuzawa wasn’t always the biggest fan of PDA. But this one time, your silver-haired partner, kissed you back, mirroring your passion, the moon’s inconsistent light shielding you from any unwanted attention.

You pulled back from the kiss, leaning against his shoulders, getting lulled by his rhythmic breath.

When the two of you got home, Fukuzawa immediately tended to your feet, disinfecting the wounds, and wrapping them with bandages, before the two of you cuddled underneath the blankets to fall asleep.

The next day, Fukuzawa seemed to hover around your desk more than usual, making sure you could walk without problem and did not need to be carried. You told him not to worry.

At the end of the day, Kunikida looked outside the window of the Armed Detective Agency, and quickly looked away, seeing his president pressing a soft kiss to your lips before whisking you into his arms.

Nakahara Chuuya

Chuuya downed the remaining champagne in his glass, chuckling alongside with Koyo. The Port Mafia Christmas party was in full swing around the two of them. The buffet had been adequately raided, and Chuuya noticed quite a few people drunkenly wobbling around. Higuchi was heavily leaning on Akutagawa in the left corner of the room. He knew that you were somewhere around the room, having fun with your friends. Chuuya had only spent a few moments with you, pressing a kiss to your hand before leaving you: being an executive, he terrified the rest of your friends who were of a greatly inferior in rank. To let them enjoy their evening, he had stepped aside.

Koyo poured some more champagne in his glass, the melted, golden liquid sloshing around the delicate glass. “This champagne is real good,” Chuuya chirped happily, suddenly feeling a tap on his sleeve and turning around. Tachihara was standing in front of him, arms crossed around his chest.

“(Y/N) needs you.” He pointed his finger behind him, gesturing to your current location. “She’s shit-faced drunk and is just calling your name.” After having done his job, Tachihara walked away, joining Akutagawa.

Chuuya sighed, setting down his glass. The remaining champagne called to him, but he had to go. “Sorry, Koyo. Boyfriend duty calls.” He waved goodbye to his companion, start to head in between the crowd to find you.

As soon as people noticed that it was Chuuya, one of the most powerful executives, they quickly moved away, letting him through. But alcohol had rendered their reaction time significantly lower, and Chuuya still struggled.

“If we get attacked now, we’re fucked.” He grunted, after he had managed to push past a huddle of people who had formed a dance line and had somehow managed to run into itself, creating chaos. Chuuya adjusted his hat, scanning the purple couches that had been set around the room for the party: you had been there, the last time he saw you.

Your twinkling, beautiful laugh reached his ears over the cacophony in the room, like a siren song luring him. He followed the sound he loved so much, and finally reached you. You and your friends were sitting where he had left you. Your table was littered with empty bottles of various alcoholics, some of them open, and languidly dripping on the tabletop. Most of your friends were snoring, passed out, but a few them resisted stoically, dancing, or more wobbling clumsily, to the music. You were sitting on the couch, your cheeks red with alcohol, your hair beautifully disheveled, and singing along to the song with slurred words.

Chuuya stepped closer to you, gently placing his hand on yours. “Princess, I heard you were looking for me.” You turned around, hearing your boyfriend’s voice.

“Chuuya!” You called, your happy voice almost reaching a supersonic level. Without warning, you hooked your finger in his belt, dragging him down to the couch with you. Chuuya had only the time to blink before you climbed in his lap, straddling him. “I missed…*hic*…I missed you!” You giggled, poking his cheek continuously.

“How much have you had to drink, sweetheart?” Chuuya asked, adjusting your skirt so nothing would be revealed to anyone in the room around you.

“I don’t know!” You smiled lopsidedly at him, suddenly feeling sleepy now that your boyfriend was here. You almost fell backwards, Chuuya bringing you back against him in time.

“Okay. That’s it. We’re going home.” Chuuya decided, knowing that tomorrow’s hangover would shatter all plans he had to go ice skating with you.

You were so tired, and the room was spinning so rapidly around you that you nodded, wanting to go home. But you still had one more playful spark inside your chest. “But you have to carry me!” You whined, gripping your boyfriend tightly.

Chuuya caressed your clothed back, sighing. You were adorably cute when you were drunk. The feared port mafia executive was putty in your hands, and he adored every moment of it. Using his ability, Chuuya made you lighter in his arms, starting to walk with you clung onto him like a drunk, but beautiful koala. You giggled happily, inhaling your boyfriend’s musky cologne, and feeling lulled to sleep by his rhythmic walking. Your fingers traced heart shapes on his vest, humming a nonsensical song you were making up on the spot.

The sleepy silence of the deserted street was suddenly broken by a loud laugh that escaped you, scaring Chuuya. “What’s so funny, doll?” He asked, his heartbeat slowly calming down.

“I just realized that I love you to the moon and back!” You singsonged, smushing Chuuya’s cheeks together. Your boyfriend stared back at you, nothing but love glimmering in his eyes.

“I wuv y’too.” He managed to mumble through his squished cheeks, his heart almost on fire with joy. A gorgeous smile decorated your face, and you looked as gorgeous as an antique painting, before you suddenly collapsed against his chest, snoring loudly.

“Doll? What? You can’t just declare your love for me and then start sleeping!” Chuuya called, trying to shake your arm. But you had said what you needed to say, and was now happily in dreamland, sleeping peacefully in your boyfriend’s arms.

Chuuya realized waking you was impossible, and decided to press a kiss to your forehead, instead. He pulled you closer in his arms, enjoying the stroll through the moonlit Yokohama with his drunk koala safely in his arms.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

You had been lying in bed for a few days now. Your throat ached, as if someone had sandpapered it, and your nose had become red from all the tissues you had used. Your body temperature was acting weird, swinging from absolute boiling to absolute freezing. Right now you were freezing, gripping the duvet around you with your trembling fingers.

Your boyfriend, Fyodor, had been staying away from you to avoid getting sick, his anemia not providing a strong enough shield for him to be there. He did come in the room a few times, wearing a mask, but bringing you food and water, and caressing your forehead.

Your teeth were chattering from how cold you felt, and with a sudden whine, you realized that the heater had accidentally gone off in your room, rendering it even more freezing. You tried to convince yourself that you could get out of bed and walk the few steps to the heater. With an inhumane effort you, you dragged yourself up to a sitting position, immediately falling into a brutal couching fit.

When you opened your watery eyes, you noticed Fyodor was sitting on the edge of the bed. You immediately covered your mouth. “Fyodor, what are you doing here?” You asked, your voice broken.

“I could hear you coughing from the other room, milaya.” He called, a cold finger caressing your cheek. You averted your gaze, feeling embarrassed that you were being a burden to your permanently busy boyfriend.

Fyodor quickly read what you were thinking in your body gestures, and decided that actions would cure your scared heart more than his words. He slowly approached you, lifting a chin and pressing a kiss to your nose. Your already flushed cheeks became even redder. Fyodor then slowly cradled you into his arms, feeling your quivers shake his body as well. He grabbed the duvet, and threw it over your body, making sure you were safely encapsulated in its warmth, before picking you up.

“No, Fyodor, I don’t want to tire you out and then make you sick,” You protested meekly, weakly trying to push yourself away from his body.

“You’re freezing, milaya.” Fyodor stated, pulling you closer to himself. He expertly avoided your question, not wanting to admit that hearing you sick, and alone, in the other room had slowly destroyed his heart. The shards had slowly blossomed into the realization that he would not mind getting sick, if he could just hold you against himself while working. But he would never admit it.

You were too weak to try and convince him, happily giving up and allowing yourself to rest in your lover’s embrace as he sat back down in his office chairs, returning to work. You adjusted yourself, trying to get comfortable, accidentally uncovering your feet. Fyodor immediately tucked you back in, not wanting you to feel an inch of the cold air on your skin.

It wasn’t rare that you slept in Fyodor’s arms while he worked, his scent lulling you into a deep slumber. Your blocked nose was preventing you from smelling anything, and you shifted around his lap helplessly.

Fyodor blocked your movements. You stared up at him, slightly afraid that he would kick you out for disturbing him. Instead, Fyodor gently pulled you against himself, making sure you were comfortable, but starting to hum a quiet, Russian lullaby.

You instantly calmed down, your eyelids becoming heavier. Your body felt at peace, the shivers no longer wrecking your body. Right before sleep dragged you under the surface, you slipped your hand in Fyodor’s and pulled it close to your chest. You snuggled against his chest, starting to snore adorably.

Fyodor could not help but gaze lovingly at you, singing the Russian lullaby till he was sure you wouldn’t wake. And only then, did he lean down and kiss your lips, murmuring a quiet, “I love you,” to your ear.

Nakajima Atsushi

Your weretiger boyfriend had thrown himself down the Armed Detective Agnecy stairs when Kunikida had told him you were coming back from a mission and had severely twisted your ankle. He was now anxiously pacing in front of the building, waiting for you.

When your taxi stopped in front of him, Atsushi almost ripped the car door off, worry sinking its claws in him. You smiled weakly at him, clearly very much in pain. “Hey darling,” you called, trying to calm Atsushi down, because he was clearly on the verge of a mental breakdown: his eyes were wide, his chest heaving, and he immediately ducked down to wrap you in his strong arms, irrationally fearing you might die from a twisted ankle.

You held him close to you, whispering that you were fine, and nothing was going to happen to you. When Atsushi’s heartbeat had steadied enough for him to not crumble on the ground crying, you pulled away from him, anchoring your left hand to the car door to slowly, and carefully slip out.

You put one foot down on the ground before Atsushi intervened. He would not let you walk on your foot, for no reason at all. He leaned down, and easily picked you up in his arms, his fingers digging into your skin, as if he were afraid you would slip out of his hold and hurt yourself even more.

As Atsushi carried you, you dragged your hands through his hair, scratching his scalp to further relax the panic that was tainting his gaze. The ironclad grip he had on you slowly loosened once he was in the elevator. “My knight in shining armor,” you giggled, caressing his chin.

“My love, please, please be careful from now on,” He whispered, looking at you with eyes that almost made you start crying. You nodded, pressing your forehead against his. And in the moment of peace, neither of you noticed the elevator door opening, signaling you had arrived to your destination.

You did, however, hear Kunikida shouting his head off because Dazai had accidentally poured coffee on his notebook. You and Atsushi giggled quietly, sharing one more chaste kiss before entering the chaos that was your office.

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