#bolt x diamond

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤFRIENDLY NEIGHBORㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Batboys x Fem Reader Part 1

☆⁠ HEADCANON : What if Bruce Find a Kid With Spider Powers?

☆⁠ NOTES : Reader have the same abilities as spiderman. She's 10 years old and a year younger than Dick. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You were on your way back home with a hefty diamond in hand—a steal worth more than anything you’d swiped before. Sure, it wasn’t exactly something a kid could sell at a pawn shop, but you weren’t stupid. You knew where to go, who to talk to. You weren’t scared of the shady underworld—it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle.

That was until the Bat and his little bird found you.

“Drop it,” a deep, commanding voice called from the shadows.

You froze mid-swing, perched high on a rooftop with the bag strapped to your back. Turning your head slightly, you caught the unmistakable silhouette of Batman. Next to him, Robin—a kid about your age—stood with his hands on his hips, looking ridiculously eager.

“Oh, hell no,” you muttered under your breath before shooting a web to the nearest building and bolting.

But they were faster than you anticipated. They cut you off at every turn. You snarled and swung as fast as you could, but a Batarang snagged your web mid-flight, sending you tumbling to the ground. Before you could recover, a pair of strong hands pinned you down.

“Let me go, you big asshole!” you screamed, thrashing wildly as Bruce cuffed your hands with some high-tech restraints.

“Not happening,” he replied gruffly.

“Language,” Dick added with an almost scolding tone.

And that was how you found yourself in this position. They tied you up like some kind of psycho, ropes binding your wrists and ankles as you sat in a chair in the Batcave. You didn’t make it easy for them, twisting and spitting curses like a feral cat.

“Let me go, you freak!” you yelled, thrashing as Bruce stood over you, arms crossed. “You think this is gonna scare me?!”

Dick stepped forward, trying to defuse the situation. “Hey, uh...bro,” he said awkwardly, his boyish grin in full force. “Look, I get it. You’re upset. But this place is actually kinda cool, don’t you think? Like—wow, are those real bats up there?”

You turned your glare on him, looking him up and down with a sneer. “Wow, are you real stupid or just playin’ dumb?” you snapped. “Do I look like I wanna talk about your creepy bat zoo?”

Dick blinked, clearly not expecting your hostility. But then he grinned again, undeterred. “You’ve got powers, huh? That��s pretty awesome. Maybe we could be—”

“Shut up, Robin Hood,” you interrupted. “I wouldn’t be caught dead hangin’ with some sidekick in a green elf costume. You’re embarrassing.”

Dick’s face turned red, and he fidgeted, unsure how to respond. Meanwhile, Bruce crouched in front of you, his piercing gaze boring into yours.

“You’re very...hostile for someone so young,” he said calmly. “Why don’t you tell me who you’re working with? That diamond you stole isn’t something a kid like you can sell on your own.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair as much as the ropes would allow. “Oh, sure, let me just spill my whole evil plan to the Bat Guy,” you drawled. “What are you gonna do, ground me?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened slightly, but he stayed calm.

Dick, meanwhile, was still fuming from your earlier insult. “You're such a bitch, you know that?” he blurted. “I was just trying to be nice!”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Aw, poor baby. Did I hurt your little feelings? Go cry about it, Boy Blunder.”

“He’s… feisty,” Dick whispered.

“That's a girl,” Bruce corrected flatly.

Dick blinked, his face going red as he stared at you. “W-Wait, you’re a girl?!”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Duh, dumbass.”

“I-I just thought—”

“Yeah, yeah, you thought wrong. Congrats. Now SHUT UP!”

Bruce sighed. “Robin, step back.”

“But—”

“Now.”

Dick retreated reluctantly, glancing at you with a mix of irritation and curiosity. Bruce leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous tone. “Let’s try this again. Who are you working with?”

You spat on his face. “Your mom, bitch.”

That was it. Before you could blink, Bruce grabbed the ropes and hoisted you upside down, letting you dangle in mid-air.

“HEY! Put me down, you psychopath!” you yelled, kicking uselessly.

Bruce's jaw ticked. Without a word, he stormed off, leaving you hanging upside down like a piñata.

Dick stayed behind, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. Finally, he managed, “S-So... uh... you... doing okay up there?”

“What do you think?!”

Dick winced, laughing nervously. “R-Right. Yeah. Of course. Stupid question.” He paused, glancing at the ropes holding you up, then back at your upside-down glare. “Uh, you're really a girl huh?” he stammered, cheeks red.

You stared at him, unimpressed. “Yeah...”

“Wow... That's so cool, I—I mean, uh, I know you’re a girl now! B-But before, I—I thought you were a... a guy. B-But not in a bad way! Just in a... ‘cool guy’ way! But now you’re, uh... y-you’re a cool girl!” He laughed nervously. “You’re different from other girls I’ve met, I mean, in a good way! Like, you’re cool, and, uh—”

“Please stop talking before I lose what little respect I have for you.”

“Right. Uh. Got it,” he mumbled, backing away slowly. “I’ll, uh... just... be over here if you need anything! Or, uh, don’t. That’s cool too...”

You groaned, closing your eyes. “Kill me now.”

“Y-You don’t mean that, right?” he asked nervously, his voice cracking slightly.

“Robin.”

“Y-Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“R-Right. Shutting up now.”

The next day, Bruce returned with new information. He sat in front of you, untied this time but still under his watchful gaze.

“I know why you’re stealing,” he said simply.

You stiffened, your usual bravado faltering for a moment. “Yeah? Good for you.”

“Your mother has cancer,” he continued. “And you’re trying to take care of her and your siblings. That’s a lot for someone your age.”

Your throat tightened, and you clenched your jaw. Your blood ran cold. “You leave them out of this.”

Bruce’s expression softened ever so slightly. “Don't worry. I’m going to help them. But you have to stop stealing.”

You blinked at him, suspicious. “Help?”

“A house, medical care for your mom, clothes, food—everything you need.”

You clenched your jaw, tears threatening to spill. You wouldn’t let him see you cry. “Why would you help me?”

“Because I can.”

For once, you were speechless.

True to his word, Bruce Wayne—Batman—changed your life. He bought your family a house, new clothes, paid for your mother’s hospital bills and now you and your siblings going to school. You didn’t know how to thank him. So, you didn’t. Not right away.

One night, two years after Bruce first caught you, you climbed through his window at the Manor. He had just returned from patrol, removing his cowl when he saw you.

“The new clothes suit you,” he said, his usual gruffness tinged with something softer. “You look...lovely.”

Your face heated. You looked away, fiddling with the pink clip in your now longer hair. "Thanks," you mumbled, then, after a pause, "I… I wanted to say… thank you. For everything." You shifted uncomfortably, still not used to feeling like someone actually cared about you.

"No need," he said.

Bruce smiled, and there was something in his eyes that made your chest tighten. Then, without thinking, you blurted out, “Can I join you? In... whatever this is. I mean, you’ve helped me. So… it's only make sense if I do the same, right?”

Bruce studied you for a long moment before nodding. “We’ll see.”

And for the first time you smiled back.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— SIDE HEADCANON ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[sunshinesfreckless]

His Spoiled Bunny

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Seo Changbin x fem!reader

Summary: No one spoils their girl like Changbin does. No one eats like he does either.

Warnings: Oral fixation. Gym sex. Tiffany. Dolce. Strength kink. Breeding Kink.

A/N: THERE YOU GO CHANGBIN GIRLIES PLEASE BE HAPPY. HAN WILL BE THE FINAL SPOILED PART !

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Bangchan ୨ৎ Jeongin

୨ৎ Seungmin ୨ৎ Leeknow ୨ৎ Han

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

He liked her pretty.

Not just in the way other men meant it. Not in the bare-minimum, tight-dress, perfect-lips sort of way. Seo Changbin liked her cute—bows in her hair, soft ruffles on her sleeves, frilly collars, little heart buttons she thought no one noticed. But he did. He noticed everything.

He’d buy the bows himself—silk, velvet, ribboned in his favorite colors. He’d frown if her hair wasn’t pinned back just right. He’d adjust it with careful fingers, always murmuring, “There. My pretty girl.”

And when he shopped, it was never random. Never thoughtless.

He didn’t just spoil her. He curated her.

A body-hugging Dolce & Gabbana dress for her wardrobe—he’d had it delivered with a handwritten note: Wear this for me next time we fight so I can forgive you faster.

A silk robe, pale pink with “Bin’s Bunny” embroidered in champagne thread across the back—she wore it when waiting for him to come home from practice, curling up on the couch with his cats.

Two floors of her apartment slowly filled with handpicked things—ruffled skirts, lace-trimmed blouses, designer slippers, glass teacups shaped like blossoms. Things he’d never seen on anyone but her, things he wanted only her to wear.

Even her favorite rose tea wasn’t safe from his affection.

She’d mentioned it once—once—and now, every Thursday, a box appeared. New blends from quiet Parisian brands. Seoul boutique exclusives. Ones with handwritten notes from the tea house owners addressed to Mr. Seo’s fiancée.

But her favorite gift?

The necklace.

He hadn’t said a word when he gave it to her.

Just placed the blue box in her hands one soft evening, while she was sitting cross-legged on his bed in one of his old shirts.

Her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid.

Inside—simple, but so intimate—a fine Tiffany gold chain, so delicate it shimmered with every breath. At its center, two tiny initials, crusted in diamonds: S.C.

He took it from her before she could speak, hooked it gently around her neck, then tilted her chin up with one strong finger.

His eyes were soft. Melted. Full of something heavier than lust.

“Now they know who you belong to.”

She didn’t even get the chance to answer.

Because he kissed her.

Slow. Deep. Like he meant it. Like he’d always mean it.

And later, when he pulled away, her bow had come loose and his name sparkled at her throat—and he looked at her like he was never letting go.

  ────୨ৎ────

He loved the way she fit against him. Small, pliant, perfect. Like she was made to be lifted.

And in his private gym, no one could see them. No cameras, no mirrors except the full-length one bolted to the wall. Just him, her, and the sound of skin meeting skin.

“1… 2… 3—good girl.”

He had her hoisted up, legs locked around his waist, her back pressed to the mirror hard enough to fog the glass behind her. Her skirt was bunched around her hips, Dolce lace panties long discarded, and her heels still dangling prettily off her toes. She’d gasped when he lifted her—by now she knew the routine—but the way he moved inside her still left her breathless every time. Deep, controlled, possessive.

Sweat glistened on his temples, dripping down the curve of his neck, his chest flexing with every thrust. She whimpered when his biceps tensed, his grip tightening just a little more under her thighs as he slammed her down on his cock, hard enough to make her cry out. The weights on the floor clinked as he stepped back, bracing her against the wall like she was nothing.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice low and ragged. “You look so good like this—look, baby.”

She forced herself to look. In the mirror, it was obscene: her hair a mess, her lips smeared with Chanel gloss, her body trembling from the force of each roll of his hips. But there was also Changbin… thick arms around her, his other hand sneaking down between her thighs—greedy, relentless. The sight of him—sweaty, flushed, thick cock splitting her open while he held her up like she weighed less than a barbell—it pushed her right to the edge.

“You gonna come, bunny?” he panted, his breath hot against her neck. “Come with me, yeah? Show me how good I spoil you.”

And she did. Shaking. Eyes locked on his. A doll for him to play with, and he loved her just like that.

  ────୨ৎ────

But none of the gifts compared to this.

Not the limited edition handbags.

Not the Tiffany diamonds.

Not even the gym.

Because nothing could beat the way Seo Changbin ate.

He loved food. The whole world knew that.

But only she knew how much he loved her.

He had her laid out across sheets he had flown in from Italy—deep red silk that pooled under her like wine. Candles flickered in the corner. She was bare, thighs already trembling, chest rising and falling too fast as he pulled her knees over his broad shoulders and looked up at her like she was dessert.

“Stay still,” he whispered, voice rough, almost reverent. “Be good and let me taste.”

And then his mouth was on her.

His hands stayed firm on her hips, fingers digging into her like he was afraid she’d float away. He groaned into her pussy like he was fucking starving, tongue lapping at her in slow, deliberate strokes that made her eyes roll back. She was soaked—dripping for him—and he loved it. Loved how she squirmed. Loved how she tried to clench her thighs around his head and he pushed them wider.

“I want it all, bunny,” he murmured. “Every sound, every drop.”

Sometimes he moaned louder than she did.

Sometimes his cock was so hard it throbbed untouched.

But he wouldn’t stop. Not until she came all over his tongue—once, twice, again. He knew her body too well. He tasted every twitch. He knew how to ruin her.

“B-Bin—ah—don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he growled, lips dragging up her inner thigh. “I’m starving.”

And then he buried his face deeper, like he could live there.

  ────୨ৎ────

Later, she couldn’t move.

Not even enough to lift her head from the silk pillow. Her lips were puffy, her eyes dazed, thighs sticky and open beneath the crumpled sheets.

Changbin came back from the kitchen, shirtless, with a tray in hand.

Strawberries.

Warm cream-filled bread.

A bowl of soup, still steaming.

He placed the tray beside her, and knelt at her side like she was royalty and he the most devoted servant. She made a soft, sleepy noise—but her mouth didn’t open.

He smiled. Picked up a spoon.

“Eat for me, pretty girl.”

She obeyed. Bite by bite. Spoon by spoon.

And when he fed her the first strawberry—held between his fingers, gently pressed to her lips—he kissed the juice from her chin and whispered, “You know I’d give you the whole world, right?”

The necklace glittered against her collarbone. Her bow was still crooked in her hair.

And in his arms, she looked like the only thing he’d ever chase.

 ────୨ৎ───

She’d fallen asleep on the couch again.

Half on her side, one leg dangling off the edge, the throw blanket barely covering her thighs—and not the fluffy blanket he told her to use either. The TV was still on, some rom-com playing in the background, and her phone lay face-down on the floor like it had slipped from her hand mid-scroll.

He sighed softly. Then smiled.

“You’re gonna get a cramp like that, bunny…”

But he didn’t wake her.

He set down the bag—the bag, the one with the fluffy pink cardigan she mentioned once in passing while shopping. He’d had it sent from Japan because they sold out in Korea. The matching slippers were in his backpack. And tucked in the crook of his elbow: her favorite dinner in takeaway boxes, still warm.

Carefully, like he was lifting something sacred, he scooped her up. Thick arms around her back and knees, her head naturally tipping into his chest. She stirred but didn’t wake, just blinked blearily and hummed, nose nudging into the soft black fabric of his shirt.

“Smells like gym,” she mumbled.

He chuckled. “Rude.”

But his voice was so gentle. So stupidly soft for her.

He carried her into the bedroom like nothing. His arms didn’t even shake. Laid her down on the duvet and pulled the cardigan from the bag, helping her into it like she was made of glass. She blinked again, eyes sleepy-sparkly, lips pouty.

“Were you out?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Got your stuff. Dinner too.”

“…You’re always buying me things.”

“Because I love spoiling you.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “And you always look so cute in the things I pick.”

She tried to argue, but her yawn cut her off.

So he sat at her bedside, opening the boxes and gently scooping up a bite of warm rice, lifting it to her lips.

“Eat for me, pretty girl.”

She blinked, took the bite. Then a second. And a third.

“You didn’t eat yet?”

“I’m eating now.” He smiled. “Watching you counts.”

And later, when she was full and warm and fuzzy in her new cardigan, she laid against him, one palm on his chest, fingers tracing his muscle like it soothed her.

“You’re so big,” she mumbled.

He grinned, cocky—but his voice betrayed how shy he got when she touched him like that. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Feels safe…”

And he tucked the blanket tighter around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Good. ‘Cause I’m never letting you go.”

 ────୨ৎ────

She was already breathless, legs trembling around his thick waist, hands gripping the slope of his shoulders like she could hang onto sanity through him.

Fuck he made her a fan of Missionary. He Loved gift giving, even if it was just his cum.

One hand beneath her thigh, the other braced beside her head, all of him wrapped around her. His biceps caged her in, his chest pressed firm to hers, and his voice—deep, wrecked—growled right into her ear.

“You feel that, baby?” he whispered, thrusting up again. “How deep I am?”

She whimpered, back arching.

He was so strong like this. Like she weighed nothing. Like her body was made for this—for him. Every movement made her feel owned, spoiled, ruined by the boy who treated her like treasure in daylight and like his personal plaything at night.

“You take me so well, always do,” he murmured, kissing down her jaw, her neck. “Fuck—I might just give it to you for real.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Bin—”

“You want it, don’t you?” His hand slid between her thighs, rubbing gently where she needed him most. “You want me to fill you up, make you mine forever.”

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Could only nod as he grinned, so smug, so in love.

“My pretty little wife,” he breathed, kissing her again, messier this time. “Gonna look so good with a bump. All soft. All mine.”

She moaned, clinging tighter, and he laughed—ruined and breathless himself.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised. “Like I always do. You won’t lift a finger. Just let me love you, spoil you, fuck you full.”

And when he finally came—deep, with a gasp of her name—he didn’t move. Just wrapped her tighter in those stupid, beautiful, strong arms of his and kissed her forehead like she was the most precious thing he’d ever held.

Because she was.

And even if she never did end up full of him, he’d still treat her like she was carrying his whole world in her belly.

 ────୨ৎ────

But it wasn’t just that he gave.

It was how much he loved.

He never let her walk on cold floors.

He kept a box of warm socks just for her in his car, in case she forgot hers.

He called her bunny all the time.

He picked her up from every schedule with her favorite snacks in the cupholder.

He massaged her legs when she was tired, made her protein smoothies, ran her bubble baths. He was softer than he looked.

And when he was tired—really tired—

She took care of him too.

She tucked him in when he fell asleep on the couch. She kissed his calloused hands and told him he was the best man she’d ever known. He never said much when she did that, only blushed, blinked, and held her tighter.

He came home once, late.

And there she was, curled up, waiting for him in one of his old shirts.

“Binnie,” she whispered sleepily.

His chest cracked open with warmth.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“You really are my best gift.”

[cressidagrey]

Garage Time

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Felicity and Bee Piastri: Two Peas in a Pod

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Oscar had always known he wasn’t the smartest person in the house.

It wasn’t a competition. It wasn’t even close.

He could read tire degradation like a second language. He could predict weather shifts by the way wind moved across a track. He could tell you the weight of pressure on his back wheel just by how the steering wheel twitched in his hands.

But true brilliance—the intricate, layered, quietly relentless kind? That belonged to Felicity.

And now, it seemed, to Bee too.

He stood now in the open doorway of what used to be an old stable—transformed by Felicity into a workshop, a garage, and more recently, a sanctuary. It smelled like grease, dust, and something warm—like a life that had been lived in deeply. And it echoed, faintly, with the laughter of his four-year-old daughter and the murmur of her mother’s steady voice.

Bee was sitting on a stacked milk crate in her favorite overalls—dark blue with patches on the knees, one of which she’d sewn on herself with needle-sharp concentration. She was holding a mini flashlight and a torque wrench like they were holy relics. Her goggles were too big and kept sliding down her nose, but she pushed them up without pausing her inspection.

“Mama,” she said, very seriously, “the rust’s gotten worse again. The wire brush isn’t enough. We need the Dremel with the diamond bit.”

Without looking up, Felicity reached over and passed the exact attachment. “Already out. Be careful of the edges.”

Oscar just stood there, quietly floored.

They moved like clockwork—precise, in sync, saying more with glances than most people could manage in full conversations. There was a kind of sacredness to it. A ritual born from repetition, trust, and shared obsession.

The car in front of them—a fire-red ‘67 Alfa Romeo Spider— was half-dead. But he knew that it would run again. Because Felicity always took broken things and fixed them. Piece by piece, bolt by bolt. 

Their shared language wasn’t just tools and tasks. It was detail. Precision. Respect for the process.

Bee had preferences the same way her mother did—strong, specific ones. She didn’t like when the wrenches were out of order. She couldn’t focus if her socks didn’t match. She insisted on a clipboard instead of a notebook and wanted her snacks in “even-numbered bites.” Her world made sense when things were in place. When they followed the rules she understood.

Oscar leaned on the doorframe, watching as Felicity wiped grease off her hands and adjusted her ponytail with the calm confidence of someone who knew how to make something run again.

“Should I take out the bolts on the intake next?” Bee asked, peering over the engine like a surgeon.

“Not yet,” Felicity said, crouching beside her. “We check the seals first. Otherwise we’re redoing work we didn’t have to.”

Bee nodded solemnly. “That’s inefficient.”

Oscar could barely process it. His three-year-old was talking about mechanical inefficiency.

He scratched the back of his neck, a grin tugging at his lips. “I feel like I should be helping.”

Felicity looked up at him, eyes gleaming. “You are helping.”

“By standing here and trying not to mess anything up?”

“Exactly.”

Bee giggled. “Papa, your hands are too big for the screws. And you said last time the engine ‘judged you.’”

“It did!” Oscar protested. “It made a weird noise. I don’t trust it.”

Felicity rolled her eyes fondly. “It was the starter clicking. Because you wired it backward.”

“Okay,” he muttered. “We don’t all come with a degree in car resurrection.”

But he didn’t mind.

 Not even a little.

Because as he watched Felicity patiently show Bee how to handle the dremel, the way she knelt beside her daughter without condescension, the way Bee looked at her like she was a superhero in greasy overalls—it hit him again.

These two?

 They were brilliant.

Felicity, with her steady mind and quieter kind of sharpness. The woman who once redesigned their kitchen shelving because she couldn’t stand inefficient spatial flow.

And Bee, who had probably invented three new tools in her head before snack time.

He was raising a genius. And he’d married one too.

And somehow—by some miracle—they both loved him. 

He stepped closer. Bee didn’t look up. “If you mess up the socket order again, Mama said you’ll be benched.”

Felicity snorted softly. “Fair warning. Last week you rearranged them by size instead of frequency of use.”

“Because that makes sense!”

“Not to us,” Bee said without looking up. “We sort by practicality, not aesthetics.”

Oscar put both hands in the air. “Understood. I’m on thin ice.”

He sat on the edge of the workbench, watching as Felicity guided Bee’s hand on the Dremel with practiced calm. Bee's brows were furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out slightly, the same way Felicity looked when she was threading electrical wire.

They even leaned the same way when they worked—weight over their left hip, elbow tucked in, steady, focused.

God, they were so alike.

Same quiet brilliance. Same way of existing in a world that didn’t always understand how particularity could be a comfort.

Oscar loved them for it.

Even if he sometimes felt like a different species.

Still, he didn’t mind. He’d take the role of “fuel technician” or “guy who messes up the wrench order” any day if it meant getting to watch this.

“Do you want me to get snacks?” he asked eventually.

Bee perked up immediately. “Apple juice, please. Cold. In the bee cup. The one with the yellow straw.”

Felicity added, “And banana bread. No crust. Don’t forget the butter this time.”

Oscar grinned. “See? I have a purpose.”

“You’re our supply chain,” Bee said, solemn and sweet.

He headed for the kitchen, but his thoughts lingered behind.

Because here, in the garage, Bee shone.

But outside of it—at kindergarten, in playgroups, at birthday parties—she dimmed. Just a little. Enough for him to notice. Enough that it ached.

She preferred machines to playgrounds. She corrected her teachers, and she’d rather spend the day with chickens and torque specs than kids her age. She reached for her mama’s hand instinctively at parties, only relaxed when Felicity was near, and she quietly dimmed herself when other children didn’t understand her.

He worried about what the world would do with a girl like her.

With a girl who didn’t shrink for anyone. Who asked questions teachers couldn’t answer. 

Who didn’t just think outside the box—she would take the box apart with a ratchet set, draw schematics for a new one, and filed a request to optimize the corners.

Bee didn’t fit neatly anywhere.

Except here.

Here, in the workshop with her mother—who got it. Who was it. Who had been that same sharp-edged, too-bright child once. The one who asked too many questions and took apart toasters to understand thermodynamics.

And Oscar… didn’t know what to do with that. Not really.

He loved that Bee was uniquely herself. He wouldn’t change her for the world. But part of him worried, about how hard the world could be on girls who didn’t make themselves easier to understand.

So he made snacks.

He carved out spaces for her to be seen. To be known. He bought her every kind of notebook and wrench and Lego motor he could find, and he kept the world soft when it felt too loud for her.

In the kitchen, he poured apple juice for Bee and mango for Felicity. He cut thick slices of banana bread and added three forks—just in case Bee was in one of her “tools for everything” moods.

As he plated everything, he caught his reflection in the darkened microwave door—messy hair, oil smudge on his hoodie from leaning too close to Bee earlier, and a smile he couldn’t quite wipe away.

The kind of smile that came from a life that didn’t need spotlight to shine.

When he returned to the garage, it was quieter now, but only in the way a good story quiets down before the twist.

Bee was kneeling on a foam mat with a serious expression, focused on drawing something on a clipboard— Oscar could see crude sketches: rectangles, labels, what looked like airflow arrows.

Felicity was beside her, wiping down a set of socket wrenches, her ponytail starting to fall loose. There was grease on her jawline and a streak of dirt across her sleeve. She looked radiant.

Oscar set the snacks down on the workbench gently. “Refueling, as requested.”

Bee looked up from her clipboard. “Thank you, Papa.”

Oscar smiled. “You’re welcome, Bumblebee.”

She handed him her sketch. “I redesigned the air filter casing.”

It was crude and hand-drawn, but shockingly insightful.

“She got the concept from my old Haynes manual,” Felicity said, already chewing her bite of bread. “I left it on the shelf by accident. She read the airflow diagrams before bed.”

Oscar blinked. “She’s three.”

Bee held up four fingers. “Almost four.”

He laughed and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Almost four and already smarter than me.”

Felicity smirked. “She gets it from me.”

“You both terrify me,” he muttered, but there was no real fear in his voice—only awe.

The three of them sat quietly for a while, Bee content to sketch while Felicity wiped her tools with a meticulous rhythm.

Oscar didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt.

He just watched—content, in love, and quietly aware that he’d somehow been chosen by the two most remarkable people he’d ever met.

He might not always understand their blueprints, or why grease made them both so happy, or why the wrench order mattered so much—

But he didn’t need to.

They were his. He was theirs.

And that was more than enough.

He couldn’t predict how far Bee’s mind would go. Maybe she’d design cars instead of drive them. Maybe she’d run wind tunnel simulations in her sleep. Maybe she’d abandon it all for marine biology because she liked dolphins more than spark plugs.

He didn’t know.

What he did know was this:

He got to watch it happen. He got to be here. Even if he didn’t understand every detail, every gear, every tiny plan scribbled on scrap paper.

He got to be the one who brought the juice boxes. Who wiped grease off her cheek. Who kissed Felicity on the forehead while she calibrated torque like it was second nature.

He got to build a life alongside them.

He wasn’t the smartest in the house. Not by a long shot.

But he was the one who got to call it home.

And that? That was the best kind of win.

[bullet-prooflove]

Dick Pics: John Shen x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989

You’re already waiting for John when he steps out into the ambulance bay, a Starbucks Double Shot Espresso can in one hand and a mocha Frappuccino in the other. It’s one in the morning and you’re grabbing a breather between ambulance call outs while your partner gets some shuteye in the back of the rig.

“Heard you’re seeing someone new.” John says as he hands you the Frap bottle before taking up residence alongside you. “I also heard he’s an asshole.”

“I was seeing someone.” You admit as you pop the lid and take a swig. The rich chocolate taste blossoms on your tongue, invigorating your senses as the caffeine winds it’s way through your veins. “It turned out he was also seeing Ivy, one of the nurses on the day shift.”

“Ouch.” He winces as he pulls the tab on his own drink. “Gotta hurt.”

“It’s gonna hurt him.” You respond, your ass coming to rest upon the wall that lines the ‘decorative’ part of the hospital. “We collaborated and put the dick pics he sent on the pinboard for the med students so they can see what syphilis looks like.”

“That’s who’s they were?” He huffs out a laugh, his palm rubbing over the nape of his neck. “He’s fucking terrible with those angles, who takes one straight down the barrel? It’s not a good look for any man.”

“Philanders.” You tell him, the radio on your hip crackling with call outs to other rigs. “And you sound very well versed in the photogenics of dick pics.”

“It’s an art form.” He informs you, draining his can of coffee. “But I never send unsolicited, I don’t wanna foist my junk on some unsuspecting person eating their hoagie.”

You choke out a laugh.

“You’re a king amongst men, you know that?” You say raising your drink up in homage. “A real diamond in the rough.”

“I try.” He says before his phone chimes indicating the end of his break. He tosses his coffee can into the trash before turning to face you. “Be safe out there tonight alright? Mischief Night, it’s no joke.”

“I know.” You say, using your palm to brush your hair back so he can see the neat scar tucked in against your hairline. “Abbot stitched me up real nice last year after someone through a brick through the windshield of the ambulance.”

“Christ.” He says his fingertips brushing over the indented flesh. “Nice work through.”

“Yea, that man knows exactly what he’s doing with a needle and thread.” You say softly as his fingertips trail lower to the one at the edge of your eye socket that’s barely visible.

“And this one?” He asks, his gaze meeting yours and that’s when it happens that lightning bolt you hear about in all those romance books you read. That moment of recognition, of connection. You don’t understand because you’ve hung out with John Shen hundreds of times since he’s become an attending and although there’s always been chemistry, there’s never been intimacy, not like this.

Your radio crackles again, your call sign being hailed over the line as he pulls away and you feel the loss acutely as you take the radio off your hip.

“You can tell me later.” He tells you as he heads towards the entrance at the hospital. “Over breakfast after shift.”

“EMS don’t get the cushy shifts you doctors do.” You remind him, bring the radio to your mouth, finger resting on the button. “I’m on til 11am.”

“Alright, we’ll do brunch then.” He responds, walking backwards towards The Pitt. “You’ve got my number, text me when you’re off and I’ll come out and meet you.”

“You’ll be too tired John.” You call out across the ambulance bay.

“Baby, I’ve got stamina for days.” He informs you as he ducks back in through the entrance. “Trust me I’ll be there.”

Fuck me, you think. No unsolicited dick pics and stamina for days. You might just fall in love with this man.

Love John? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[greenorangevioletgrass]

tuesday in the park (a.d.)

pairing: divorced!art x reader

synopsis: your alone time at the park takes an interesting turn when a little girl breaks the quiet, but maybe... her dad is a good company.

warnings: language, smoking, mention of divorce, lily is an adorable lil oblivious cupid, sooo much tension tho, maybe smut in future parts? idk

notes: i am back and pathetic bitch boy art has officially given me a brainrot. this is also very self-indulgent and heavily based on my irl experience (except the fact that it's art, sadly) soooo... enjoy!

✨I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notification to get the latest update on my fics✨

City parks are fucking depressing. Especially the industrial type that’s square, and covered in concrete and has, like, four trees. They’re all well-manicured and hung with string lights, but there’s still barely enough greens to call it a park. And to add insult to injury, a Tiffany’s installation art currently sits at the head of the park—a giant diamond ring in a lush velvet box the size of a Range Rover. It’s gaudy as shit, and the massive Aston Martin billboard overhead is an assault to the eyes. You honestly have no idea why you’re sitting here.

Oh, right. It’s like 2PM on a Tuesday afternoon in some downtown office area, so there’s nobody else there. You can just sit and smoke and watch the water spout from the ground in pretty patterns. The steady rhythm of the fountain jets quiets the chaos in your mind.

Inhale. Exhale. As the fountain hisses and ceases, hisses and ceases…

And then suddenly… another pattern.

A pitter-patter. Like little footsteps. Quick moving, and then it stops. Right to your left.

You turn your head and see a little girl sitting right next to you. Her white sneakers look so small next to yours. She pushes a lock of dark ringlets off of her face as she watches the floor fountain in quiet curiosity and awe.

It takes you a moment to realize you still had a cigarette in your hand. You quickly stub it out as far from her as you can. “Uh… hello.” You frown at your own words, but how the fuck do you talk to kids in this situation?!

But the kid looks up and smiles at you politely. “Hello.” she nods and then returns her gaze to the water bursting in canon.

You’re even more confused. She doesn’t even seem deterred by sitting next to a stranger—willingly, at that. “Well, are you… are you alone?” 

“No. With my dad,” she answers, light as a feather.

“Oh, good. Good.” You sigh in relief and look around for any sign of a parent, adult, anyone looking for a missing child. “Where’s your—”

“Lily! There you are!” A man’s voice cuts through the dull noise of the city. You turn around to see him rushing over to the little girl, grimacing apologetically at you. “Sorry. I’m not a negligent father, I swear. I just… turned around and this little monkey’s run off.”

The little girl—Lily, apparently— giggles as her dad throws her a look, gentle but firm. “You said we could watch the water fountains, Daddy!”

“Yeah, but don’t run off like that…” He rolls his eyes, though you notice his sharp jaw twitching with a hidden smile.  And then, leaning into Lily’s ear but still loud enough within your earshot, “And you certainly weren’t supposed to invade this nice lady’s personal space—”

“It’s no trouble. I was just sitting here,” you quickly wave him off.

“Daddy, can I play over there?” Lily points at the streaming water at the center of the park.

The man pulls a face. “I don’t know, Lil—”

“Come on, Daddy…” 

“No way.”

“Just for five minutes. Please?” She bats her eyelashes, and you can immediately tell it’s her father’s Achilles heel. Because as much as you try to stay out of the conversation, you can hear the audible sigh coming from him, followed by,

“Fine. Five minutes, okay?”

The little girl bolts off to the fountains, tiny hands reaching out to the jet streams, testing out how strong it is. Figuring out the fountain pattern and stepping on each jet right as it shuts off, one foot after the other. It makes you wish it was socially acceptable for adults to do that, too. 

“You’re free to sit and watch her from here, if you want.”

He looks at you, like really looks at you for the first time. At your rolled-up button-down, the chain around your neck with a pendant he can’t see under your collar. But mostly at your kind eyes—weathered, witnessed, but somehow not judging.

He pushes his short blond hair out of his face the same way the little girl does, and the similarity almost makes you laugh… if you weren’t so worried about making a fool of yourself in front of this handsome man. “You sure? I… didn’t want to intrude.”

You shake your head softly and scoot over on the steps, allowing him just enough space to sit down.

He notices the stubbed cigarette between your forefinger and middle finger. “You got another one on you?”

It takes you a beat to realize what he’s talking about. “Oh!” You reach for your pack of Camel, and offer it to him, one cigarette stick already pushed out for easier access.

He takes it with a polite smile, but then pauses upon realizing he has no lighter either. “Um, do you mind if I borrow—”

You lean in as he puts it between his lips, one hand cupping the light from the breeze, and his heart stops at how close you are. Close enough to notice the gloss on your lips. Close enough to get a faint whiff of your floral perfume.

(And unbeknownst to him, your heart stutters a little, too, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you fumble lighting your own cigarette.)

“Thanks, um…” he trails off. 

You tell him your name, and he repeats it almost thoughtfully. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s chasing the taste of your name as it leaves his mouth.

He nods. “I’m Art.”

He does look like it. The navy blue sweater hangs just right on his broad shoulders, understated but high-quality. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing a sleek black Piguet around his wrist. A simplicity to complement his refined features. His bone structure is cut like the gods, but the permanent frown etched between his brows, casting a shadow over his deep-set eyes, tells you that he is facing the troubles of man. And the awkward way he’s holding his cigarette makes him look like a boy. Of course, you can’t say any of that to him, so you settle with,

“Nice to meet you, Art.”

He can’t remember the last time somebody said that to him and meant it. And right now, sitting in this concrete park alone, he can see no pretense coming from you. No ass-kissing, no sizing-up, just a genuine kind gesture of a stranger. And it makes him so fucking relieved. 

“So what brings you out here?”

“Work, actually. A meeting,” Art replies somewhat vaguely. He’s not really keen on divulging the details of sponsorship and endorsement deals. Not when you don’t seem to know who he is. “Lily saw the park from the window and insisted we check it out when we’re done.”

“Ah, does she normally tag along with you to work meetings?” You ask with a playful glint, although the unspoken question of his whole situation is well heard. “She should. She looks like a great negotiator. Just saying.”

He chuckles. “Maybe she should. My, uh…” Art stops himself before he could say ‘wife’ because Tashi isn’t that anymore. Not his wife because they aren’t married anymore; not his coach either, because he doesn’t play tennis anymore. “Lily’s mom and I take turns every other week.”

And there it is. Your lips pull up into a soft line, not quite a smile but a gesture of understanding. “Must be tough.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s a lot of changes. But she’s doing okay, I think…” Art pauses, “I hope.”

You follow his gaze and look at Lily, who must be playing some kind of Indiana Jones fantasy scenario with the water fountains. Not an ounce of care in the world. “She looks like a tough kid.”

“She is.” Art smiles bittersweetly. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to listen to my sob story. What brings you to this park?”

The air that pulls both of you in releases, and you lean back on your elbows against the concrete. “Oh, I just finished work and I… needed some air.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m an interpreter.”

His eyebrows shoot up in interest. “Like the Nicole Kidman movie?”

“Exactly.” You point your half-cigarette at him, and share a tentative smile with him.

“Do you do, like… high-profile, UN-related assassination investigations, too?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “It’s not nearly as cool in real life. Most of it’s pretty boring, like contract negotiations and focus group discussions…”

“But the stories you must’ve heard, right? Or do you just… zone out at some point?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes you end up shutting off your brain and go on autopilot.”

“But not today?”

You smile ruefully at him, and he knows the answer. You take a thoughtful puff of your cigarette. “It’s… a bit hard when they’re talking about… how they had to jump off of the ship and swim across the channel in the dead of night, because they would rather die in the open water—a couple of them did— than die working in the fishing vessel…”

“Fuck.”

“And I know it’s not really meant for me—they’re talking to my client sitting next to me. But when they look you in the eyes and speak to you…” you trail off, taking a long drag of your cigarette.

Art takes it as a cue for his cigarette, too, although he notices you tapping the ashes off one, two, three times. “Must be tough.”

You roll your eyes playfully at him for quoting your own words back to you. “Ah well, it pays the bills. Besides, I get to clock out at 2PM on a Tuesday and enjoy this…” you inhale through your teeth disdainfully, “beautiful, brutalist… Soviet-core park.”

He laughs, the real kind of laughter that throws his head back, and it warms your heart enough to laugh, too. “It’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

“It’s bullshit! And what the fuck is that horrendous giant ring doing here?” The two of you cackle over the installation art across the park. “And that billboard… it’s ridiculous.”

Art’s laughter dies down on his lips as he looks up at the billboard in question. The Aston Martin “Game Changers” campaign from last year. Fuck. Even when he’s completely separated from Tashi, her presence still looms over like a panopticon.

You turn to him with a smile still etched on your face, completely oblivious to the storm in his head. “What?”

But he looks ahead, too caught up in the hurricane to hear you. He just… looks up at the billboard, his face darkens.

Oh.

You feel silly for not putting two and two together—you’ve been staring at the billboard mindlessly for a good fifteen minutes, goddammit— so you tread very carefully. “That, uh… Lily’s mom?”

Art looks down on his lap, as if not daring to look at Tashi’s picture. Or at Lily, or at you. “Yeah.”

There’s no right word for it. There’s no coming back from this, nothing he can say can make this better, and he can’t help but kick himself for fucking up. What he is fucking up, he’s not entirely sure. But he’s not ready to end this conversation with you, not on such a weird note.

“I can’t imagine what it must be like…” because you can’t. Losing a spouse is hard enough, but to have it out there in the open…

“It’s tough,” he nods in confirmation, and you smile feebly at his attempt at a callback to your little inside joke. To the moment where things are fine, all things considered. 

If the air ebbed and flowed earlier, it must’ve just… froze now. You don’t even remember the cigarette in your hand until the ash falls onto your hand and you gasp at the sudden heat, putting it out on the ground.

“I’m sorry. I should get out of your hair—”

“Do you wanna get a drink some time?”

The question catches both of you off-guard, eyes blinking at each other in shock. He didn’t think he heard you right, and your mouth seems to work faster than the filter in your brain.

Your face runs hot, and you chuckle sheepishly. “Sorry. You probably don’t wanna hear that—”

“I do.” He’s not sure which question he’s answering. Maybe both? Definitely both.

“Oh! Um…”

And right in that moment, Lily comes padding over with squelching steps in her shoes, completely drenched but over the moon. “Daddy, Daddy, that was so much fun! Can we come back here? I see lights on the floor, and I think the fountain lights up at night!”

Art puts out his cigarette under his shoe, chuckling at his daughter,  “Baby, you’re soaked! Did you try to take a shower there or something?” immediately wringing water out of her hair.

“I’ll take a real shower when we get home.”

“Well, duh. But I don’t want you to catch a cold… come here.” He crosses his arm to grab the hem of his sweater and tug it over his head to put it on his daughter.

The girl looks thoroughly unamused as the clothing item falls halfway down her calves and the sleeves nearly touch the ground. “Daddy, this is ridiculous.”

You grin, and you can’t help but wonder how much of that sass came from Art. “Looks pretty chic to me.”

He nods at you, glad that you’re backing him up. “Thank you.” He then turns to Lily pointedly.

Lily half-smiles at you. “Thank you,” although she still isn’t quite convinced.

“I’m sorry, we really gotta go. But how do I, um…” he trails off. Gosh, he was hoping to do this out of Lily’s sight. Lily’s sight means Tashi’s sight, and he’s not ready for that talk just yet.

“Take my card.” You whip out a neat stainless steel case, and slides out a white-and-blue business card. Your name is printed in a sleek black font, right above ‘Interpreter’ in a smaller case. Your email and phone number follows.

His fingers brush against yours as he takes it, and he prays to God or whoever is up there that he doesn’t give anything away to you or Lily. Not a quirk, not a peep. Just two strangers connecting by chance.

“Thank you.” He nods evenly as he pockets the card, trying to contain the butterflies in his stomach—he’s always thought he was too old for that by now, but maybe… just maybe… “You have a nice day.”

“You, too.” You squint up at him under the sun, and then smile and wave at the little girl. “Bye, Lily.”

She waves at you as Art sweeps her up into his arms, and you don’t let yourself turn all the way around to watch them leave. Instead, with one final look at Art’s “Game Changers” billboard ad in the distance, you grab your pack of Camel and light another cigarette between your lips.

[kannady]

do you remember me too?

pairing: sylus x mc reader

synopsis: love and deepspace was a newfound obsession of yours. you installed the game shortly after sylus was released as a love interest. it'd be safe to say he was the reason you installed the app. however, finals week was approaching and you had to say goodbye to your favourite game. not for long, ofcourse. but you decide to login for the last time to check the new event.

a/n: hello everyone! this is my first LADS ffc so please bear with me, and yep you probably guessed it. the reader somehow ends up inside the game. very typical, ik. but trust me, i have a different take on this. ALSO my first language is not english so please ignore grammer errors. i recheck atleast 10 times and still end up overlooking every mistake. enjoy!

check out all chapters here

Chapter One

DING! DING!

You woke up to the shrill screech of your alarm. Eight already? Time always seemed to slip away faster during exam season. You had no idea when you’d finally dozed off, but judging by the heavy exhaustion clinging to your limbs, it couldn’t have been more than a few hours. No wonder I feel like shit. Groaning, you mustered every ounce of strength to reach out and silence the alarm.

It was Sunday. Golden sunlight spilled through the window, warming your face as birds chirped outside. A gentle breeze rustled through the trees. 

The weather was perfect. Perfect for a picnic. But first, you had to finish your revision before the midday heat set in. Your gaze drifted to your study table, still littered with notes and textbooks exactly as you’d left them last night couple hours ago.

Okay, let’s see… 

You closed your eyes, mentally retracing yesterday’s progress. Finished chapters 5, 6, 8, and 11. With a yawn, you cracked your knuckles, stretched, and forced yourself upright. If I can somehow finish chapters 2, 9, and 10 in two hours, I can reward myself with some outdoor time.

 Grabbing your chemistry book, you flipped to the first page. Three chapters in two hours? Doable. Maybe.

Just as you reached for your phone to check the time, your eyes snagged on the date.

April 12.

OH. MY. GOD. Sylus’s birthday. Your fingers twitched toward the notification banner—then froze.

No. Not yet. The anticipation alone was fuel. If I finish early, I’ll have the whole day to play Love & Deepspace. Let’s do this!

“Mom! Three pancakes, please! I’ll be down in two minutes!” “You always say that—but fine!” Her voice faded as you bolted to the bathroom. True to your word, you slid into your seat at 8:03.

“Slow down, or you’ll choke,” your dad warned, peering over his newspaper. “I thought exams weren’t until next week. Do you have plans?”

“Picnic,” you mumbled around a mouthful of pancake. “But I need to review my notes first.” A glance at the clock—8:12—sent you sprinting back upstairs, your sister’s snicker trailing after you: “Why’s she acting like she’s never seen sunlight before?”

8:03 – Breakfast. 8:13 – Chapter 2. 8:52 – Chapter 2 done. Five-minute break. 8:57 – Chapter 9. 9:27 – Chapter 9 done. Five-minute break. 9:32 – Chapter 10. 10:11 – Chapter 10 done.

Holy shit. I actually did it. A disbelieving laugh escaped you. All this frenzy… for a fictional man. But this wasn’t just any man—this was Sylus. You’d been hoarding diamonds since the Tomorrow’s Catch-22 event, even skipping Zayne and Caleb’s 5-star memories.

 A small sacrifice for the greater good.

You plugged in your phone, then made your bed, folded your sheets, and organized your desk. A sandwich, grapes, and a cold drink went into your bag, along with your sketchpad and pencils. The weather was too good to waste.

Stepping outside, the crisp air kissed your cheeks. Something about today felt… different. The birds’ chirping wasn’t grating for once. Even the neighbor’s usually yappy dog lay sprawled in the sun, too lazy to bark. The park was eerily empty—odd for such a gorgeous day—but you claimed a shady spot beneath a tree.

“The perfect day for my perfect man.” Smiling, you reached for your phone—

A tap on your shoulder.

“AH!” You whirled around. “S-Sorry! You scared me. I didn’t see anyone when I came in.”

The woman winced. “I did call out a few times…” Probably too busy daydreaming about Sylus.

“Have you seen a white cat? I swear I only dropped the leash for a second—” She raked a hand through her hair, scanning the park. “Sorry, no. Want help looking?” “No, no! Enjoy your day.” She dashed off before you could insist.

Weird.

You pulled out your phone—and froze. A cluster of dead pixels marred the corner of the screen. What? It was fine when I left. You’d just bought this thing last month. Did I drop it when she startled me? No, you were sure it had been unharmed until now. Shaking off the unease, you opened Love & Deepspace.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then fifteen.

“Seriously?!” The screen was frozen. Force-closing the app did nothing. Rebooting took forever. When you finally reopened the game—

“ERROR. PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER.”

A dozen attempts. Same result.

Defeated, you trudged home, blinking back frustrated tears. After weeks of stress, this was the one thing you’d been clinging to. And now? Nothing. Maybe tomorrow… After all, the event had just started and you had atleast 6 more days. But with exams looming, would you even have time?

The neighbor’s dog was now snoring loudly. Inside, your family still sat at the breakfast table, all eyes snapping to you as you entered.

“Back so soon?” Mom frowned.

Dad lowered his newspaper. “How’d it go?”

“Unless she chickened out,” your sister sing-songed. “What, scared of needles now?”

You dumped your bag on the couch. “Went to the park. My phone’s glitching, so… yeah. Not in the mood anymore.”

“You’re not in the mood for the doctor?” Mom rushed over. “What does your phone have to do with anything?”

Doctor? Needles?

“I was just at the park.”

Your sister howled with laughter. “BAHAHAHA! SHE'S LOST IT!”

Dad set down his paper, removed his glasses, and leveled you with a grave look.

“Your appointment with Dr. Zayne. He scheduled it himself last week.”

Your blood ran cold.

“…Doctor who now?”

[yan-lorkai]

Hi .may i request yandere jamil viper and yandere vil scheonheit (separately) x fem reader who run away at their wedding but fails ? Thank you

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟJamil had meticulously planned every detail of the wedding — down to the second. And deep down, he knew you’d try to escape, you yearn for freedom, for the sun and the the city, you yearn to escape. He respects that, as he used to want that too, but you can't have that. He can't function without you and Jamil is fine even if you hate him.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ The moment you slip away during the reception, his grip tightens around his wine glass, a dark smirk playing on his lips. "There she goes… Go get her."

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ Before you can even reach the exit, his followers are all around you, dragging you back, fighting back when you try to kick and elbow them, ignoring your screams while they sooth you. His voice is a silky whisper in your ear: "Did you really think I wouldn’t notice, my love? Did you really I wouldn't have prepared myself? I know a liar when I see one."

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ The guests don’t even bat an eye — they're hypnotized by him. He carries you back to the altar, grip unrelenting, murmuring promises of "never letting you go again" as he seals your vows with a kiss that’s equal parts devotion and possession. That night, he locks a delicate golden chain around your ankles and wrists so you can't escape at night. You even look cute, eyes puffy and wobbly lips, still wearing your wedding attire.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ Cute enough to corrupt. But he will resist. He'd take you for the first time after both of you are well rested.

⠀⠀⠀

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ Vil’s wedding is a masterpiece — flawless, elegant and perfect — just like his beloved. But perfection requires control. Lots of friends and paparazzi are present, his father is loudly laughing and bragging to his acquaintances about how beautiful and cute you are, how you're perfect for his son, how both of you are in love.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ So when you bolt mid-ceremony, his smile doesn’t waver. He simply snaps his fingers, and the doors lock. And his bridesmaids (read: loyal followers, mainly Rook) block every exit, their smiles eerily serene, as Rook drags you back to the altar. "The star of the show can’t leave before the finale."

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ Vil laughs at the shocked expression of the public and clarifies that everything was just a little joke, a play pretend so they could never forget that event and everyone is buying right into that poor attempt of excuse as they laugh and chit chat. Vil cups your face, his voice honey-sweet yet chilling: "Darling, you’re ruining the aesthetic, behave yourself."

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ The ceremony resumes as if nothing happened — except now, his grip on your waist is bruising, his kisses laced with poison-laced devotion. Later, he gifts you a diamond choker — "So everyone knows you’re mine." And if it’s a little too tight? Well, that’s just to remind you that he is the air you're allowed to breathe, even if it hurts. His love hurts a lot.

[punk-in-docs]

A song of broken skin and fated lovers: part V

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 7.1k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V —

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW!! There’s some description of wounds and if you squint some dub con. Proceed daintily loves-

It seemed your dreams were the only place you could reliably escape too. The only plain you’d find any peace.

You picture the hill before your home. Every night away from home you dreamt you’d be walking up it. Feeling the dappled shade of olive trees curling above on your skin. Passing along your back in freckles. Dotted light, spots of shade interspersed.

Your soft skirt swishing around bare calves. The creak of your sandals meeting the dusty road. The one that kinks and bends and shows you that endless glimpse of searing ocean waiting just beyond. Aegean water. Sage fields. Boundless heavens.

You remember these fields. You played in them as a child. The ones that thrash with soft grasses. Ruffled by salty sea air. You can hear your sisters laughter brushing along to you like sweet blossom petals garnished on the wind. Sweet and calming. Crushed honeycomb and milk.

A sound as familiar and as comforting to you as their calls and voices that make the shape of your name.

Every night in your dreams you walk up this hill.

Every night you come home.

You can see them - your sisters - on the winding ribbon of the road ahead. Running out the front door of the house. Tullia with her dress flying behind her. Ever decorous eldest. Calling to Diana, with her hair falling in waves and telling her younger sister that ladies don’t run. Diana isn’t listening she’s too joyous. Too forthright to pay attention.

And Ceres. Sweet little Ceres sprints for your arms. Gap toothed grin. Clutching her cloth doll. Skirts held past her knees, she runs for you.

You can see mother in her dark plum linen stola. Gold jewellery on her neck and dangling from her ears. She lingers in the shade of the the hallway. Her dark wavy hair shot through with a fierce bolt of silver - lightning struck - at her temples. Radiant. As she watched from the door with a smile at their graceless display.

Her smile wide and brilliant, you always thought so, exactly as you remember it, as crows feet sit by her eyes. Emboldened and etched deep with her mirth. Hers is a face that has seen years of sun and sea spray. Made serene as placid waters by it. She is tanned and weathered elegantly by decades of watching sunshine bouncing like rows of diamonds off the sea. Salt and sea foam as hemmed in her blood as it is in yours.

You run to them - crying and wailing - feet slapping the dirt and dust, and you’re aching, legs burning, lungs aflame and you won’t stop. Calling their names til your throat is as dry as the dust below your feet.

Then the sun is too bright. It’s too far and you can’t see them. They can’t hear you. Swallowed from your grasp.

There’s just blinding light engulfing them just out of reach of your scraping fingertips. It’s like brushing grains of sand. It tumbles away before it grows into actuality. Your fingers brush empty air as your whole being lurches and mourns.

You jolt awake, body clammy and sheened in sweat. Eyes snapping open as you jerk upwards in the cover of fine smooth sheets. You feel your hair slip over your naked shoulders. Jewels and gold still around your neck. Sunshine blares harshly at your crusted eyes.

Aches and pains come swimming back to you in sharp degrees. Bruises on your neck and your hips. Fading to ugly yellow black already. Bite marks ring your collarbones and the meat of your shoulders.

Out the window you can hear a bustling city. The clamour of crowds. Hot sun baked dirt and filth. Bells peeling from temples. Servants scurrying in the courtyards below and beyond. Horses baying in the streets.

You smear sleep from your eyes, twisting over in the huge slab of a bed to see the sheets behind you are still filled.

Geta slumbers on golden pillows under the same sheets as you. On his back with bis face turned to the sun. Arm slung over his belly. The thin sheets stick to the climes and outlines of his body. His stomach. Thighs. Hips. The heavy bulge between his legs.

His expression seems almost gentle in his rest. Pillowy lips and dark lashes kissing onto his cheeks. Kohl still smeared on his eyes from yesterday. Naked same as you, save for golden decorations, jewelled rings…

A wedding ring. Matching bands. That’s the weight that comes crashing down on you so fiercely.

Acid bile claws it way up your throat when you shift your legs. Finding the edge of the bed with a breathy sigh. The stickiness between your legs and dried around your cunt doesn’t bear thinking about. You screw your eyes shut so as not to think about it.

Stirring silk. Rustles from behind you.

“Where do you think you’re going wife?” Comes a sleepy drawl across the pillows and sheets. Slithering across to you. Husky from his slumber.

You swallow and twist your head over your shoulder. Hair matted and twined close from sleep. Bite marks wedged deep in your back and neck throb as you move.

His eyes are lidded heavy but their burning gaze rests on you. Branding like a hot knife. White hot from the fire. You’re beginning to think that gaze of his always will.

“I’m not used to having my bed filled in the mornings. The kind of company I’m used to promptly leaves after the pleasuring is done.” He explains. Inflection of lust in his tone. He smirks with it. Wide and filthy.

Now he has a little plaything to trap into his bed whenever he feels like it. An ornament he can use and decorate his already gilded arm, and bring out to inspire envy in all peoples of Rome.

You pause where you sit on the bed. Caught.

“I wanted to fetch some water.” You grovel. Voice scraping raw. Throat feeling full of sharp rocks when you speak.

His eyes harden. Laychromose, but deepening with his anger. The way he slips into intimidation if he doesn’t immediately get what he wants. The way he snaps his fingers and has this world uncurl and offer itself up to his desires. That too must apply to you. Your role now was obedience in all things.

Bend and break and mould yourself for your husband, little nymph.

“You may… when your emperor is finished with you.” He plays and toys with your emotions at his whims. Eyes intently gazing at you. His words come with a bladed meaning.

“Come here-“ He orders. Voice softer but the command cuts straight to your spine. Arrowhead sharp. Studs deep.

You curl back into the bed. Back stiff. Trying not to wince at the cuts which burn and tear at your skin. You feel the pull and tug of barely closed wounds. His teeth had drawn blood. You feel the congealing wound at your back shift. The scab lifting. A bead of blood rolls over down your shoulder blade.

He notices. Shifts on his side behind you. Curls a hand to the hill of your hip. Catches that drip of blood with his lips. Savours it. Sea foam flavour of you bedded on his tongue.

The warm stinging path of his tongue on your back takes your mind back to what happened in these sheets hours previous.

How he’d pushed your thighs, widened your legs, opened the bowl of your pelvis and drunk from you. Showed you the various ways a man can please his lover with tongue, lips and hungry teeth.

He’d done it til you shivered and begged. Tried to writhe away. He meanly tugged you back where you belonged, bullied you, recaptured in the cradle of his hands, and did it again. Smirked when you asked for clemency.

“I warned you I was without mercy, Salacia.” He’d leered. His smirking lips and sharp teeth shining with you as he smeared his warm nose against your thigh. Slaked in the taste of you from chin to cheek. Makeup running under his Umbrian eyes. Panting like a beast to your skin and because of the scent he finds synonymous with you. Lemons and salt.

He hovers behind you now. Hands sliding for your waist. Chin on your shoulder. Breath tainted copper. Pressing his lips to bruises and tender spots. You were right. He had to achieve to sting of pain in order to feel something.

He dips his mouth to your neck again. Lapping and nursing a new bruise near an already painful one. Layering pain on pain.

His hand slips lower for your thigh. Warm stones in each of his fingers foreign and hard as he slips his hand between the soft of your legs again.

He’d moaned when you’d grabbed his hair or left nail marks in his large arms and shoulders. He liked that he could draw an emotion out of you. Even if it was overstimulation or desire. He’ll match and meet you in either. As he so wishes.

He’s pleased to find you tacky with the remnants of him from the previous evening. “A fine fruitful offering for your beautiful cunt my wife.” He purrs. Fingers delving deeper to your sex. Rings nearly an unwelcome sensation. “In time mayhaps the gods will bless us.”

Hallowed Saint. Hallowed fate. Bestowed by the gods, he says.

You’d say it was more akin to downfall. Curses and ill fate. Tantalus and his fruit. Medusa and her coiled snakes. Actaeons fateful stag.

He noses onto your jawbone. Fascinated by the scent of you still. Smothered all over these sheets. It grew stronger the longer he was near you. In his sleep it smothered his mind, his every second. Lemons, salt, and you-

He loses himself, mouthing to your neck and into the wild nest of your hair. He inhaled you. Drank the essence of you like a starving peasant. Hungry greedy hands.

“What is about that scent of yours that drives me wild? What is it?” He seeks. Almost angry in his demands.

“Lemon oil. For my hair.” You explain weakly as he plucks and grabs at you.

Descending into lustful madness. He catches the ripe berry of your clit with his rings and it makes you gasp. Bucking back to his chest. He likes that. When a little of your feral reaction to his touch makes you buck and lose your usually placid control. The man is taunting the seas and welcoming in a storm.

“Use it. Always.” He ordered huskily, Huffing as your hair sticks to his lips. Melding with the salt of ocean that he now understands beats through your skin and veins.

He would order ten thousand lemon trees to be bought here just for your use.So he can kiss your shoulders and your skin and always find it brimming with the bright note of that yellow fruit.

A small surrendering of your body as you arch back to him. Having pleased him brings something forth in you: something that eases. His pleasure allows you to relax the stiffness of your spine. Lower your guard.

He tugs your hair out the path of his lips. Delights in the evidence he found of his teeth all over your neck. His claim was skin deep. And he soon hoped it would be even deeper.

You are tugged back to the bed so his hands can wander all over you again. Your back curled to his chest as he lays you on your side. His hand sliding for your thigh to widen you open for him. Behind your hips you feel the hard length of him. He guides himself to you and your breath gets punched out of you as he pushes inside.

He pushes your leg open further to move to you deeper. He delights in finding evidence of your restless wedding night squelching deep inside your cunt. Throws his head back and groans with it.

He moulds his body to yours. Tacky skin. Warm cotton sheets kicked down the bed. Ringed metal and sharp jewels on every finger gripping the fat of your leg tight until he’s sure he’d left marks. Holding you open so he can plunge inside.

Your hand finds his where he crushed one breast in a grip so tight it makes tears spring to your eyes. Melding with the pleasure you cannot deny coming forth as he moves his hips to you so fiercely, your skin smacks where you meet.

Despite the sting of pain from being so overused, to way his fingers reach down to knowingly pinch and caress your clit where you’re spread open around him, makes wordless cries come out your throat. You clutch into the sheets and grit your teeth. His breath muggy hot against your neck. His hair a mess. Golden and fiery. Like stomped down wheat stalks at sunset. A lazy Bacchusian god.

“Let your husband hear you.” He encourages. Your moans and sweet as rare wine. Inbetween sucking and biting your neck. Asking for your sounds of ecstasy like he deserves them. A holy offering that praises him and washes away all sin.

“I don’t think you are goddess of the sea my love. With a cunt this sweet and tight? I think you must be a fertility goddess instead.” He proposes into your ear through harsh chuffs for breath.

“So tight. So fucking Intoxicating” he huffs. Cupping your tits and still moving to you as harshly and deep as he’s able.

He makes sure your breath cannot come as you steal his. A warm sweaty palm on your chin twists your head back to his. He anoints your lips with a messy kiss that echoes with the ghost of last nights wine and the tang of salt from between your legs. His tongue licks over your teeth. He drags every part of you up for devouring.

A commotion over by the door takes your mortified eyes over.

You see Aeliana and some of her maids coming in. When they see you both naked in the bed with Geta thrusting into you like a madman, you watch her eyes blow wide with shame. Head bowing. Arms laden with todays gown for you to wear. She halts the girls by her side.

Geta doesn’t even spare them a look. They are below his divine notice. He manages to lever his mouth off yours for a mere few seconds, to bark his orders and send them scurrying.

“Get out.” He shrieks. Voice ringing through you with the harshness of the sudden shout.

You twist your head into the sweat slicked pillow. Ashamed that they’d even just glimpsed you being used so.

His spit drying on your chin. His hand possessively cupping your cunt again as he fucked you so deeply, something tender within your pelvis had you nearly wailing.

His mouth goes to your neck again. His pace growing faster and faster. Sloppier. Noises of your sex only increasing. His hold on you is so intense it’s an ache. His fingers trailing through your curls and your folds to find that spot that will surrender you entirely to him.

He rears up behind you. Skin glued with heat to yours. He grabs you close as if you’ll fade under his fingertips like smoke. Hips hammering as he reached his pleasure. Yours came snapping down on him not long after.

That telltale tip and then the surge of ecstasy that broke through you. Cunt snapping down right around his cock as you came in shudders. Pulsing through you as his spend burst deep into you. Exactly where he wanted it. Wave after wave of pleasure. You let it take you. Little else you could do. Your strength to fight had turned stone cold.

You laid against him in cooling sheets. Listening to his chasing breath behind you. Feeling the wet and heat between your legs twofold. His sweat drips onto your back. Smeared as he laps at your neck. Fresh bruises and teeth indents are more raw than before.

You can barely notice. You’re more taken with the way your pussy squishes as he pulls free. The hot rush of his spend.

Hot breath comes over your ear again. You shudder and you’re not entirely sure it’s of pleasure. His lips kiss to your jaw and cheek. All this sweat and sex soaked skin. and still he finds lemons in your taste when he kisses you.

“Shall I have the maid fetch you water?” He seeks.

“I shall do it.” You shrink down with sex flushed cheeks. Pushing away from the bed with a wince. Hair draping down your back as you take a smooth sheet from the bed with you. Padding to the side. Hips swaying under the cotton. Your pelvis and thighs feel tender and aching - low and bone deep like sun burn - as you move to the amphora and goblets you’d used last night.

He sits on his elbows to watch you. Uncovered, cock laying soft against his thigh. His thighs and groin sticky-wet with evidence of your joining. Unabashed as to his naked state.

His eyes are hungry and you certainly give him a feast to watch. Clad in sunshine from the great maw of the window. Skin littered with violent red and purple marks in odes to his ownership of you. The smeared blood from bites at your back that he’d licked away.

You stand at the side. Laying your hands flat to the table where the jug stood. You found you didn’t reach for it right away. You looked at the very unfamiliar sight of the wedding band in your finger. The gold surrounded by the two dog heads fighting over the sapphire. A helpless jewel caught in between rabid teeth. How fitting.

Your shaking hands pour clear water into a cup and you drink it all quickly. The taste of metal and sleep fading from your tongue.

Bare feet padding the floor come behind you. The rustle of a fine robe. The red and gold one. He’s barely bothered to tie it closed around his chest.

“I must go and ready for the day. Loathe as I am to depart your blissful company.” He says. His hand slipping round the back of your neck. Bringing you in. Tasting the new wetness on your tongue as he kisses you. You muffle a moan to his lips as he possesses you in a kiss again. Squeak a little as he pulls away.

You don’t know what else there is to say.

Enjoy your gilded cage, little nymph. It’s all you’ll know from now on.

“Wear jewels and something pretty. I’ll come find you later. Wife.” He promises with a salacious smirk. Eyes you up and down like he wants to tear that sheet off and bend you over the lectus here and now. Smack the fat of your ass and claim you again.

A dark smile aimed your way. A thumb on your chin to bring you in for one more lippy kiss. And he’s off - stalking toward the doors. A lascivious look shot your way as he turns away.

You say nothing. You feel nothing. Nothing except for empty hollow rage that shakes through you. Pounds at the bony trap your ribs. Enough for you to shiver even in the warm morning air.

You feel scraped through. Brittle like fraying rope. He’s taken you from your home. Exiled your father. Forced shame upon your family. Killed your brother. Pushed his twisted lust upon you, and now expects you to react as if it’s dressed up in love.

You floated into his life like a midsummer’s night breeze. And he found you breathtaking, enchanting. Now he had you he wanted to cup you close. Seal you to his skin with his nose buried in the crown of your head whilst crowing mine mine mine.

He was in two minds of what to do with you. Cherish you, love you, pour crimson rose petals before your steps. On the other hand, he only knew violence when it came to love and to lust. He wanted to break you apart piece-by-piece like dry clay. Tear at you like those tigers in the coliseum and see what’s left.

He’s never known what to do with his things when it comes to love. Maybe he didn’t even know it at all. Only knew how to demand and take. Never to please or to give. He’s never had too.

And now he expects mightily. For you to sit pretty and wear jewels, rings, gold, and fine stolas. Support his every shrieked command. You must learn to sew your mouth shut and keep your opinions tamed back behind that same silent closure of thread.

An Empresses role was silence. How your soul quakes with that new pain.

The huge doors rattle again. The exit of the Emperor meant the maids were safe to come tend you.

Aeliana walks towards you. You raise your eyes to hers. Wet and wide. Tears on the quivering brink of your lashes.

She is unable to hide the noticeable switch of shock in her expression, when she sees the wounds you’d been saddled with. Teeth marks and bruises. Like you’re a slab of meat and not a cherished spouse.

She cannot fathom how you have more cuts for her to soothe balm on after your wedding night.

“Let’s get you to the baths, Empress.” She soothes. Opens her arm. Encouraged you to follow. She tries a bolstering smile but you both know it’s fragile. Her husky voice is the only kind thing you fear you’ll ever hear in this rotten place.

You nod. Swallow. Stand tall and let her manoeuvre you.

You can allow some tears to slip free when you’re in the water. Then you must banish your feelings. The maids must strap finery and silks onto your body again and truss you up in this farce. You steel every last splitting nerve whilst you can. Tamp them down. Gather the ragged ends up and soothe them. Clutch tight.

Naked, you wade down the steps and sink under the surface of the huge bath.

You’re tempted to not come up for air again. The water lulling you in its cradling warmth like an old familiar companion. As if a siren that you let drag you down. Plunge headlong into waves and succumb.

Unlike Odysseus, you don’t have the strength to fight its pull.

The bite on your shoulder turns the water clouded and rusty.

One salient thought gives you solace as the world around you grows numbs to your ears.

Atleast he drank deeply from the lies you’d fed.

~

Many sun and moons had set since your wedding night. Time marches its onward parade in the beautifully rotten imperial palace.

Geta and Caracalla were summoned to a Imperial Consul with the senators. To discuss the matters of their particular wish to expand the Roman empire to Persia and India. And possibly beyond that. They held Rome and all her starving subjects in a gold fisted vice. Refused to relent like a bratty child clutching a beloved toy. One that they would rather break to splinters in their grasp than see it enjoyed by someone else.

That was not the way of the gods, after all. It was their damn birthright.

They both slouch in their sloping marble carved chairs, in front of the rows of Senators, as the magistrate drones through the Verba fecit. Then they would read the protocols to address problems within the city.

Geta is not attempting to look amused or even mildly interested.

He slurps at a golden goblet of dark wine. A scowl like rolling thunder on his face. Dark eyes smouldering at any old senator who dares contest his gaze. Garbed in gold with rings on every finger. His black and gold silken robes folded in his lap, spilling to the ground.

Caracalla appears more interested in feeding grapes to Dondus. His manic grin shining. Gold tooth glittering in the half dim as he laughs. His creatures chirps and shrieks accompany the low drone of the voices rolling around the great marble room. Bounding off the pillars and echoing back.

Geta ground his jaw tight as he flickered a look to the side and caught sight of the very thing that had begun to vex him from the second he stepped into these chambers. Set far back behind him. Amongst the senators seats.

Your cushioned lectus remained vacant.

He grips his wine goblet too tight. fingers strangling the stem. His attention was brought back to the room as Senator Thraex cleared his throat. Summoning back his attention.

“… I would also like to wish you joy on your recent union. Caesar…. You have bestowed a fine and fair Empress onto Rome and her peoples…”

Geta narrows his eyes at the man. Coaxing out the rest sharply. Or else.

“Yet I cannot help but notice It has been four moons now since the Empress graced us with her presence here at counsel…. I do wonder if all is well. As Rome does deserve the full compliments of its masters here to guide us.”

Geta ground his teeth around an answer. The room throbs in the heady silence as he glares. Punctuated only by the monkeys chitters and the shuffling of Senators gazing at each other in arch amusement as to the meaning of the levied comment.

“The Empress is occupied elsewhere at present. I should hope you are not suggesting me and my brother are lacking in our duties in any way. Senator.” He replies curtly. Eyes thunder heavy and dragging over the dry old man. Umbrian danger.

“Of course not. Sire.” Thraex replied. Seeming unimpressed with the answer. “If you’ll permit me I should like to discuss the issue within the city of what is to be done of taxes within the Porta Capena quarter…”

Geta sunk into his cup again as the Senators droned on. His mood plunged below foul. Jaw tight. He turned to look at the lectus again. Venom in his blood at your absence.

When counsel finished. He stormed from his seat without another word. Robes sweeping the ground as he raced from the room. Sandals meeting the floor like slaps. Rage evident in his stride. He summons the nearest Praetoria. Who promptly comes to his side.

“Where is the Empress?” He snarls. A snake in coil about to strike. Bad enough he had to suffer the thinly veiled barbs of Senators asking why you were absent. Even worse was that you made him look a fool without even being here. They were casting foul allusions as to your marriage.

The guard hesitates before giving an answer. “She has left the Palace, Caesar.” He answers.

Geta’s anger comes sharp and packed in poison. A hiss. He asks so curtly it echoes to the ceiling. “And precisely where has she gone?”

~

At first, the noise and bustle of Rome was repugnant to you. Rancid and dirt and heat. Too much noise and not enough air.

Made putrid by stale sweat en masse bodies, horse manure, and smoke from fires mingling with roasting meat or oily charred fish from street vendors.

There was always shouting, someone selling wine, someone selling exotic wares, and bartering filling the air. Music bleeding from some side alley. Jugglers and slight of hands weaving through the crowds of servants and nobles and peasants, ready to part people from their coin.

You watch and just listen to it all from where you’re seated. A palla folded around your head and neck to block the otherwise fierce sun, also to obscure your features, give you shade wherein to hide your golden jewellery and rich dress.

Though you doubt anyone in this riotous city knows or even cares who you are. To a glance? You are just another rich merchants wife. Or noble woman. Unseen. Unremarkable. You do admire Rome for that small mercy atleast. To make you invisible in a crowd of thousands.

You’re seated at the edge of the fountain. The marble lip cold under your dress. Your hand dangling down into the clean waters. Trailing your fingertips through the cool of it. Water shimmers off the blue stones and pearls of your rings. If you squint, they are treasures cast on the shore. You can imagine you see specs of sand. Golden shells. Milky pearls waiting to be picked - tucked cosily in cream oyster shells.

You try to pretend. You fail.

Your personal praetorian guard lingers not far away. Varro. A perpetual huge shadow to you since your wedding.

Geta told you the morning after that you were to have him watch over you at all times. The man has been hulking after your every footstep since. It’s cloying, but nowhere as much as that palace is.

Varro boasts a huge figure and not one to be easily missed in a crowd. A warriors build. A scowl that could curdle milk. He’s solid. Brawny thick chest, stocky as a barrel, thighs thick as tree trunks, large arms and immense shoulders even without his plates of armour.

He had a proud chiselled face, dark hazel eyes and a prominent nose that had been broken before. Evidence of a pinking scar bumping at the bridge of it. Also a small nick dissecting his lower lip. His life had known pain. You can tell. Typical soldiers life. A body cut from the cloth of war. From polishing armour, baying for unease, and stepping to commands.

It’s hewn in the way he carries himself in crowds. Darting eyes and not feeling at ease, or any kind of sane, unless he can see all four clear corners around himself - and you. And convinced danger lurks behind every brick corner and down every side street. Huge hand permanently slung over the pommel of his sword. A warning.

He stands a little way across from you now. Looming proud as an old oak in the shade of a building and a market stall slung with rich cloth for sale. Shirking the sun and scowling at everyone. Basalt black hair falls like long thorns over, down his brow. Down the nape of his neck and collar, beaded in sweat.

Children scarper around him. Street urchins that clamour like flies on rot at his appearance. He gives no inch and tells them to move along with a curt nod. Steel stiff spine standing to attention. A merchant tries to sell him a cup of wine - red or white - they are silenced by his frown. He won’t touch a drop whilst on duty. Truth be told, You don’t think he knows how to be off duty. He’s not capable.

He’s an austere reminder of your station. Almost literally, in his dark black plate armour and wisteria purple cape swinging from his wide shoulders. A storm cloud eternally perched on the horizon of your day. His words come few and far between. You don’t think you’ve heard him string two full sentences together once. Except possibly in daggered warning;

You draw too much attention. Empress. It is bound to invite trouble.

You wanted to scoff at that irony.

You? In your hooded palla, draw attention?

When it is he, the man who guards you - like a grizzled dog - who is a thick immovable column of uniform widely recognised as imperial praetoria, wherever you turn in these streets? Unfathomable.

I am going to temple to pray. You may either escort me. Or explain to my husband why I have gone into the capital, alone.

His answer was a gruff glare. Acceptance and frustration entwined.

You have caused him to furrow his dark brows at you several times with a “Yes, Empress.” That came dragged through a displeased drone. A hound showing you his teeth before the jaws snap. Having to escort you into the city each day was laying contrary to his regulations to not have you in harms way.

You insisted. He obeyed. With little choice in the matter.

Every day you came here. One corner of the beating, shouting heart of Rome. You went to the Temple of Vesta and you prayed. And you went to a public fountain and let real life ebb in upon you once again. To find some peace away from the rabid emperors, who blaze at the palace with all the ferocity of fiery twin suns. They encompass all. Left little room for anything else. All life revolved around them. You float off in distant orbit.

You wave your fingers through the cool water. Tethered to one small piece of home again. Cool tides that brought you comfort. Reminded you of the sun soaked shores of home. Sunlight fracturing in diamonds off clear blue waters.

Feeling the sun beat down now on your neck through layers of cloth. You cast your eyes over the monuments to Neptune sat in this ornamental fountain. Sea gods and goddesses and creatures of sea foam. The other side where you are, women are washing clothes, or chatting over baskets fetched from market. You can smell perfumed oils, dried flower petals, and the sweet plump of ripe fruits tucked safe in the shade of their baskets.

How wild it is that until four weeks ago, that too had been your life. You didn’t sleep on silken sheets, get trussed in gold, and have servants poised so you never had to even lift a finger.

You knew comforts - of course. You had fine clothes and didn’t have to toil the fields. But you weren’t beyond spinning cloth or running errands. Helping clean and tidy your home. Fetching food or helping prepare meals. Coming home from market in the small town with oiled fish, scorpion fish, or boar, fresh chestnuts or olives. Dried meats sometimes too.

You thought of the olive trees lining the road to town. Huge and ancient. Offering branches that white doves often sat in - cooing away their calls. You thought of buying chestnuts for Ceres because she adored them so. Goats cheese for your mother that she liked with honey. Bunches and bunches of aniseed to make into Canistrelli biscuits for father.

The happy creak of your basket on your arm. Feeling the sun tangle in your hair as you shaded your eyes, felt the sea kissed breeze caress along your arms and back as if an embrace of a lover.

All those things you’d lost in one fell swoop. A life that had been snatched from you without your even getting a chance to bid it goodbye. Just like your brother. Your father.

And here you were now. Hiding away in the crowds. So lonely you felt its sting like the deepest shrapnel. A wound never closing. Always being prodded some more by the dire aspects of your circumstances. Anything to not be trapped in your gilded cage. Being reminded daily that your one use in that foul place, lay solely between your legs.

Two small girls come stumbling to an ungraceful stop, laughing, breathless and slowing from a run. They come right to your side to fill some amphorae with water. Dunking the clay jug into the clear water and letting it fill.

They each have dark hair and dark eyes. One must be close to Ceres’ age of six, toddling, milk teeth smile, youthful weight clinging to her cheeks, the other slightly older. Longer hair and a fuller smile. They have flowers pinched from a stall stuffed in their rusty coloured linen apron pockets. Some bay laurels and cornflowers.

You smile warmly at them. They smile back, unabashed. Joy seeping out of them. That brand of innocent fearlessness that grasps the young.

Turning your head you hear the clank of armour, feet shifting fast on dirt. Varro steps towards you with his scowl and his hand already on his sword.

You reprimand him silently. Gaze packed in ice. Jaw set. Mouth flicking to a grim line. You calmly hold up your hand and motion for him to step back. He’d scare the poor things.

You feel a gentle tug on your dress where it splays at your shoulders. Turning back, you see the younger one has her small hand on your dress.

You gently return your hand to your side. Seeing what she wanted your attention for. They both looked at Varro with much wide eyed curiosity. Only very rich ladies could afford a soldier. Only those of very high status. You fear he’s just betrayed your standing.

“Pardon me…” She utters. Her unsure voice carefully picking over the words. As if she was still learning larger words and their uses.

“Yes?” You smile. Touched by her boldness. Treating her with gentility.

“Are you the Empress?” She seeks. Forming words slowly. A curious tilt of her head.

You see no reason to lie.

You can feel Varros eyes burning a glare into your back. Harsher. More furious than the sun. Don’t.

“I am.” You respond.

They smile as if excited. Sharing a look. Both each producing a small laurel sprig from their stuffed pockets. They each step forwards and present the small branches out to you. A gift. You lay your hand flat and accept them both. Curling your fingers around branch stems.

“Gods blessings be upon you, Empress.” They speak in clunky unison.

You take the branches with reverence. Feeling the smooth leaves. The verdant and subtle scent coming from them.

“Pray tell me. What are your names?” You enquire.

The eldest speaks first. “Amata, Empress.”

The youngest follows suit. “Junia, Empress.” She tells you proudly.

You reach for your purse. Stowed safely within your dress folds away from the hands of beggars. You pluck out two coins and place them in their small hands. Junias hand reminds you if a small pudgy starfish. Curling round a silver shell.

“Blessings be upon you both. Amata. Junia. For your kindness…” You beam to them both.

They shimmer with mirth. Taking their jugs and scampering away through the crowds like nymphs.

Varro appears at your shoulder like an omen. “Empress.” He says your name lowly. Chiding you with his tone alone for revealing yourself to them.

“Surely two little girls holding flowers in their pockets, pose no danger to me.” You reply archly. Watching across the crowds where they’d disappeared.

“I only seek to resupply you of my one duty.”

“I don’t need reminding.” You tell him. Not unkindly. But he can hear the way you might be tempted to let the words be sharpened to little blades off your back teeth.

He’ll say this for you; you don’t have sharp teeth or poisonous tongue like every other noble in that palace. You are made different to their spoilt ways. Something sleeker and softer. All foam whipped off waves. You can sting and lash if required - you simply choose not too.

You hear bells toll for midday from the temple beyond. Clanging off the golden stone of every building around you. You fancy you can see the ripple of the sound sending waves to burst across the fountains surface.

Varro is giving you that stern look that urges you to be heading back. Before you’re started to be noticed. Before you become a perfidious gap in your Emperors day, when he isn’t vying for blood, gold or war. That or applying himself ruthlessly to the detriment of this great city, crushing his own people in the same way his favourite wine is made. Squeezing every drop til dry.

You hate to return. But you fear what wrath will come if you don’t. The thought of slipping away into these crowds and dipping into another form of life mocks you. Cowardice curbs your actions.

With some of the meagre coin in your pocket, you could try and make for the coast, possibly. You could disguise yourself as a merchants wife, or a servant. Anything to slip the golden net you’ve been landed in.

You wonder how far you’d make it, running away like a common ruffian, before the stomping hooves of a Roman battalion would be on your heels. Snatching you back here to be humiliated at Geta’s own insistence. The punishment he’d dole on you doesn’t bear thinking about. You were property after all.

You watch men and women weave in and out of the crowds, wishing you had half their luck as to put your back to this palace and peel away. Your mind wanders over that idea. A faint ember that dies to a curling puff of smoke. Snuffed out.

It doesn’t bear thinking about-

You take your offered laurel branches and stand. Varro takes up his guard. Eyes flicking all around. Searching for those corners he requires. For that split second of danger he can cleave his sword onto treasonous limbs for your protection.

You make your way back through crowds. Varro cutting a swathe for you. You keep your head down and remain quiet. Mind vacant as you move through the paved streets.

A flash of a body pushing past you takes your attention down a side alley. One arched with fabric awnings thrown over merchants stalls.

The flash of white turned out to be a senators robe. The vivid plum purple bordering white. You bat away the bitter thought of once recognising it as your fathers noble robes.

You catch sight of three people, stood on a street corner. One of them you don’t recognise but you know him to be a Senator. The two people he’s stood conversing with does make you stop in your tracks.

General Acacious and Lady Lucilla.

They are conversing deeply. Attention not given to you where you stand on the other side of the street. Shade cloaks them all. A moment out the sun. A place they hope guards them in obscurity. Talking with each other in hushed tones. Marcus and Lucilla wear hoods so as to hide their fine features from any obvious recognition.

The crowd trickles on around you. Water carving on around a large rock in the way.

Lady Lucilla raises her eyes. They flash to you in an instant. Dazzling green. A sun dappled meadow holding you in sight.

Her face falls as she halts her words. Lips parting. The General and the Senator both turn to follow her gaze. Finding you, caught static, at the other end of it. You recognise a prickle of panic when you see it.

You turn your head. Eyes snapping away as you hold your skirts and continue on.

Your guard says nothing. Though you know he saw what you just did. It’s not his place. He forgets all he sees or hears - all that doesn’t pose risk to you.

Maybe you weren’t the only person in Rome to wish the Palace walls didn’t have treasonous eyes and ears. You can’t help but wonder if perhaps Varro was right;

There is danger round these street corners in Rome.

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[reds-hoodies]

Blink and You’ll Miss It (pt2)

Tags: Jason Todd X GN!Reader, Soulmate AU, fluff

Word Count: ~820

A/N: here you go :D!! Sorry this took so long, had some IRL stuff come up-

Enjoy!

Prev

Jason Todd was not an optimist. He knew better than to believe in fate or destiny, so for the longest time, he never believed in soulmates. At least, not for himself.

That was, of course, until three weeks ago.

He had never had his world rocked so hard. He had never seen anything so captivating, and it had consumed his every waking thought.

He needed to find you.

But for the past three weeks, it seemed like he had been chasing a goddamn ghost.

He had watched security cameras, pieced together patterns, and found that you had a few frequent spots: a café, a park, a stupidly overpriced farmers’ market in the Diamond District. But every time he thought he had you pinned down, he showed up and— nothing.

It was like you were just barely out of reach.

Right now, though, Jason sat in a booth near the back of the café, hood up, arms crossed, waiting. He had been there for an hour, prepared for a stakeout, ready to plant himself there all night if he had to.

His phone buzzed.

Babs: That person you’re looking for? Just showed up at the library.

Jason blinked at the screen. Then another buzz.

Babs: Looked around for like five seconds, then left in a hurry 👀

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers tightened around the phone.

You had been looking for something.

Or someone.

His pulse picked up, and he was already moving to get up when movement outside caught his eye.

Through the café window, he saw you.

Jason went still, barely breathing as he watched you weave through the crowd, moving like you were on a mission.

For half a second, he just stared. His brain lagged behind his instincts, stuck on the fact that you were right there. So close, how-

He bolted up, nearly knocking into a passing customer as he stepped out of the booth, his heart slamming against his ribs.

His phone buzzed again, but he didn’t need to check it to know.

You weren’t just passing through. You had been looking for him.

And he wasn’t losing you this time.

The screeching of the subway echoed off the concrete walls as Jason jumped down the steps and through the turnstile.

He spotted you just as you stepped onto the subway platform, glancing around and searching. He moved before he could think, shoving past a few late-night commuters.

Then, right as you turned, your eyes met.

Once again, the world slowed. The station blurred, colors bleeding together the same way they had before— slow and steady. He stopped in front of you.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” His voice was rough, caught somewhere between a breath and a confession. He couldn’t help but reach for you, and when your hands finally touched-

Everything erupted.

It was blinding, burning with colors he had never known could exist. The whole station hummed like it was alive, like the universe itself was exhaling, yes, yes, this is right.

Yet, he couldn’t tear himself away from your gaze. Because in all the chaos, nothing was more brilliant than you standing before him. His soulmate.

The one who hadn’t just brought color back, you had rewritten the world itself.

Your eyes were wide, your jaw slightly slack as you stared at him. He felt your grip on his hand tighten slightly, shaking with the intensity of the moment.

“And I’ve been looking everywhere for you…” You trailed off before groaning and cursing under your breath, realizing the ridiculousness of the situation.

Jason exhaled, shaking his head before letting out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh.

“Guess that means we’re stuck with each other now, huh?” you muttered, giving a sheepish grin as you tilted your head. You stepped forward hesitantly, eyes flickering around like you were still processing everything.

Jason felt his own smile mirror yours.

“Yeah… looks like it.” His voice was quieter now, but certain.

Jason wasn’t one for PDA usually, but when you laced your fingers through his, he decided then and there nothing would be able to tear him from you.

A subway car rumbled to a stop beside you, doors hissing open.

Neither of you moved to get on.

“Sooo… dinner?” You broke the silence.

“You stalk me for weeks,” Jason narrowed his eyes, “Completely screw up my search for you by looking for me, and now you’re asking me to dinner?”

“Sounds like the pot’s calling the kettle black here.” You shot back, “But yeah, I figured we earned it.”

Jason considered you for a moment, “Fine.” He smirked and nodded, “But I’m picking the place.”

And as you walked up the subway steps together, Jason took one last glance at the world around him: The reds, the blues, the warm city glow. At you.

And for the first time in a long time, he really liked what he saw.

Prev

[jamneuromain]

Ari's Payback

Mob!Ari Levinson x Reader

Warning: Mob!Ari, Wife!Reader, Ari being petty, a lot of cursing

Summary: As your husband, Ari did what he does best: annoy you.

A/N: Happens right after this event. Part of Venomous Vows series in collaboration with @biteofcherry

Ari cursed silently in his mind.

There was an intense debate going on about whether or not he should do this.

The brain cell of stupidity argued: Do it. Let’s give her hell.

The sane part of his brain said: Let’s just kill her instead.

Okay. Maybe he shouldn’t leave both his brain cells wandering in his mind after a few too many glasses of scotch.

Plus, killing her meant that he could only enjoy the look on your face once. While initiating the plan, on the other hand …

He reached for the box, and snatched the object inside with ease.

A part of him grew curious as to why his wife did not wire her stuff.

Then, at the back of his head, a slurred, drunken voice of his own reminded him that it was his home. It was your home. It was your shared home.

Ari watches as you rummage through the house, ask the maid (he forgets her name once again, Charlotte or Shari or Shar-something) to help you rummage through the house. A while later, the valet is commandeered. Then your chauffeur.

Together, the four of you search every inch of your bedroom, your bathroom, your walk-in wardrobe, and your second walk-in wardrobe with handbags.

He pulls out his phone to take a look at the time.

Ten minutes to eight pm.

He could imagine the guests murmuring, glass clicking, heels clattering, air thickening with his men huffing out cigarette smoke.

He could imagine the guests glancing at their wristwatches – having received a pat-down at the entrance and removed all electronic devices such as their phones like taking some friggin’ SATs – and getting all disturbed, wondering if they should bolt or would FBI come surrounding this goddamn place as this could very well be the largest mob family gathering along the east coast.

Yet, he muses, they should grow accustomed to your tardiness, as there hardly were times when you weren’t late for this annual gathering since your marriage.

He finds a box of cigars in one of the drawers of the coffee table and a box of matches to go with it. He lights the cigar and enjoys the rich spicy odor of it, feeling particularly like a club owner from the 1920s, watching in the dark as the mime continues in front of him.

Well, not a mime-mime, but a –

“It can’t be just gone.” You snap at no one in particular, though it is clear as day that you are not in a good mood, while the helps you’ve summoned keep their lips shut.

Ari allows a small whiff of cigar smoke drift from the corner of his lips.

Poor them. But it’s not like you are going to bite their heads off.

“Charlene, please check my jewelry box again. Marco, my coats. George, my handbags.” You grit your teeth tightly, “It’s a necklace with a ring of pearls and a fuckin’ big-ass pink diamond in the middle. It can’t be gone.”

And it is lying in the deepest darkest corner of his safe in the study. The pleasant bitter taste of the cigar filled his lungs, ghosting Ari’s face with a faint smirk. He takes time to pour himself a glass of scotch, knowing that this fiasco will last forever since he was the thief who wants payback for your last not-so-peaceful encounter when you decided to sabotage his online meeting with the loudest porn.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. It’s not in the jewelry box.” Charlene exits your bedroom a couple of minutes later, apologizing even if it was not remotely her fault.

“Sorry, Ma’am.” Ari’s valet, Marco shakes his head and refuses to meet his eyes with yours after coming back to the living room.

“Sorry, Ma’am.” Your driver George echoes.

You stand in the middle of your living room, hands resting above your hips, full make-up and properly dressed, with a beautiful strapless on you, and on your neck – nothing, nada.

Ari savors his scotch with his eyes closed.

First of all, in his defense, you look beautiful in anything, even a rag. Despite his hatred towards you, he is not blind. And you certainly do not need one specific necklace to bring it out in you.

Second of all, that necklace was a gift from a man before your marriage. A man who is not Ari Levinson (nor your father, for that matter). A childhood friend, to be exact. Ari has always suspected you felt a thing towards that man. Luckily, that man was off to some adventure in a godforsaken jungle in the middle of nowhere.

Ari prays that the friend of yours dies there. He could send a team of armed mercs to annihilate his opponent, but he chose not to. Ari Levinson is not a complete monster, just fyi.

Last of all, it was so worth it, making you mad.

“Fucking stupid goddamn pearls I swear-” You ignore Ari being all suited up on the couch, heading to your bedroom to check under the bed again, cursing under your breath.

The soles of your heels click on the floor hard enough to poke a hole in it.

“Fuck fuck fuckity fuck FUCK!”

He hears you lash out your fury into the soft beddings. He hears your anger pent up with no one and nowhere to aim at. He hears you curse louder.

Ari puffs the silvery smoke into the air.

See? The brain cell of stupidity tells him. Totally worth it.

[sunshinesfreckless]

Beach Hazard

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Lifeguard!Felix x Fem!Reader

Summary: Visiting your cousin in Australia for the first time without being prepared for the heat was one thing — but her not warning you about the real heat at the beach was another.

Warnings: Smut MDNI, Hot lifeguards

A/N: The reader does not have a specific skin color, ethnicity, or body type. The picture I chose from Pinterest is just to help visualize one of the bikinis better!

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

 

The sun was merciless. It clung to Y/N’s skin, wrapped around her like a second layer, and turned every breath into a sigh of defeat. She fanned herself with a limp hand, already regretting everything.

“You never told me Australia was this hot,” she groaned, dragging her sandals through the burning sand.

Yeji, unfazed and radiant as always, only shrugged. “I thought it was kinda obvious, you know?”

They finally reached the beach—a postcard come to life. Crystalline waves kissed the shore, sunlight danced off every surface, and bronzed bodies glistened like they’d been sculpted for worship. Y/N squinted through the brightness, adjusting to the sheer number of abs per square meter.

She dropped her towel, barely finding the will to sit down before Yeji nudged her hard in the ribs.

“Just so you know,” Yeji whispered, eyes twinkling behind her sunglasses. “A little tourist highlight here… are our lifeguards.”

Y/N raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You can’t be serious. Baywatch-type lifeguards don’t actually exist—”

A sharp whistle sliced through the air, and then… slow motion.

The first one bolted down the beach like it was a fashion runway. Long, black hair whipped behind him, his expression carved with intense focus. His frame was lean, but corded with elegant muscle, the kind that made you forget how to breathe. His lips—full, plush, kissable—pouted naturally, and his shoulder-to-waist ratio defied logic. He sprinted toward a jet ski like a Greek god late for Olympus.

“That’s Hyunjin,” Yeji murmured, voice reverent.

On the jet ski, a man sat waiting, stoic like a painting in motion. His thighs alone could crush watermelons, tanned and glistening as the sun traced every line of definition. His gaze was sharp as steel as he nodded at Hyunjin.

“That’s Lee Know.”

A third lifeguard joined them, tossing a life vest with a lazy flick of the wrist. His tattoos were etched into golden skin, glinting under the sunlight. His Muscles…. eye candy.

“Han,” Yeji added, grinning.

Behind him, another man held up a pair of binoculars, but his forearms stole the show. Veins, muscle, pure buffness.

“That’s Changbin.”

Two more figures were prepping a small rescue boat. One had a smile like a slice of mischief—Jeongin. Playful eyes, sun-streaked hair, and that lean, boyish physique.

Beside him, Seungmin—cool, calm. His jawline could’ve cut diamonds, Understated beauty, the kind that lingered.

And then—

Yeji inhaled. “My personal favorite… Mr. Bang.”

Bang Chan strode behind them all like he owned the beach. His back—broad, powerful, unfair—was on full display as he adjusted a rescue board under one arm. He was all tan, sinew, and control. The leader energy radiated.

Y/N tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. “You’ve gotta be kidding me—”

And then… he appeared.

From the ocean itself. A mirage made real.

He walked out of the water like a dream crashing into reality. Golden skin wet and glistening, every curve of his abs carved by the gods. Water rolled down his torso, catching on the sharp lines of muscle, and Y/N actually forgot what she was saying. He ran one hand through his soaked blonde hair, pushing it back to reveal pretty brown-eyes that accidentally locked with hers.

Time paused. Her lungs gave up.

His lips parted slightly, breath catching—and hers did too.

“Jesus,” Y/N whispered. “Who is that?”

Yeji smirked. “Felix.”

Y/N could only blink. Hello Felix…

Never in her life had Y/N felt so painfully, violently unfucked. It hit her like a freight train the moment he emerged from the water, all abs and attitude, and it hadn’t let up since. Her thighs clenched instinctively.

Holy. Shit.

“It’s nothing serious!” Changbin yelled toward the jet ski, giving a thumbs-up as Lee Know veered off with that stone-faced drama only he could pull off.

Hyunjin jogged over, hair flying behind him like he was in a shampoo commercial. “Did you see what’s up?”

“A woman thought she saw a shark,” Felix murmured, voice low and rough. “False alarm.”

His gaze drifted lazily back to the woman in a tiny white bikini, the kind that looked like it would disintegrate if the wind picked up. His eyes lingered—just for a second—then flicked back toward his friends.

“Mate, we’re still on duty,” Chan said, clapping him on the shoulder like a disappointed dad.

Felix just gave a low, cheeky laugh—the kind that made Y/N’s stomach flip. “I’m on watch.”

He grabbed the whistle Chan held out, slipping it around his neck with lazy precision. Then came the sunglasses.

“I know you’re on watch. I’m your boss,” Chan muttered. “But I literally just caught you ogling a girl.”

Felix raised one perfect brow and waved it off, already turning to patrol the beach like he owned the damn coastline.

Y/N’s jaw dropped. She wasn’t breathing. She couldn’t breathe.

“He literally just looked at me,” she gasped, gripping Yeji’s arm like a woman in spiritual distress.

“Felix?” Yeji asked, amused.

“Mhm.”

“Sure, sweetie,” Yeji snorted, clearly unconvinced.

Y/N turned her head slowly, eyes tracking Felix like he was prey and she was starving. “No, I need to have him.”

Yeji burst into laughter. “Good luck. All of them are fellow students in my class at my college, and I’ve been trying to get into Chan’s pants since high school.”

“Any luck?”

“Not even a crumb.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes, watching Felix’s golden skin disappear into the distance, his shoulders flexing with every step. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“I’m going to make that man sin.”

The plan formed fast. Reckless. Beautiful. Stupid.

Y/N sat up, adjusting her bikini top like she was about to enter battle.

“No,” Yeji hissed. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I have to,” Y/N whispered. “He’s walking away, Yeji. Away from my life. My future. My Body. My womb.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m in heat.”

Yeji groaned and dragged her sunglasses down. “Please tell me you’re not about to fake a drowning.”

“Not drowning. Just… distress. Sexy distress.”

“Oh my God. Y/N, no—”

But she was already walking—no, striding—toward the shore, her hair catching the breeze. She reached the shallows, flipped her head dramatically, and waded in.

Step. Step. Gasp.

She stumbled, flailing her arms like she was being attacked by invisible seaweed. “Ah! Oh no—help! Help me! I—I think I twisted my ankle in the water!”

Yeji slapped her own face. “Jesus Christ.”

A whistle shrieked.

Y/N turned in slow motion, ready to fall into the arms of her dripping wet, Australian savior.

But it wasn’t Felix.

It was Hyunjin.

Her smile faded.

Hair flying (WHY WAS HIS HAIR ALWAYS FLYING), eyes full of panic and beauty, he wrapped his arms around her effortlessly and lifted her like she weighed nothing. “You’re okay. I’ve got you,” he said, voice low and soft.

And sure, it was nice. Sure, he was an Adonis. But he wasn’t Felix.

She let him carry her all the way to the towels, fully committed to the bit, but as soon as her feet touched the sand, she peeled away like an annoyed cat.

“Thanks,” she said stiffly, and stormed back to her towel.

Yeji stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “What? Hyunjin isn’t enough for your greed?”

Y/N dropped onto the towel and grabbed her water bottle like it was a flask. “Believe me,” she muttered. “I was this close to showing Hyunjin my tits.”

She sighed.

“But I’m going to stay loyal to Felix.”

 ────୨ৎ────

She “accidentally” kicks her water bottle too far and jogs after it like a distressed deer.

Cue: Seungmin.

Polite. Kind. Hot in an infuriatingly nonchalant way.

He jogs over, picks up the bottle, and hands it to her with a smile so charming it could be a toothpaste ad.

“You dropped this.”

Y/N forces a smile. “Thank you… so much.”

Yeji just snorts behind her towel. “So loyal, huh?”

 ────୨ৎ────

 

She pretends to get stung by a jellyfish. “Ow! My leg—oh no—what if it’s venomous?!”

Jeongin appears, pulling off his shirt with impressive speed.

“Where is it? I’ll check for swelling—do you need me to pee on it?”

“What? NO! God, no! I’m fine—I’m fine now.”

Jeongin tilts his head. “You sure? I’ve been trained for this.”

“I don‘t want YOUR pee,” Y/N mutters under her breath and limps away, emotionally wounded.

Yeji looked at her disgusted and shocked.

 

────୨ৎ────

She fake-coughs dramatically, clutching her throat like she’s choking on saltwater air.

This time it’s Changbin. Concerned. Sincere.

“Do you need CPR?!”

Y/N widens her eyes. “N-no…?”

He gets closer. “Are you sure? You don’t look okay.”

She looks up at the sky, whispering, “Why do you mock me, God?”

 

 ────୨ৎ────

 

She splashes herself with water and flops down like she fainted.

Bang Chan runs up with a literal first-aid kit and more authority than a SWAT team.

“I need you to stay still, okay? Can you hear me?”

Y/N stares up at him. “You’re… not Felix.”

Chan blinks. “Um. No?”

She sighs. “Then leave me here. Let the sun take me.”

Yeji cackles so hard she nearly chokes on her mango smoothie. “You’re an embarrassment to this family.”

────୨ৎ────

Y/N glares at the sea, where Felix is, of course, walking along the waterline, shirt off, towel over his shoulder, hair wet and golden like he just stepped out of a wet dream.

She slams her fists into the towel. “WHY does God keep sending other hot lifeguards?! I don’t want the entire calendar, I want SEPTEMBER !”

 

 ────୨ৎ────

 

The next morning, Y/N burst into Yeji’s room like a woman on a mission.

“Get your towel. We’re going back.”

Yeji groaned from under the blanket. “I am not emotionally strong enough to watch you throw yourself at lifeguards again.”

Y/N clasped her hands like she was begging for water in a desert. “Please. I just need one more chance.”

“…You said that yesterday.”

“And I meant it then. But today I’m serious.”

Ten minutes later, Yeji was dragging her cooler through the sand, watching Y/N strut ahead in a bikini so small it could be mistaken for shoelaces. Leopard print. Glossy lips. Hair beachy and bouncy. A menace.

And there he was.

Felix.

Standing near the lifeguard tower, talking to Seungmin while tying his hair up. The muscles in his arms flexed as he looped the elastic around his damp blond strands, biceps and shoulders glistening in the sun like someone had Photoshopped reality.

Y/N stopped walking. “That’s it. This is the day I make him fall.”

“Or call security,” Yeji muttered, finding them a shady spot.

 

 ────୨ৎ────

 

She walks past the lifeguard stand, slow and deliberate. She bends to pretend to fix her flip-flop. Her butt is absolutely facing him.

Nothing. No reaction.

She peeks.

He’s looking at a seagull.

“You’re watching a bird?” she seethes.

Yeji sips her iced latte, unbothered from afar. “Damn, even the bird’s getting more attention.”

 ────୨ৎ────

She pretends to drop sunscreen and bends very slowly to pick it up. She even lets out a small gasp. Like it’s so hard to pick something up off the sand.

Felix jogs past her—past her—shouting something into his walkie-talkie.

“He didn’t even see me!” she hisses.

“He’s literally working,” Yeji deadpans.

 

────୨ৎ────

 

She finally gathers the courage to walk up to the tower. Felix is leaning on the rail, looking like an ocean god sent to torment her.

“Hi,” she says, as seductively as possible.

“Hey,” he says, smiling—but friendly. Polite. Professional.

She freezes. “I… like your whistle.”

Your whistle? Your WHISTLE?

“Thanks,” he chuckles, then leans over the edge. “Hey, Seungmin! Can you cover my post for five? I’m gonna refill my water bottle.”

YES! A window!

But before she can say anything else, he hops down and jogs right past her.

Y/N turns to Yeji, who is visibly crying from behind her sunglasses.

“I’m going to die alone.”

“No, you’re just going to die of dehydration from how hard you’re thirsting.”

Y/N flops onto her towel in defeat. “This is the worst vacation of my life.”

Just as she’s about to bury herself in sand out of shame, Felix calls out behind her, towel slung over his shoulder, voice teasing:

“Leopard print, huh? Bold.”

She jerks upright. “What?!”

He’s already walking away again. But this time, he smirks.

She turns to Yeji, completely unhinged. “Did you see that? That was flirting.”

“Or basic human interaction.”

“I am winning.”

 

────୨ৎ────

But the Euphoria didn’t last long……the rest of the day, Y/N gave up.

No sultry poses. No hair flips. No fake injuries.

She was just… tanning. Peacefully. Like a normal, non-horny person.

Face down, book open, towel beneath her. Her hair tied, sunglasses on, headphones in. She barely even looked in Felix’s direction.

Which apparently meant everyone else did.

“Who’s that?” Han asked, squinting through his sunglasses as he handed out ice pops from the cooler.

Seungmin tilted his head. “That’s Yeji’s cousin, Y/N. She’s been here two days in a row. Yesterday she tried to drown herself like three times.”

Jeongin laughed. “You mean the fake fainting girl.”

Felix frowned, not even sure why. “Why are you all looking over there?”

Han grinned, obnoxiously. “Because she looks hot.”

Felix scoffed. “She’s just reading.”

“Exactly,” Han said, chewing on his popsicle. “Effortless hot. That’s rare.”

Felix followed their gazes—casually, of course. And yeah. Okay. Maybe she did look a little too good just lying there in the sun, legs glistening, hips arched slightly, bikini flattering her every curve. She wasn’t looking at them.

Not looking at him.

He looked away, annoyed for no reason. “Focus. You’re on duty.”

But the rest of the afternoon, his eyes kept drifting. Especially when some random guys walked by a little too slowly. He tensed every time they looked at her twice. When one guy tripped trying to check her out, Felix nearly stood up.

He didn’t, though.

Didn’t matter.

Not his problem.

 

────୨ৎ────

 

Y/N came alone this time.

No Yeji. No plan. Just her book, her floral bikini, and a promise to herself to act normal.

She found her same spot, laid out her towel, and sank into the sun. She didn’t look around. She didn’t need to.

But she did feel it—the prickling sensation of being watched.

Felix was on his post, up in the tower. Sunglasses on. Elbows on the rail.

Watching.

Not obviously.

Just enough.

She smiled to herself but didn’t look up.

A few hours later, the sun was high, and she decided to take a quick dip. She set her book down, tied her hair up, and stepped into the water, sighing at the coolness against her skin.

She was waist-deep when two boys—maybe sixteen, seventeen—started splashing nearby.

They were giggling. Whispering. Then.

Snap.

She felt the back of her bikini top loosen.

“What the—?!”

She turned just as one of the boys tossed her top into the deeper waves, cackling. “Oops! Didn’t mean to!”

Y/N let out a scream, arms crossing over her chest, eyes wide with panic. “Are you kidding me?! What the hell?!”

The boys were still laughing, not realizing how serious she was.

But someone else did.

Felix was already sprinting from the tower.

His feet hit the sand hard, running full speed. Past the shoreline, crashing into the water like a force of nature. One of the boys saw him coming and bolted. The other stood frozen, half in shock, half in fear.

Felix didn’t stop.

He reached her, wrapping his arms around her from behind in one fluid motion, he turned her around his chest pressing against her breasts, strong arms holding her protectively.

“Got you,” he murmured, his voice low—too low—and calm despite everything.

Y/N was shaking. Not from the cold. Not from the water. From him. His arms. His voice. The sheer intimacy of it.

Her heart was somewhere in her throat.

“Stay still,” he said, one hand still holding her close, the other reaching out to catch the drifting bikini top with a perfect, practiced swipe.

Then his voice snapped like thunder toward the boys.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His accent hit harder when he was angry. “You think this is funny? You touch anyone like that again and you’re not just getting kicked off the beach—you’ll be talking to police. Get lost.”

The boys scattered like roaches.

He turned back to her, gentler now.

“Hold on,” he murmured. “I’ve got it.”

With a strange tenderness, he helped her tie the top back on, his fingers brushing along her back, slow and methodical, careful not to look even though her blush was violently visible.

Then—just as he finished fastening the strap—he leaned in slightly, voice lower than it had ever been.

“Shame it wasn’t me who took it off.”

Her eyes snapped wide open. “What did you—?”

But he was already walking away, water dripping down his back, shoulders flexing with each step as he moved toward the shore like nothing happened.

“FELIX?!”

He didn’t turn around.

 

 ────୨ৎ────

Y/N sat wrapped in a towel like a sad burrito.

Yeji had finally arrived. “You had one job. Not to flash the beach.”

“I didn’t flash anyone, I got assaulted by middle schoolers.”

Yeji squinted at her. “Okay, fair. But can we talk about how you’re glowing right now? What happened?”

Y/N stared into the middle distance, whispering: “He said it.”

“Said what?”

“He said shame it wasn’t me who took it off.”

Yeji almost choked on her drink. “I’m sorry—EXCUSE ME?? Sir Felix ‘No Fun, Just Whistles’ said THAT?”

“WHILE tying it back on.”

Yeji stared at her in awe. “You have to seduce him today.”

“I need to interrogate him first.”

 

 ────୨ৎ────

She walks up to the lifeguard stand later, trying to be chill. Super casual. Not at all like she’s having an internal breakdown over a whisper.

He’s sitting there, eating from a container of cut-up mango like he didn’t just ruin her inner peace forever.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.” He looks up, relaxed, tongue flicking a mango slice into his mouth.

Unacceptable.

She blurts: “Did you mean it?”

He pauses. “Mean what?”

Her entire soul short circuits. “You know… the thing. The top. The taking-off thing.”

He raises a brow, amused. “Are you asking if I’m a pervert, or if I have taste?”

“I—what—no, I mean—yes?!”

He leans back, watching her squirm. “Maybe I just wanted to shut you up.”

“…What?”

“All that seduction. The sunscreen. The flip-flop. The fake fainting. The sunscreen again.”

Her mouth drops open. “You saw all that?!”

“I’m on watch,” he says, smug. “I see everything.”

She makes a strangled noise and nearly falls over trying to flee the scene.

────୨ৎ────

Y/N came prepared.

Leopard print? Too obvious. Floral? Too soft. Today, she wore nothing but white again. Her bikini bottom sat dangerously low, and she wasn’t wearing a top—just lying face-down on the towel with her arms folded under her head, chin resting on her wrists, legs stretched long and lazy. Her hair was in a loose bun, sunglasses on, lip gloss shining even under the sun.

And she knew he was watching.

Yeji was next to her, pretending to scroll her phone but clearly eyeing her like she’d lost her mind. “You’re insane.”

“He likes me,” Y/N said simply.

“I’m sorry, is this ‘he’ the same Felix that laughed when you pretended to drown? That Felix?”

“He told me it was a shame he didn’t undress me.”

Yeji went dead silent.

Y/N smirked and arched her back a little more, pushing her hips up so her ass caught the light, the curve dramatic, deliberate, and lethal.

“…Babe, you’re not even flirting anymore. You’re staging a porn.”

“I’m tanning.”

“You’re sinning.”

And then—

Crunching footsteps.

They both froze.

“…No fucking way,” Yeji whispered, staring over her sunglasses.

Y/N didn’t look. She felt it.

Felix crouched beside her towel, close enough that the shade of his figure darkened the sun on her shoulder. She smelled salt, sunscreen, and whatever cologne was hanging off his damp skin today.

“You’re going to get a sunburn on your back,” he said lowly, voice brushing the shell of her ear.

Y/N didn’t move.

Yeji’s jaw was somewhere in the sand.

Felix tilted his head. “Need help with the sunscreen?”

Silence.

Then—Y/N turned her head just slightly toward him, lips parted. “Do I look like I’d say no?”

He chuckled, not answering right away. He reached for the bottle Yeji had carelessly tossed beside them and popped it open with a click. Squeezed a generous amount onto his palm. The sound alone made Y/N squirm.

And then—his hands.

Warm.

Firm.

Slow.

Moving over her shoulders, across her back, then lower—his thumbs brushing her waist, fingers splaying wide. She gasped softly when he reached the small of her back, just above the waistband of her bikini bottom.

Y/N bit her lip.

His hands were so steady. Too steady for someone who should be flustered. But that was Felix—infuriatingly composed while she melted into the towel like butter on a grill.

He rubbed slow, methodical circles into her back, and every press of his thumbs felt like a kiss dipped in warning. You’re playing with fire.

And she was. Happily.

Yeji was still frozen beside them, pretending to scroll through her phone but definitely watching through her sunglasses.

“Relax,” Felix murmured, voice deep and smooth. “You’re tense.”

Y/N scoffed, half into the towel. “Wonder why.”

“Maybe it’s because you’ve been throwing yourself at lifeguards all week.”

“Not all lifeguards,” she mumbled.

“No?”

“Just one.”

Felix’s fingers paused—just a beat.

Then he smoothed the lotion lower, brushing close to the sides of her chest, but never quite crossing the line. He knew exactly what he was doing, the bastard.

“So I should feel special?”

She could feel the smirk in his voice. That cocky confidence, just barely covering something hungrier beneath it.

Then—

He leaned in.

His lips ghosted just above her ear, breath warm. “I like when you beg for attention.”

Her whole body stiffened—and not from the cold.

Before she could answer, he was already up. Walking away. Cool and casual, like he hadn’t just lit a match and tossed it over his shoulder.

She looked up in disbelief, eyes trailing after him. His back muscles were so unfair.

Yeji finally spoke.

“Are we going to pretend that didn’t just happen or—?”

 

────୨ৎ────

 

The lifeguard hut was humming with energy—half of them shirtless, all of them sun-kissed and cocky, talking over each other and sipping iced coffees.

Y/N walked in like she belonged there.

And technically, she didn’t.

But technicalities were for people who weren’t being ignored by the blond menace known as Felix.

Yeji had tried to stop her. “Y/N, I swear, if you go in there and start fake-rashing your way into his lap—”

“It’s not fake,” Y/N lied. “I’m itchy. And mad. And petty.”

The door creaked open behind her and heads turned. All of them. Like some Greek god convention had a roll call.

“Oh—hey,” Han said first, eyes already scanning her frame with his usual curious glint. “Everything alright?”

Y/N pouted. Dramatically. “I think I’m having a reaction to the sunscreen or something. There’s like… a rash?”

“Where?” Jeongin stood up so fast his chair squeaked.

“Need help?” offered Seungmin, already pulling on latex gloves from somewhere, like he’d trained for this exact emergency.

“Boys, please,” Chan said, chuckling. “Give her some space.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Y/N said sweetly. “It’s just—kind of hard to reach.”

Felix, sitting back with his feet up on the table and sunglasses on, hadn’t so much as flinched. His head turned lazily, a single brow raised above the rim of his shades.

“No comment?” she asked pointedly, arms crossed under her chest.

He shrugged. “I’m not a dermatologist.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Debatable.”

The other boys looked between the two of them like it was a tennis match from hell.

“Oh really?” Y/N said, tone sharpening into sugar-dagger territory. “You won’t help?”

“I’m on break,” Felix said simply.

“That’s it,” Y/N muttered.

And then—without fanfare, without shame—she dropped her bikini top.

“The rash is right here,” she said, pointing at her bare chest like she was unveiling the Mona Lisa.

The room short-circuited.

Jeongin turned around so fast he tripped over a stool.

Han fell off his chair.

Chan stared into the corner of the ceiling like he was mentally in church.

Seungmin had gone into full CPR mode and was frantically opening the first-aid kit with shaking hands.

Felix?

Felix exhaled the heaviest sigh known to man. “Y/N.”

“What?” she snapped, arms flaring with indignation. “If you won’t help, someone else will.”

But just as she tied her top back on with all the wounded pride of a tragedy heroine—her bravado slipped.

Literally.

Her chest started itching.

Burning, actually.

“…wait.”

She scratched her collarbone. Her neck. Her stomach.

“Wait. Oh no. Oh no no no—”

“Do you… actually have a rash?” Jeongin asked, blinking.

Y/N didn’t answer. She was already lifting her top again (to check, not to seduce anyone this time, thank you very much), and what she saw made her shriek.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT.”

There were red blotches. Angry ones. Spreading up her sides and over her chest like she’d rolled in poison ivy and then insulted its mother.

Han leaned in, still lying half on the floor. “Okay but that’s definitely not acting anymore.”

Felix was already up, all trace of apathy gone. “Shit. Emergency bed. Now.”

Before she could argue, he scooped her up bridal-style—her dramatic ass, red patches and all—and laid her on the narrow cot in the back of the hut.

“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered, near tears. “I was just being dramatic.”

“No way,” said Seungmin, who was now dabbing her chest with some kind of cooling gel like a very professional nurse who wasn’t looking too hard.

“Is it from the water?” Chan asked, peering at the redness.

“She swam right after lunch,” Han added.

“Oh my God,” Y/N groaned, hiding her face. “I flashed all of you and now I’m actually allergic to the ocean.”

That was when Yeji burst through the hut door, cheeks pink from laughter, holding her phone like someone had just live-texted her the whole incident.

“WHAT HAPPENED—” she gasped, doubling over when she saw Y/N laid out on the emergency bed like some half-naked cautionary tale.

“Don’t,” Y/N said weakly, pointing at her. “Don’t you dare. How did you even find out !”

Hyunjin lowered his Phone and avoided Y/Ns Eyes.

“I told you not to pretend to have a rash.”

“I WASN’T PRETENDING—ANYMORE.”

Felix stood beside her, arms crossed, lips twitching like he was one laugh away from completely losing it.

“Next time you want my attention,” he said lowly, “just say hi.”

Y/N stared up at him in betrayal. “I already did once ! You ignored me. I hate you now !”

“You look hot like this,” he said.

She blinked.

Yeji cackled.

“…I hate you slightly less.”

 

────୨ৎ────

“Hey, do you guys have more of that aloe gel?” she asked, approaching the lifeguard hut where Felix was adjusting one of the rescue boards. “My skin’s still kind of itchy.”

He glanced at her. A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Storage shed.”

He turned without another word and walked off toward the back of the hut. Y/N followed, pretending not to care that he hadn’t even looked at her bikini today.

The metal latch creaked as he opened the shed. She peeked inside—dim, stuffy, packed with boards, towels, boxes. It smelled like sunscreen, sea salt, and wet fabric.

“Do you need help finding it?” she asked, trying not to sound like she was begging for attention.

But before she could step back—

Clang.

The door closed behind her.

Click.

Locked.

Y/N blinked into the darkness. “…What the—”

Felix was there.

Close.

Too close.

She backed up until her shoulder hit the cool fiberglass of a surfboard. Her breath caught. He hadn’t touched her. Not yet.

He didn’t need to.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” he said lowly, eyes gleaming in the narrow slice of light. “That rash stunt? You really dropped your bikini top for them?”

She swallowed. “If you weren’t so goddamn unbothered I wouldn’t have to—”

His hand hit the wall beside her head.

She stopped.

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

“You followed me in here, babe. You sure you want what you’re asking for?”

Dim sunlight sliced in through the slats, streaking across Felix’s face, casting shadows over the sharp line of his jaw.

She should’ve said something clever. Should’ve smirked. Should’ve denied it.

Instead, she whispered, “Yes.”

And then he moved.

One step. One shift of his hips—and he pressed her to the wall, his body caging hers, the hard line of his cock grinding slow and rough against the thin fabric of her bikini bottoms.

She gasped. He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days.

“I’ve been patient,” he muttered, mouth dragging down her throat. “Too patient.”

Her fingers fumbled for something—his shoulder, his hair, anything to hold onto. But it didn’t matter.

His hand slid down between them, tugging the fabric of her bikini to the side. She barely had time to register the touch before his fingers were brushing over her folds, already slick.

“You’re soaked.”

“Felix—”

“You’ve been walking around like this? All week?” He growled into her skin. “What if someone else had touched you first?”

“Then you should’ve gotten there sooner,” she snapped—then gasped as he pushed two fingers inside her, curling them deep.

Her legs buckled. He caught her with a low chuckle.

“No time for games now, quit talking like a Brat” he said, already shoving his shorts down just enough to free himself. She felt him—hot, thick, flushed against her inner thigh. Her eyes widened.

“Lift your leg. Yeah—like that.” He hooked one of her thighs over his hip, steadying her against the wall. “You’re gonna take me just like this.”

And then he pushed in.

Slow at first. Stretching her open inch by inch, until she cried out against his shoulder.

“Fuck—fuck—”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he groaned, dragging his hips back before slamming forward, filling her deep. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted me to ruin you.”

The words made her clench around him.

His rhythm built fast. Brutal. He was practically slamming her against the wall now, one hand gripping her thigh, the other braced beside her head, anchoring them both.

The storage shed echoed with the wet slap of skin on skin. Rescue boards rattled. A life vest fell from a shelf. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—just felt.

“Turn around.”

“What—?”

“Turn. Around. Now.”

He pulled out with a grunt, spun her to face the wall, and bent her forward over the stacked beach towels. The moment her hands hit the crate, he was inside her again, deeper this time—rougher.

“Look at you,” he hissed. “Moaning like a whore, letting me fuck you in a damn shed.”

She couldn’t even deny it. Her eyes rolled back when his hand slipped around her front to rub harsh circles on her clit.

The noises were filthy. The air stank of sex and sweat and sun.

And when she came—biting down on her arm to muffle the scream—he kept fucking her through it, chasing his own high until his breath hitched.

Then he pulled out and finished across the curve of her ass, panting like he’d just survived a shipwreck.

Silence.

Only the sound of their breathing.

Her knees gave out. He caught her again, wrapped her up against his chest as her body trembled.

“…We just had sex on a crate of lost-and-found goggles,” she croaked.

Felix kissed her temple. “Hot.”

His breath was still ragged when he kissed her again.

Not gentle.

Not soft.

It was needy.

Y/N barely had time to register it. Her head spun, her thighs still trembled from the first time, but Felix was already reaching for her again, dragging her bikini bottoms all the way down this time and letting them fall around her ankles. She shivered.

“F-Feel like jelly,” she whispered.

“Then let me hold you up.”

He turned her, pressed her back against the shed wall once more, and hoisted her effortlessly—her legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

His cock was hard again. Already.

She stared at him, breathless. “How do you even—?”

“I told you I wasn’t done.”

And just like that—he was inside her again.

No warm-up. No mercy.

She cried out, arms wrapping around his neck as he slammed into her, the motion jarring and raw and insane, but her body took it. Welcomed it. Soaked for it.

The surfboards rattled. Sand fell from the shelves. A whistle clattered to the ground.

He buried his face in her neck, sweat dripping from his temple to her collarbone.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growled. “Tight little pussy still clenching like she didn’t just milk me dry five minutes ago.”

She moaned and bit down on his shoulder to keep from screaming.

He fucked her harder.

The rhythm was relentless. The slap of his hips against her ass. Her heels digging into his back. Her hands desperately clawing at his lifeguard tank top. It was rougher than before—less about teasing, more about need.

She couldn’t even speak anymore.

Just moaned. Just whimpered.

His name on a loop in her mouth.

Felix. Felix. Felix.

“Gonna make you cum again,” he panted. “Wanna feel you squeeze me. Wanna hear those sweet little sounds you make when you lose it.”

“I—I can’t—”

“You can,” he snarled, and reached between them again, rubbing her clit with the kind of cruel rhythm that shattered her.

She came with a strangled gasp, head thrown back, nails digging into his shoulders.

But he didn’t stop.

Kept pounding into her while she was still spasming, overstimulated and whimpering, until he finally groaned her name and pulled out just in time—again—finishing hot and fast against her inner thigh with a choked moan.

They slumped against the wall together. Panting. Drenched. Shaking.

He looked down at her legs and laughed.

“You’re trembling.”

“No shit,” she mumbled into his chest. “I think my soul left my body halfway through.”

“I’m gonna have to carry you out of here.”

“Absolutely not.”

He kissed her again, this time softer. Lazy. Almost smug.

“…I love my life,” she whispered against his lips.

Felix grinned.

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

POST-CREDIT SCENE (Wrap it up Marvel)

 

The air in the shed was thick—salt, sex, and shame clinging to the wooden beams.

Felix peeled a towel from the nearest crate and gently wiped between Y/N’s thighs, trying not to laugh when she squirmed.

“You okay?”

“No.” She was still breathless. “You broke me.”

“You’re walking. Eventually.”

He kissed her knee. Then her inner thigh. Then pulled her bikini bottoms back up, slow and gentle, like he hadn’t just ravaged her against the wall twice in a row.

He tucked himself back into his lifeguard shorts, ran a hand through his wild hair, and muttered, “We look so guilty.”

“We are guilty.”

She fixed her top, cheeks flushed, trying to rub some sand off her elbows with zero dignity left in her body. “I feel like I’ve got sunscreen in places it should never go.”

“Can i have your Number ?“ Felix interrupted her. She blinked at him. “I would even give you my Social Security Number“

Felix opened the shed door, the blinding sunlight making them both flinch like goblins.

Then—

“THERE you are!”

Yeji.

Standing ten feet away with a coconut in her hand and the biggest grin on her face.

Next to her—Chan. Shirtless. Holding a pool noodle like a sword.

Y/N froze.

Chan tilted his head. “You guys were gone for a while.”

Yeji took one look at Y/N’s flushed face, damp hair, and the towel clutched around her waist—and lost it.

Dropped her coconut. Fell to her knees. Screamed with laughter.

Y/N just stood there, mortified, as Yeji literally wheezed, gasping between fits:

“Your hair—your HAIR is still pressed flat on one side—you leaned against something! Oh my GOD—!”

Felix slid an arm around Y/N’s waist casually. “We were checking inventory.”

Chan raised an eyebrow. “In the shed?”

Felix: “A very… thorough inspection.”

The rest of the team started glancing over now. Hyunjin blinked at their reappearance, clocked the rumpled towel, the shell-shocked look on Y/N’s face—and immediately turned away, muttering, “Nope. Not my business.”

But Felix leaned into Y/N, kissed her hair, and whispered, “You good?”

She nodded. And then—louder, so everyone could hear:

“I love my life!”

She raised her Fist into the Air.

“I MADE IT ! The hard work paid OFF“

Felix snorted and pulled her to the Ocean to get her more Clean. 

[veturiusofserra]

when you know, you know | s. r.

𑁤 synopsis: in an interview she opens up about how easy it is to be loved by Spencer, sharing the story of how they met and how his love inspired her music.

𑁤 pairing: spencer reid x singer!reader

𑁤 words: 1.090

𑁤 disclaimer: This was 100% inspired by something my bf said a while ago, and I love the song. I hope you will enjoy it too <3

“As we reach the close of our conversation, one thing’s bugging me. In your song “Margaret,” there’s this line ‘when you know, you know.’ Like, how do you just know someone’s the one? I’ve been through my share of relationships, yet I haven’t experienced that kind of thing you sing about. In your song, it’s all so clear-cut, like you can predict the future. It reminds me of a kid believing in the tooth fairy – sweet idea, maybe not quite real. But that’s probably what makes the song so good. It talks about this perfect love where everything just clicks, and all your worries disappear. Maybe that’s what I’m still looking for, or maybe it’s just for some lucky people. Either way, your song paints such a strong picture of love that it makes me wonder if I’ll ever have a ‘Margaret’ of my own.”

“It’s funny, right? The answer everyone gives is so simple: “you’ll just know.” Like love hits you like a lightning bolt, destiny calls, happily ever after guaranteed. But maybe that’s the problem. We get this picture-perfect idea of love from movies and books, and then we miss the real thing when it’s right under our noses. We set these high expectations, these checklists of what “the one” should be like. And if someone doesn’t tick every box, we write them off. It’s like searching for a flawless diamond, forgetting that even the most beautiful gems have tiny imperfections. Because guess what? We all mess up. You make mistakes, I make mistakes, everyone does. Maybe that’s what makes a real connection so special – accepting someone, flaws and all. Speaking of which, there’s this story I wanted to share with you.”

“We're all ears!”, the interviewer and the crew smile with waiting faces.  

“For the longest time, I believed I was destined to give love, but never receive it.  Maybe because... well, let’s be honest, I can be a bit self-absorbed, lost in my own head and neglecting others. But even with the no love life mantra, there was always this yearning for a family, a deep desire for children I could call my own. The ‘what ifs’ terrified me, though. Would I be a good parent? Would they be happy? Could I provide for them? Eventually, I resigned myself to a life of music, making people happy through my art, having a few friends, maybe a tragically young death – you know, the artist’s curse. 

Then, I found him. We both know Penny, but run in different circles. He’s in law, I’m an artist – about as different as you get, except for maybe a shared love of fancy vocabulary. We met at Penny’s birthday party, and while he claims it was love at first sight for him, I just thought he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. But that was it. He was too shy to introduce himself, and I was sworn off men at the time. Funny how fate works, right?  We never crossed paths before, but after that night, it seemed like everywhere I turned, there he was. That’s when I decided to take a chance, and boy, I was so scared!

All those stories about soulmates and butterflies? They weren’t for me. Anxiety had been my constant companion for as long as I could remember. Butterflies just meant another battle brewing in my head. What I craved was peace, a steady hand to anchor me until I was ready to set sail. So, I built a friendship with him. We shared secrets, dreams, and vulnerabilities. He turned out to be a brilliant mind, a walking encyclopedia with an IQ of 187. Yet, he never made me feel inferior. He found humor in my quirks, and we seemed to complement each other perfectly. The more time we spent together, the more his words resonated: “We were designed for one another.”

And then, it hit me. Love. Deep, unexpected, and all-encompassing. It felt effortless, a perfect fit. But fear gnawed at me. It was all so new, so unfamiliar. Just as I was drowning in uncertainty, Penny, our mutual friend, reached out. She had something to show me – “Margaret.”

“She wrote it?” she asked, intrigued.

“Well, she started it,” I clarify. “Inspired by him, she penned the first lines that night after the birthday party. She couldn't shake the image of his longing gaze, a sight she’d never witnessed before. It felt sacred, a raw glimpse into his heart. The initial draft, rough around the edges, went something like this: ‘just writing for a friend. My shirt's inside out, and penmanship is messy. He met her on the rooftop, and she wore white. He said, ‘I think I’m in trouble.’ He saw flashes of the future.” A gentle smile graces your lips. 

“Seriously, that’s adorable.”

I nod, a blush creeping up my cheeks. “Right? Her words sparked inspiration within me. I wrote the rest, my mind consumed by-”

“By him.” she prompted, leaning in.

“He made love feel simple. Loving me was effortless for him, a stark contrast to the struggle I’d always imagined. It was like breathing, a natural and easy rhythm. He helped me discover the light that had been hiding within me all along.”

“There’s a saying,” the interviewer began, “to be loved is to be changed.”

I smiled. “I prefer a different one: to be loved is to be known. Because maybe, just maybe, he saw the affection within me all along, the part I couldn’t quite see myself.”

“You are indeed full of affection,” she said warmly. “Thank you for sharing this story with us.”

“Thank you for listening. I know it's a cliché, but there truly is someone out there for everyone. You never know what tomorrow holds, but deep down, a tiny spark ignites within us, guiding us towards that love. Trust it.”

“That wraps it up for our interview with the lovely Y/n! But before we say goodbye, there's one more message for her. Can we play it, Jonah?” A nod later, the studio fills with the sound of a familiar voice.

“Hey there, love. Just wanted to say congratulations on the album! You poured your heart and soul into it, and I’m incredibly proud. But hey, can you come home soon? Two days feels like an eternity without you. Miss my other half. Love you tons, sweetheart. And everyone listening, stream Ocean Boulevard! Dex says hi to mom, too.” A meow erupts in the background, eliciting a laugh from you and the studio crew.

thoughts? or prayers idk

[fairydustttx]

Diamond Boy (DTM).

Bob Floyd x reader

“I need poolside, you’ve been on my mind. Wonder if you’re all mine, why do it matter anyway”

A/N: I guess you can call this the alternate ending to M2M or it could just be a standalone? idk? enjoy :)

Warnings: Idiots in love & language. Not proofread in the SLIGHTEST.

Wc: 5163

Summary: Bob Floyd was never supposed to be anything more than your platonic soulmate—the one person who always had your back, who knew your every secret, your silences, your heartbeat. But soon everything starts to shift.

PART ONE

The first time you realised you may be in love with Bob Floyd—it wasn't romantic, not even in the slightest.

Bob had a head cold, the bad kind. The kind that knocked the wind out of him, made his voice rasp and his usually calm energy dulled at the edges.

You came over with chicken soup. You'd made it the night before, and let it simmer on the stove while you half-watched a show you weren't even following. You didn't know why you did it because it wasn't like he even asked.

When you had let yourself into his place, Bob was curled up on the couch under a fluffy blanket with little airplanes on it. He'd insisted once it was ironic—"pilot humor"—but you knew he liked how soft it was.

His hair was a mess. Glasses smudged. Nose pink. Totally miserable. Still, he sat up quickly when he saw you, blinking like you were a mirage.

"You're not dying, Bob," you told him, setting the soup down. "But you do sound like you swallowed a garbage disposal."

Bob smiled only barely. "You're so sweet."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart flipped like it had missed a step.

He dozed off halfway through the movie you put on but you didn't leave. You just stretched out beside him, your socked feet tucked under his blanket, your book open in your lap.

At one point, he shifted in his sleep and laid his head on your thigh. You froze, pulse stuttering, but you didn't move and just watched him take shallow breaths.

Something settled in your chest, a kind of knowing because you didn't want to be anywhere else.

The sound of him snoring softly, the weight of him trusting you, the feel of his fingers brushing yours even in sleep—it made you ache in a way you hadn't let yourself name.

You reached down and brushed his hair back from his forehead. Just once. Just gently and he didn't stir. And that was it.

Not a confession. Not even a conscious thought. Just this low, quiet hum of—Oh.

I love him.

You buried it after that. You told yourself it was nothing. That it was warmth, not love. Comfort, not longing.

But unfortunately for you it stuck. The way his glasses always slid down his nose when he got really excited talking about something. The way he saved you the last bite of dessert without making it obvious. The way his face softened when he looked at you, like you were something steady in his world, not the other way around.

You were his best friend, and it scared the hell out of you how badly you wanted to be more.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The first time Bob realised he was in love with you, it also wasn't dramatic. There was no lightning bolt, no swelling music, no sudden clarity like the books or movies promised. It didn't hit him all at once. It was much quieter than that.

You were sitting on the floor of his kitchen like you owned it, barefoot, in sweatpants and a faded T-shirt you'd most definitely stolen from him months ago. It was three in the morning, and you were eating cold spaghetti out of Tupperware like it was a five-star meal.

Bob had just gotten back from a week-long stint out of state, exhausted, cranky, jet-lagged. His apartment, which you stayed at from time to time, smelled faintly like the apple-scented candle you always lit when he was gone.

You looked up at him mid-bite and said, through a mouthful of noodles, "Don't judge me. I waited, like, five hours for you to get back before I cracked."

Then you grinned. Sleepy, messy, warm.

Bob stared at you for a second too long. Long enough that you paused, furrowing your brow like you weren't sure if you'd done something wrong.

That was it. That was the moment.

Because it hit him—hard and slow, like gravity sneaking up behind him that he'd never felt more at home than right then, in that tiny fluorescent-lit kitchen with leftover pasta and you.

Not in his childhood home. Not at the Academy. Not in the cockpit. Just here with you.

In a marinara sauce stained T-shirt, and your foot nudging his ankle like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn't say anything. He physically couldn't.

The truth sat heavy in his chest like a secret he wasn't ready to name. Instead he just smiled back small, quiet and reached for a fork.

You passed him the container without a word, scooting over a little to make room. The pair of you ate in silence, side by side on the linoleum floor.

When you fell asleep against his shoulder, he didn't dare move an inch. He stayed awake another two hours, wondering how long he'd be able to keep pretending this wasn't the most terrifying and beautiful thing that had ever happened to him.

Bob didn't realize it then, but that night completely ruined him for anyone else.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It all started falling apart on a Friday night in late November. The kind of night you'd normally spend on Bob's couch, stealing the last slice of pie and watching documentaries you'd pretend to care about just to hear him talk about them afterward.

Instead, you're at a bar uptown, perched on a stool beside Phoenix, who's half-responsible for the situation you're now in. The place is nice enough—exposed brick, moody lighting, a menu that includes things like "artisanal aioli." You're overdressed while also quite underwhelmed.

"Look, it's just one drink," she says. "If you hate it, we fake a family emergency and bail."

"Are you my family in this emergency?"

"I've got a whole fake dog-surgery story ready."

You're mid-laugh when they all arrive. Bob and James. And Bob's date.

James is... good-looking, to say the least. Polished. His smile is easy and direct. He reaches for your hand like it's the most natural thing in the world and says your name with real warmth. He smells like cedar and something expensive.

Bob is wearing a button-down you've seen more than a dozen times and jeans that fit too well. His smile is polite. His date, a girl with a sharp jawline and louder laugh, clings to his arm like she's auditioning for something.

You all sit, and it goes... fine.

James is charming. Steady. Confident. Attentive. Bob is extremely quiet, which is odd even for him. His date checks her phone five times before the appetizers arrive and you don't entirely blame her. You catch Bob looking at you once—maybe twice—but he doesn't say much more than he has to.

By dessert, Phoenix has caught your eye from across the room where she is on the lookout and raised a brow. You don't know what it means.

That night, after James walks you to your car and promises to call (and he does, two days later), you get a text from Bob.

You stare at it for a long time before responding to which you got no reply.

But see the thing about James is... he's so uncomplicated.

He always listens. He always shows up. He brings you lunch on base when you're swamped and remembers how you take your coffee by the third time.

You like him. You're not quite dating—not officially it seems to be heading there, very slowly. He makes it feel so so easy.

Which is why it feels like a betrayal, weeks later, when you find yourself sitting next to Bob again, back at the hangar, eating your pasta in silence, your knees not quite touching.

"Are you seeing him again tonight?" Bob asks, not looking up from his sandwich to which you hum absently in response.

"Cool." he answers quickly.

It's really not cool but you both pretended it was.

Bob, for his part, had made some sort of an effort. At least, that's what Phoenix told you as the pair of you jogged in rhythm, boots crunching lightly against the gravel path as you worked through the warm-up circuit Maverick had laid out for the team.

You pulled in a slow breath, matching Phoenix's pace without needing to speak until she did.

"Bob's trying," she said casually, like she was commenting on the weather.

You blinked. "What?"

"Dating again. Well, he's trying to at least." Her voice was calm but edged with something else—something careful.

"Yeah," you said. "I set him up with two girls I went to high school with, I was telling you about."

Phoenix turned her head sharply, brows raised. "Wait seriously?"

You gave a tight shrug, your face remaining neutral. Well neutral-ish. "I figured he needed a push and he wasn't doing it on his own."

Phoenix was quiet for a few beats, her steps in sync with yours on the gravel.

"That's... actually pretty selfless of you," she said eventually.

"I didn't do it to be selfless," you replied, a little too quickly. "I just thought it would help."

Truth was, it had been your idea. A few well-timed nudges. A casual mention of a friend from medical. A passing introduction at a post-flight dinner. You told yourself it was just being supportive. Helpful. The kind of thing a best friend would do. Right?

It's just that it didn't make it easier to hear he had actually followed through.

Phoenix looked at you sideways. "You know it's been three dates in the last few weeks. Maybe four. A few of them were blind. One was that ensign from logistics. Remember her?"

You knew her pretty well, the one with the dimpled smile and polished flight boots. Killer backhand at volleyball.

You knew Phoenix was just trying to keep up to date considering Bob had went mute on you but it still hurt to hear nonetheless.

"Good," you answered, sharp and quiet. "He deserves to be happy."

"Mmhmm," Phoenix murmured. "Except he will not stop looking at you."

Your throat went tight. You slowed your pace just slightly, long enough for her to notice. Phoenix didn't press but she never had to. She just kept running beside you like she was offering you a lifeline, not a lecture.

You turned a corner near the edge of the tarmac where the rest of the team had started filtering in. Maverick was already yelling instructions, gesturing at the pull-up bars and the hurdles like he hadn't already woken at least half the base with the sound of his whistle.

Bob was there—leaning slightly against the back end, water bottle in hand. His gaze wasn't obvious, but it wasn't hidden either.

And when you glanced his way, just for a second, he didn't look away. It was soft. Barely a blink but it hit like turbulence.

"Ladies," Maverick called, cutting through the moment like a blade. "This isn't social hour."

You and Phoenix straightened instinctively, shoulders snapping in sync.

From a few feet away, Hangman barked a laugh, stretching with dramatic flair. "Aw, c'mon. They're just talking about their crushes." He waggled his eyebrows like a cartoon villain.

"Get on with your push-ups, Hangman," Phoenix shot back, and you could practically feel the eye roll in her voice.

As you ducked your head and moved toward the warm-up zone, you glanced back one more time. Bob was still watching and this time, he did look away just not fast enough.

You didn't say much else after that—not until the training was over and the sky had brightened. But Phoenix's words stayed with you, echoing louder than Maverick's whistle ever could.

And for the first time, you wondered if you were the one still standing still.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Bob doesn't text back as fast as he used to anymore. You don't always invite him to game nights. When he sits next to you, it's careful now. Distant in a way.

The ache of it settles somewhere deep in your ribs, the way a bruise blooms hours after the hit. You don't talk about it, of course. That's the thing about you and Bob—you've always known when to give each other space. This though feels different. So much different. It feels like drifting. Like something you didn't think could ever slip is suddenly slipping through your fingers.

Things were really weird between the two of you, by the time your brother Zion’s wedding to his childhood sweetheart Aniyah came around. The reception was set in the kind of picturesque vineyard that looked like it was made for sunset photos and nervous toasts. Rows of fairy lights stretched from oak trees to tent poles, casting everything in a honey-gold haze. Laughter drifted on the breeze and clinking glasses echoed off wine barrels.

Aniyah wasn’t just your new sister-in-law—she’d been part of your family for years in every way that counted. Before she married your brother, she and Zion had been inseparable friends since childhood. Zion, your only sibling, had always been the steady presence in your life, the one you could count on through every messy moment, every laugh, and every heartbreak.

Now, seeing Aniyah glowing as the bride, it wasn’t just happiness for your brother’s new wife—it was relief that the people who mattered most to you were finally building something solid together.

You were sitting in a pale yellow bridesmaid dress at a round table with white linens, laughing politely at something James just said. You desperately needed a date and he was more than happy to. He was handsome in a crisp navy suit, tie in a perfect knot, posture relaxed. He fitted in well here. He said the right things, shook the right hands, looked great in photos.

But not Bob. You found yourself thinking that for the fourth time in ten minutes.

James' hand loosely rested on the small of your back, while Bob sat two tables away, in a suit that doesn't quite sit right on his shoulders and a tightness in his jaw you know too well.

You hadn't been surprised when you saw Bob’s name on the guest list. Your brother had always liked Bob. Everyone did. He was supposed to be your date.

Still, it hadn't stopped your stomach from flipping when he walked in and scanned the crowd, his gaze catching on you before he dropped it just as fast.

James was pulled away and for a moment you're left standing alone beneath the canopy of string lights.

Bob is behind you. You know it before you turn. You always know.

You glance over your shoulder. He's standing just a few feet back, near the bar, his hands in his pockets, looking at you the way he used to—like he's not sure if he's allowed to anymore. He's wearing a dark gray suit that fits better than any of his uniforms. The collar's a little rumpled, his tie slightly crooked like he fidgeted with it in the car, maybe halfway to talking himself out of coming.

You take a slow breath, and set your glass down. "Hi."

"Hey," he says, and his voice is quieter than you remember. Like the edges have been worn down from use.

"You clean up well," you add, trying for lightness.

He offers a small smile, the kind that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You look beautiful."

The words knock the air from your chest a little. "Thank you."

You both look away at the same time and a silence stretches between you, familiar and full.

"So you brought James," Bob says finally. Not accusing. Not anything, really. Just stating a fact he probably wishes wasn't one.

"I did."

"He seems..." Bob pauses, like he's trying to pick the right word. "Pretty solid."

You almost laugh. "He is."

Another silence. This one sharper.

You glance at him. "I wasn't trying to... I didn't bring him to make you feel—"

"You didn't have to," he says, and for the first time there's something real in his voice. Something raw. "It still does."

The music shifts in the background—slower now, something with strings and a heartbeat rhythm.

"He's not you," you say quietly, before you can stop yourself. "But maybe that's the point."

Bob looks at you then, really looks at you, and his mouth parts slightly like he's going to speak, like he might say all the things he never said—but James is walking back through the crowd, cutting between you.

Bob noticed him first. "I should let you get back," he said quickly.

You didn't want him to go but you don't stop him.

He turned to leave, and something in you broke loose.

"Bob."

He stopped in his tracks.

You lowered your voice, for just him to hear. "You used to tell me everything. And now I don't even know if you're okay half the time."

He didn't turn around. "I'm not."

The confession hangs between you. Bob walked away into the mingling crowd, until you lost sight of him behind someone's navy tux jacket.

James reached your side, handing you a glass. "You alright?"

You nod, quickly forming a lie. "Yeah. Just I was thinking."

Your eyes are still searched for Bob in the crowd, even though you knew he wouldn't be looking back.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The music had mellowed, soft strings weaving through the gentle clink of champagne flutes and tired laughter. A few candles had burned low, flickering in their glass holders, and the night air had cooled just enough to make the edges of your dress suddenly feel too thin.

It had been a beautiful day—Zion grinning like a right fool at the altar, your mother crying so hard she kept forgetting to blot her mascara and your father proudly pulling you into a side hug every chance he got.

James had called a car home an hour earlier. He had kissed your cheek. Told you he'd had fun. He hadn't pressed for more, and you'd been grateful for that.

You were sitting near the edge of the reception tent, a jacket on, heels off, knees pulled up delicately on the bench as you swirled the last of your wine. Aniyah—your new sister-in-law—had found you first, tulle skirts bunched in her fists as she sank down beside you with a conspiratorial grin.

"You okay?" she asked, slightly out of breath from dancing, her dark curls starting to loosen from the pins.

"Yeah," you said, giving her a tired smile. "Just I’m catching my breath."

She nudged your shoulder. "You've been amazing today. I know weddings are chaotic, but thank you for helping with everything."

"Of course," you said, and meant it. Then your voice softened, words catching just slightly on the lump forming in your throat. "I'm just so glad you're part of our family now. You've always felt like you were... but now it's official."

Aniyah's eyes shimmered a little, lips parting as her smile faltered into something more tender.

"And for the record," you added, squeezing her hand gently, "you are the most beautiful bride I've ever seen."

Her face crumpled in the best way, and she let out a watery laugh as she leaned her head against your shoulder for a second. "Don't make me cry again. I'm already so dehydrated."

You both laughed, quiet and close.

You sat like that for a few moments, just breathing in the tail end of the night, the two of you tucked away at the edge of the celebration.

Aniyah straightened up slightly and turned to look at you, more serious now. "You know you should probably talk to him."

Your face scrunched up in confusion. "Who?"

She gave you a pointed look. "Come on."

You glanced down at your wine, then past her shoulder—just for a second, just toward where Bob stood in the distance under a strand of lights, talking to one of your distant cousins.

"I don't know," you said quietly. You’d caught Bob’s gaze during the toasts, during the slow dances, during dinner when your niece begged him to twirl her on the dance floor. He’d smiled, sure, but it never quite reached his eyes. Every time he’d looked at you, it felt like something caved in your ribs.

"I do," Aniyah said. "You've been trying to pretend like it doesn't matter, but it does. He matters. And this thing between you—it's been hanging there for too way too long. Whatever it is, you've gotta face it."

You sighed, pressing your lips together.

Aniyah gave your hand one last squeeze. "Set it straight, okay? Whatever that means to you."

Zion appeared, and the moment shifted, but the weight of her words stayed with you.

His tie was loosened, dress shirt wrinkled, looking blissfully happy and only mildly buzzed.

"There you are," he said with a grin, leaning over to kiss your temple. "You know you're allowed to dance at my wedding, right?"

“I danced."

"Yeah, once," he said, deadpan.

You held up your glass. "As you can see I'm making up for it."

He smirked, giving your knee a fond squeeze. "You're the best. You know that?"

"Don't get all sentimental on me now. You're married now and now you're someone else's problem."

Zion laughed and leaned down to whisper something to his new bride that made her blush and swat at him with her bouquet. You looked at them—ridiculously in love, soft in all the ways you remembered your parents being once. It made something in your chest flutter.

Your gaze slipped beyond them to across the yard, where Bob stood under a strand of lights. He caught your eye first, brow lifting subtly before he made his way to your direction.

You felt the shift before he even moved toward you. Like a tide coming in. Like something you didn't know if you wanted to fight or surrender to.

You murmured a quick excuse to Zion and Aniyah, gave them a last squeeze, and slipped off the bench. The night spun just slightly as you stood.

"Hey," came Bob's voice, soft behind you.

You turned, already bracing yourself. The look on his face unraveled something sharp and aching in your chest.

"I didn’t think you'd still be here."

Bob's voice came out rough. "Yeah well I almost left."

You glanced at him over your shoulder. His tie was undone. Jacket slung over one arm. He looked tired and beautiful in that unguarded way you'd only seen a handful of times—after long flights, after hard losses, after quiet talks in the dark when the world felt too big.

"Then why didn't you?"

He let out a breath. "Because I couldn't."

He stepped closer, settling a few feet away like he wasn't sure if he was welcome—but had to try anyway.

"It's so fucking weird," you said softly as the pair of you walked in step away from anyone’s eye view. The air smells like roses and distant champagne. The stars are showing off tonight, stretching wide and clear. "How you can be surrounded by people who love you and still feel... alone."

He slowly nodded. "Yeah. I felt that too tonight."

There was a long pause filled only by the wind brushing through the trees.

"I really wanted to hate him, you know," he said suddenly. "James."

You looked at him, brows drawn.

Bob's voice stayed low. "I watched him touch you and laugh with you, and I told myself I didn't have a right to care. That we were just friends. That I should be happy you found someone who's good to you."

You didn't say anything. You couldn’t. Not yet.

He continued. "But it felt like losing you. And I hated it."

Bob looked at the ground, eyes distant. "I haven't really been honest with you. Not for a long time. And I thought I could just keep doing it—keep pretending I was fine, keep sitting across from you at dinner while you smiled at someone else."

"Why didn't you say anything?" you asked, your voice thin.

"Because I was scared. Because I thought if I told you what I felt, I'd lose you for good."

You looked at him now and your heart stuttered.

"I've been in love with you," he said, quiet but certain. "Since before I even knew what to do with it. Since you started showing up for me in every way that mattered. Since I realized no one else ever made me feel the way you do just by being there."

You sucked in a breath, tears stinging at the edges of your eyes. "You really waited until after I brought someone else to a wedding?"

Bob let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "I know. I'm the worst."

You shook your head. "You're not. You're just—"

"Late?" he offered, his voice breaking a little.

You blinked hard, then nodded. "Yeah."

He just looked at you like he was memorizing the shape of your face in this moment, in case it was the last time you'd let him be this close.

"I know I don't deserve it," he said. "But I needed to say it. I love you. I'm in love with you. And I will be, whether or not you ever look at me the same way again."

You stared at him, breath caught, heart hammering.

And finally, you asked the question that had been burning in your chest all night.

"Why now?"

His answer was immediate. "Because I realized something even worse than the idea of losing you."

Your eyes narrowed, fully cautious.

"It's the idea of letting someone else end up with the life I should've been brave enough to build with you."

Your breath caught.

"I'd rather you hate me for being too late than never tell you at all."

His face was flushed with sincerity, eyes full of so much longing it bordered on ache.

“I told you I loved you,” he said, more quietly now. “And I meant it.”

You shook your head slowly, pain blooming in your voice. “Bob, this isn’t just about feelings. You had months. I gave you space. I gave you everything I had, and you kept choosing silence.”

He flinched like the truth stung, and you didn’t look away.

“It’s not fair to show up now,” you say. “After all this.”

“I know,” he said again. “But I’m done pretending. I’m done watching you try to fit with people who don’t see you the way I do.”

You blinked hard. “You think you see me?”

“I do,” he said, stepping in close now. “I see the way you always cut your food into tiny bites when you’re anxious. I see the way you drink iced tea even when it’s cold out because it reminds you of your grandma. I see the way your whole face lights up when Zion makes the most stupid and unfunny joke because you love watching him be happy.”

Tears spilled before you could stop them.

“I see how hard you try to carry everything alone. I see how much it cost you to stay my friend when I was too much of a coward to be more.”

You exhaled, shaky. “You think saying all of that fixes it?”

“No,” he answered. “But I couldn’t let you leave tonight without knowing.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the straps of your heels You felt like if you let go of anything, you would shatter.

“And what now?” you whispered. “You say you love me, and I’m just supposed to forgive the last few months like it didn’t break me?”

Bob’s face fell, and for a moment he didn’t speak.

“No. You don’t have to forgive me. I just wanted you to know I never stopped loving you.”

That undoes you. Completely.

You stepped closer, dropping your heels and Bob didn't move.

You reached up and placed a hand on his chest, right over the steady beat of his heart, and he exhaled like the air had been stuck in his lungs for days.

"I don't hate you," you breathed out.

His eyes closed, shoulders sagging.

"But I don't know what to do with this."

He nodded, still quiet. "Then just do whatever you need. I'll wait."

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you grabbed his shirt and pulled him in.

The kiss landed hot and aching—months of quiet pain poured into one reckless, desperate moment. He groaned against your mouth, hands finding your waist like instinct, gripping like he was afraid you'd vanish again.

His body pressed into yours too perfectly, heat blooming between you like a match struck too fast.

His hands slipped beneath your jacket, palms callused and warm against your skin. You gasped into the kiss when his mouth moved to your jaw, your neck.

"Bob," you whispered—and the sound of his name, that soft ache in your voice, made him shudder.

"I've wanted this," he breathed, mouth brushing your ear, "since the day I met you."

His hands moved like he was learning you by heart. Every line, every breath, every hesitation.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "This isn't just heat, right?"

He shook his head, forehead resting against yours. "This is everything."

"Then love me right this time."

"I will," he whispered, holding you close. "I swear I will."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You were halfway to the parking lot, your heels dangling from your fingertips and the ache in your chest finally beginning to loosen, when Bob spoke again.

"You know," he said, walking beside you now, hands in his pockets, "confessing my feelings at your brother's wedding might be the most inappropriate thing I've ever done."

You glanced at him, and then laughed—raw and real. "You think? You could've at least waited until I was less emotionally wrung out and slightly less wine-adjacent."

He smiled, tentative. "I didn't exactly time it well."

You nudged his shoulder. "At least it wasn't a proposal. That would've been a whole lot worse."

You expected him to laugh or maybe roll his eyes. Say something about not being that unhinged.

But he didn't. He just looked at you.

Not like he was planning something—not now, that would be insane. But it was like he'd imagined it. Like the idea didn't scare him the way it once did. Like maybe one day, that future wasn't off the table.

You blinked slowly. "Bob."

He shrugged, lips twitching. "Just saying. It could've been worse."

You looked away, heart stammering, your mouth twisting into something halfway between a smile and a sigh.

Bob didn't say anything else but he didn't have to.

His hand brushed yours as you walked, barely there.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you felt like a promise.

[fellominaarcher]

GOT MARRIED - KARINA X IDOL!FEMREADER

13. Finale; Redamancy 2.

chapters || prev. || special chapter

The Sareureuk Gala - 5:30PM

Aespa’s sleek black limousine rolled to a stop at the venue’s grand entrance, its polished surface reflecting the dazzling city lights. The moment the door cracked open, a wave of flashing cameras erupted, lighting up the night sky like a meteor shower.

Dressed in breathtaking gowns tailored to perfection, each member stepped out with the effortless grace of seasoned superstars. Their assistants moved swiftly, adjusting trains, smoothing fabrics, and ensuring not a single hair was out of place.

Karina led the way in a Balmain backless dress, midnight blue with silver embroidery that mimicked constellations wrapping around her figure. Her long dark hair perfectly framing her beautiful face, there were glitters present on her hair, and her diamond earrings caught the light just enough to blind anyone.

Winter followed in a sleek Givenchy gown, a mix of white and icy silver, reminiscent of a shooting star streaking across the sky. She gave a tiny wave to the cameras but blinked rapidly against the aggressive flashes. “Oh my God, do these cameras have a stun setting or what?” she muttered under her breath.

Giselle, ever the cool girl, rocked a custom Alexander McQueen number — a structured black dress with shimmering silver celestial patterns, paired with sheer gloves that added a touch of mystery. She smirked at the cameras, tilting her head just enough to give her best ‘effortlessly cool’ look.

Ningning, the youngest, was draped in a breathtaking Elie Saab gown, ethereal in shades of lilac and soft blue. With her hair styled in loose waves and soft pearl accessories, she looked like she had just stepped out of a fantasy drama. She waved enthusiastically to the crowd, soaking in the attention.

A suited man gestured for them to proceed down the red carpet, leading them to the interview station. The interviewer, a polished woman in a dazzling navy gown, greeted them with a bright smile.

“Ladies, welcome to the Sareureuk Gala! You all look absolutely stunning. How are you feeling tonight?”

Winter, still slightly dazed from the camera flashes, answered first. “Like I just walked through an explosion of lightning bolts, but in a very glamorous way.” She replied to the interviewer while giggling at the whole experience.

The interviewer chuckled. “Well, you all certainly look like celestial beings. The theme really suits you.” She complimented the girls.

The members all smiled, nodding in agreement.

“Now, Aespa is no stranger to events like this, but is there anything or anyone you’re looking forward to the most tonight?”

Ningning leaned into her mic first. “The food. No hesitation.” The maknae glanced at the camera for a few times, smiling from ear to ear.

Giselle nodded. “Yeah, I second that.” Agreeing with Ningning's tonight's intention.

Karina smirked. “The performances will be great, I’m sure.”

Winter added, “I’m looking forward to seeing all the pretty outfits. This is basically Met Gala: K-Pop Edition.” She gave a small nod of her head to the camera.

The interviewer laughed. “Absolutely! Now, Karina—” she suddenly leaned in, her tone shifting slightly, as if she was about to drop a bomb. “I’m sure you know that Daydream is also attending tonight. What do you think about that?”

A murmur rippled through the nearby press members. The question was a curveball, and everyone knew it. The cameras zoomed in, waiting for a reaction. The crowd hushed slightly, leaning in.

Karina blinked, her expression unreadable for a moment, before tilting her head slightly, feigning the perfect mix of mild confusion and innocence.

“Umm… okay?” she said slowly, blinking again as if she had just been asked the most irrelevant question of the night.

The interviewer pressed on. “Any thoughts on them being here?” A part of it because some nosy press requested her to ask this specific question.

Karina smiled, her tone polite, measured. “Honestly, I’m happy that they’re here. We don’t have that much relation anymore, so I’d appreciate it if everyone could stop dragging my name around with hers.” And then, like she had been waiting for the perfect moment, she added, “What we had on We Got Married was bittersweet and simply the best of my life.”

Simple. Neutral. Yet lethal.

The mention of hers — Jang Y/N of Daydream — landed like a meteor impact.

A moment of silence. Then, all at once: Cameras raised. Microphones pushed closer. Murmurs turned into gasps. The press, fans, and even some fellow attendees felt the ground shake metaphorically.

The interviewer, momentarily caught off guard, nodded with a polite “Of course, understood.” But the damage was done. This statement was going to break the internet.

Aespa’s manager subtly signaled for them to wrap up, and the members were smoothly escorted away. As they stepped onto the other section of the red carpet of the gala, the buzz around them was immediate.

Giselle grinned. “Karina just gave Dispatch a month’s worth of headlines.” The night had only just begun, but one thing was certain, this moment was about to go viral.

─────────────────────

@kpopnewz: BREAKING — Karina of Aespa just shut down all rumors regarding her connection with Jang Y/N of Daydream at the K-Muse Gala 2025. “We don’t have that much relation anymore, so I’d appreciate it if everyone could stop dragging my name around with hers.” But then she ADDED—“What we had on We Got Married was bittersweet and simply the best of my life.” Fans are LOSING IT. #Karina #Aespa #SareureukGala #Y/N #Daydream

──────────────────────

@aespa4everr: Wait, WAIT! DID SHE JUST HARD LAUNCH A DISMISSAL???

@daydreemlefttoes: I have never seen someone so politely set fire to an entire ship before.

@kwangya_insider: This is NOT how I expected the gala to go. But also… why do I feel like there’s more to this? 🤨🤨

@y/n_cvmdvmp: Oh we are SO BACK.

@hearts4jimin: So you’re telling me I should be worried AND hopeful at the same time?????

@rina_y/niee_child: KARINA, WHO ALLOWED YOU TO BE SO POLITE WHILE ENDING US???

Inside the Sareureuk Gala

Right on cue, Aespa and Daydream stepped onto the grand staircase for their final pose before heading inside. The moment both groups stood together, a tidal wave of cheers and screams erupted from the crowd.

Even after Karina’s statement earlier, the energy was electric — fans were losing their minds over their faves being on the same steps.

We Got Married had its perks, but its disadvantages were just as relentless. No matter where Karina and Y/N went, their names were always linked together, their past impossible to escape.

Maybe there was more to the story. Maybe not. But for now, Karina — Yoo Jimin herself — had shut down the speculation, and that was that.

A suited staff member gestured for Aespa to head inside, and they gracefully followed his lead through the towering double doors of the grand hall. The doors shut behind them with a soft but definitive thud, leaving Daydream still outside, braving the flashing cameras and screaming questions.

Reporters weren’t holding back:

“Daydream, look over here!”

“Y/N, was that true?!”

“Yurim, you look stunning tonight!”

“Hayeon! Over here!”

“Y/N! Y/N! You weren’t dating Karina at all?!”

Despite the media chaos, Daydream kept their composure, waving politely before a Gala staff member signaled them forward.

It was their turn to enter.

This was Daydream’s first-ever high-profile gala. Their first time stepping into a world where entertainment, fashion, and business royalty mingled in one extravagant setting.

And unlike the red carpet, there were no cameras inside.

The Grand Hall - Fashion Exhibit

The first part of the evening was dedicated to a fashion exhibit, showcasing high-end brands alongside standout local designers.

From the mezzanine balcony, guests in couture gowns and tailored suits watched as celebrities strolled through the exhibit, admiring the artistry of the pieces displayed in glass cases, a necessary precaution against wandering hands.

Aespa and Daydream, though not interacting, were not far apart in the exhibit. The two groups were separated only by BIBI and Chungha, who were partners for the night.

Y/N’s eyes flickered toward Karina.

She wasn’t even being subtle about it.

No matter how much she tried to focus on the dazzling gowns and meticulously crafted suits, her gaze kept gravitating back to Aespa’s leader.

She could admit it — this was one of her favorite looks on Karina.

The backless Balmain dress. The way the fabric shimmered under the warm glow of the chandeliers. The diamond earrings.

Karina looked... beautiful.

Her fingers twitched against the fabric of her dress as an idea formed in her mind.

What if she just walked up to Karina right now and said it?

What if she, in the middle of this gala, just casually strolled over and told Karina, "Hey, you look really pretty tonight." Wearing a confident smirk on her face and how the light focused on both of them.

Y/N imagined it.

She’d walk up confidently, a relaxed smile on her face. The kind that said she had zero ulterior motives. Just a normal compliment from one idol to another. No big deal.

Karina would blink at her, processing the words. Then Ningning, blinking too, would turn to Winter, who would turn to Giselle, who would turn back to Karina.

The silence would be deafening.

Karina, after a solid three seconds of staring, would tilt her head and go, “…Okay?”

Y/N imagined turning slightly, just to check how her own members were reacting — only to find Yurim looking absolutely mortified, Hayeon with her hands covering her face, and Soojin visibly pretending she didn’t know her. The same goes for the other three members.

Even BIBI and Chungha would be giving her side-eyes of concern.

The imaginary scene crashed to a humiliating halt when reality snapped back—

“Oh, you have a busy pair of eyes, buddy.”

Y/N jumped slightly, blinking back into the present moment. Yurim had stepped beside her, smirking.

“…What?” Y/N asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

Yurim raised an eyebrow. “What’s got you so interested? The gowns? The lights? Or something or someone a little shinier?” Yurim's voice raised a pitch and she's already teasing the poor girl.

Y/N, visibly thrown off, cleared her throat. “This place has pretty lights. I love lights, remember?” she replied smoothly, her deflection almost too perfect.

It wasn’t even a lie. Y/N genuinely loved pretty lights.

That was one of the reasons she’d always wanted to visit Shanghai, Hong Kong, and Chongqing’s night districts — the dazzling neon signs, the city skylines, the glow of the streets at midnight.

Yurim let out a quiet snort. “Right. Lights.” Almost rolling her eyes at Y/N's answer.

Then, with a mischievous grin, she added, “You love lights so much that your entire room looks like a discount planetarium. The fairy lights, the fifteen sleep lights, and oh, let’s not forget, the ring with a tiny flashlight that you bought just because ‘it’s useful.’” Yurim reminded Y/N of her lights collection.

Y/N groaned. “It is useful.” She retorted immediately and defended her random interest.

“Sure, buddy,” Yurim patted her back dramatically. “And I’m sure this gala has the most fascinating lights you’ve ever seen. Totally why you’re so distracted.” The Daydream leader teased Y/N once again.

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Because, yeah. The lights were beautiful. But Karina? Karina looked otherworldly.

Gala Dinner & Performances

The grand hall transitioned into the dinner and performances segment of the night. Guests settled at their assigned tables, where a multi-course meal would be served while top-tier artists performed on stage.

Coincidentally. Again.

Daydream and Aespa’s tables were right next to each other.

It wasn’t the worst thing ever, but it certainly wasn’t great — especially not for Y/N, who now had a direct line of sight to Karina. The cross-facing (if that’s even a word) was real. Y/N was directly opposite Yoo Jimin.

Karina, for some reason, was always perfectly within view no matter where Y/N looked. She could try to focus on her wine glass, the cutlery, or even the table centerpiece, but somehow, Karina’s stupidly elegant existence was still right there.

Meanwhile, Aespa was sharing their table with models and high-profile public figures. Their group of ten sat in refined poise as servers poured chilled apple juice into their crystal glasses — a silent cue that the first course was about to be served.

A familiar voice filled the venue as the stage lights dimmed, then focused on the main stage.

D.O. stepped into the spotlight.

The audience quieted, their attention shifting to the celebrated vocalist as he opened his performance with his song, "Somebody."

Over at Aespa’s table, Giselle, Uchinaga Aeri herself, subtly nudged Karina with her elbow.

Then, with a small, amused smirk, she leaned in and muttered, “We’re so lucky fans aren’t allowed in here, or they’d be recording every single second of this and turning it into ‘evidence’ of you and Y/N dating.” Yes, those annoying videos on YouTube about the littlest of interaction that will be evidence or any photos idol post on their socials.

Karina, deadpan, took a slow sip of her apple juice. Then, with perfect comedic timing, she replied:

“…We Got Married Season 2 incoming.”

Giselle choked on nothing.

Ningning, who had been listening in, leaned forward with an entertained grin. “Honestly, at this point, they should just hand you two an award for Best Situationship.” The main vocalist chimed in to joke about the whole situation too.

Karina sighed. “It’s not a situationship if there’s no —” She paused, waving her hand vaguely, “situation.”

Ningning quirked a brow. “Uh-huh. Sure.” She gave the Aespa leader a good 2 seconds look of judging her answer.

The teasing continued for a bit before they moved on to their meals, their conversation naturally shifting to other topics.

But somewhere in the middle of listening to Ningning rant about a recent fashion scandal, Karina’s eyes betrayed her.

She snuck a glance at Y/N.

Over at the next table, Y/N and the Daydream members were engaged in polite conversation with their sunbaes — Rosé, a few actors, and well-known figures in the industry.

Y/N, in particular, seemed comfortable catching up with Rosé, nodding along to whatever the BLACKPINK vocalist was saying.

Karina felt her lips twitch, the beginnings of a smile creeping up.

And then—

The lead vocalist snuck a glance towards Karina's direction and Y/N let out a small, barely-contained laugh.

It was soft, but Karina caught it immediately.

A slow blink. Then a raised brow.

Without hesitation, Karina gestured toward Y/N before mouthing silently:

"What? Keep it to yourself, dumbo."

Y/N immediately bit down on her smile, but her amusement was already written all over her face. Instead of responding, she turned away, fixing her expression into one of pure neutrality before leaning toward Soojin, one of her members.

“Anyway,” Y/N said, in a very forced casual tone, “did you see that one dress in the exhibit earlier? The one with the, uh, the sparkly details?” She even tilted her head a little speaking to Soojin.

Soojin gave her a long, knowing stare. Y/N pretended she didn’t see it.

A few minutes later...

By now, the first course had been served and enjoyed, light snacks and refreshing drinks keeping the guests entertained as the gala smoothly progressed.

As staff prepared the next meal, another performance was introduced.

D.O. took the stage again.

This time, the music was different. Slower. Nostalgic. A few murmurs rippled across the tables as the opening chords of a classic R&B song filled the venue.

“End of the Road” by Boyz II Men.

The moment D.O. started singing, the entire hall seemed to pause.

"Although we've come to the end of the road

Still I can't let go

It's unnatural, you belong to me, I belong to you…"

And just like that, the atmosphere shifted. For a song that had nothing to do with them, it sure felt painfully relevant.

Y/N, who had been chatting with Rosé a second ago, suddenly wasn't chatting anymore. Her fingers lightly traced the rim of her glass, and her gaze, like a reflex, drifted across the table.

Right back to Karina.

Karina, despite her earlier resolve to focus on anything but Y/N, was also glancing back at the exact same moment.

Their eyes met.

A split second. Nothing. And yet, it felt like everything. The song played on.

Neither of them looked away immediately. Y/N swallowed. Karina’s fingers tightened around her glass.

Then—

A loud snicker.

It was Ningning. "Not you two making this song your background music," Ningning teased, entirely shameless.

Karina sighed, exasperated but caught.

Giselle, being just as insufferable, leaned in. "Oh, I don't know, Jimin. Seems kinda unnatural." The Japanese girl seemed so content to tease her friend about it too.

Winter gasped dramatically. "You belong to me, I belong to you…" She perfectly sang-whispered that one particular part in the song with a hand on her chest.

Karina shot them all a look. "I hope your desserts come out half-melted," she muttered, reaching for her juice.

Ningning, unimpressed, shrugged. "And yet that won’t change the fact that you two just had a moment." She wiggled her brows with a sly smile playing on her lips.

Karina exhaled sharply and looked away, trying to focus on anything else. Unfortunately, “anything else” just so happened to be Y/N, who was also trying very hard to act normal.

She was nodding along to whatever Soojin was saying — but Karina saw the way her lips kept pressing together, like she was fighting off a grin.

Somewhere across the room, D.O. kept singing.

"You belong to me, I belong to you…"

And the wandering glances never really stopped.

Hours Later – The Gala’s Grand Ending

The night was coming to a close.

The tall, grand doors of the venue swung open, signaling the official end of the event. Outside, the chaos was waiting.

A sea of media outlets, flashing cameras, and eager fans had been stationed there for hours, braving the night just to catch glimpses of their favorite celebrities.

Two seconds after the doors opened — boom.

A flood of A-list Korean actors, top-tier idols, renowned soloists, influencers, and power figures in the industry began stepping out into the spotlight.

Cameras raised. Flashes blinding. Reporters shouting over one another.

“Kim Taeri, can we get a quick interview?”

“Won Bin, it’s been years! Where have you been?!”

“Please look here!”

“One pose for the cameras, please!”

“Can we get an interview?”

The gala might have ended inside, but outside? It was only getting started.

Back Inside

Aespa was still inside, making their way toward the exit with their assistants trailing behind, adjusting their long gowns to keep them from dragging on the floor.

Halfway through the hallway, Jimin suddenly stopped. “You girls go ahead,” she said abruptly, her tone casual but her eyes flickered back toward the dining area. “I left something at our table.”

Aeri, Minjeong, and Yizhuo exchanged glances.

A beat.

Then Minjeong squinted. Suspicious. “Uh-huh. Come back quickly,” she responded, but she didn’t push.

Jimin simply nodded before spinning on her heels, heading back without another word. The Aespa members watched her retreating figure, their gazes filled with silent, knowing amusement.

Then — Daydream walked past them, also on their way out. Except there were only six of them. Where’s the seventh?

Before anyone could voice the question, Aespa was ushered forward, their presence requested for media interviews and photo ops.

Outside. Back at the red carpet.

At the Red Carpet

Aeri, Minjeong, and Yizhuo — now outside — decided to drift over to the Daydream girls.

“It’s been a while.”

That was the excuse they went with.

But really, the last time they’d properly interacted was during the filming of We Got Married and they all knew that was messy history.

As they stood there, a camera or twenty zoomed in on the rare girl group interaction. Fans were silently losing their minds behind their screens, already clipping moments to post online.

But something felt… off.

Each group was missing a member. The thought barely settled before it happened.

The air changed. A sudden eruption of screams. Cameras immediately snapped toward the venue’s entrance.

The members of both groups instinctively turned, eyes widening at the sight that greeted them.

Some of their mouths fell open.

Walking out of the grand hall, hand in hand, were Karina of Aespa — Yoo Jimin — and Y/N of Daydream.

Smiling. At the crowd. At the cameras. At each other. Their interlocked hands were firm but natural. A flicker of anxiety danced across their faces, but it was masked well beneath their poised expressions.

The media lost its mind.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

A wave of photos snapped in an instant. And not just that, the whole thing was being live-streamed. And comments? Flooding in at lightspeed.

──────────────────────

Live Stream Comments

[@STAYsmashARMY]: HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO BREATHE RN??????

[@ChoiYeonjun’sEyebrow]: NAH THIS IS SO UNREAL LMAO I CAN’T.

[@Ningning’sTeaSpill]: NINGNING PLEASE SAY SOMETHING I KNOW YOU’RE DYING TO COMMENT ON THIS.

[@Winter’sLeftShoe]: THEIR HANDS. INTERLOCKED. HELD. INTERTWINED. CONNECTED. PHYSICALLY.

[@kpopstan_99]: NAURRR DIDN’T SHE HARD-LAUNCH DENIAL A FEW HOURS AGO??

[@karina_y/n_cult]: I CAN’T BREATHE. HOLDING HANDS?? IN THIS ECONOMY??

[@winterbabyyy]: THE OTHER MEMBERS’ FACES LMFAO Aeri is internally SCREAMING

[@jaewookkarinanation]: I am DISAPPOINTED. Karina should’ve been with Lee Jaewook instead :/

[@smentmessupdate]: We need SM’s press team to wake up immediately before the whole company burns down.

[@kwangya_insider]: seeee I told y'all that there's more to this whole thing!!

──────────────────────

So… Didn’t Karina just shut down their dating rumors a few hours ago?

Yes. Yes, she did. So then… what was this? Well, both Y/N and Jimin would like to call it, planned.

A messy, risky, wickedly satisfying plan.

Jimin had no regrets. If she was going to do something crazy, she’d do it right. Y/N, mildly overwhelmed, glanced at her.

Jimin gave her hand a firm squeeze, a silent cue that said—

"Let’s give them something real to talk about."

And so they did. Right there, in front of everyone. The night had just become legendary.

The moment Y/N and Jimin walked further forward, positioning themselves in full view of the crowd, the energy shifted entirely.

The Aespa and Daydream members were still processing what was happening, their wide eyes tracking the couple’s every movement.

Aeri, arms crossed, gave a knowing nod, thumb resting against her chin like a detective. “Knew it.” She squinted. “They’ve been looking suspicious as hell recently.”

Minjeong, still in shock, turned to her. “Why didn’t you tell us then?!” While raising a brow close to her hairline.

“I wanted to see how long they could keep up the act, duh.” Aeri flicked her hair over her shoulder.

Meanwhile, Yizhuo, forever the savage maknae, arched a brow and smirked. “Damn. All that denying just for a ‘We Got Married’ re-run in real life. SM gotta be shaking right now.” She always had something good to say.

Minjeong gave her a look. "You literally just screamed when they walked out holding hands." The lead vocalist of Aespa pointed out her previous antics.

"Okay, but that was for dramatic effect." Ning Yizhuo countered back and she raised both hands up, mouthing, "Hashtag, guilty."

Meanwhile, Yurim and Dajeong of Daydream had fully frozen in place, their disbelief evident. Yurim’s knees even wobbled, prompting Dajeong to grab her arm.

But the real moment, the one that would rewrite K-pop history was about to unfold.

Jimin took a deep breath, then turned to Y/N, eyes filled with something undeniably real. Her hand slid to the back of Y/N’s neck.

And then—

She leaned in and kissed her.

Right there. In front of everyone. A wordless announcement. A statement bolder than any press release. The screams that followed rattled the venue.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

Every camera in the area went off at once, catching the moment that would go down in history.

Jimin and Y/N could faintly hear their members losing their minds in the background.

Yurim? Looked like she might faint. Dajeong? Mouth wide open. Aeri? Screaming internally. Minjeong? Still buffering.

And Yizhuo?

"They better not break up, or this reveal will be embarrassing as hell—"

Minjeong slapped a hand over her mouth before she could finish. "Alright, alright, we get it. Just let the girl have her moment, Ning." Minjeong nodded her head and tamed the maknae down.

But there was no stopping this now.

The Aespa and Daydream members watched in absolute shock as Jimin and Y/N broke the kiss, turning to face the media like they hadn’t just shaken the entire industry to its core.

Y/N’s hand instinctively found Jimin’s again, fingers intertwining effortlessly.

And just like that, K-pop had its new ‘IT’ couple.

The press, recovering from their shock, immediately pounced. Reporters rushed forward, their voices overlapping.

“Karina, didn’t you just deny these rumors earlier?! What happened?!”

The Aespa and Daydream managers were already on alert, positioning themselves between the girls and the reporters.

Jimin, ever the composed one, cleared her throat, putting on a casual smile. “No reason,” she replied smoothly. “It was all part of the act. The only mistake was that Y/N couldn’t keep her composure.” She shot a playful glance at Y/N, who snorted.

The reporters, not missing a beat, threw another question.

“How long have you two been together?”

Without hesitation—

"It's been a month!" Y/N yelled as she tugged Jimin forward, the two of them power-walking away from the press with their fingers still locked together.

This was the plan all along — to deny, deny, deny, then hard launch at the biggest industry event of the year.

And it worked.

[inky-writing]

Book II, Chapter 12: Caius's past

Carlisle Cullen x Reader

Warnings: my bad writing, car theft, blood, death, threats, very long, weird, typos maybe, for the need of the story i changed some things concerning Caius.

Word count: 4, 221

<<< Previous part

March 19/20, 2006

The tires of the commercial airliner hadn’t even cooled from landing when Alice had already spotted the vehicle she needed.

“Alice—what are you doing?” Y/N asked, confused, as she followed the vampire across the rental lot in airport’s parking garage.

“Borrowing something,” Alice said coolly. “We don’t have time to rent or wait—we merely have hours.”

Before Y/N could argue further, she heard a sharp click and realized Alice had just hotwired the sleek, glossy yellow Porsche parked near the exit. The engine purred to life like a lion being stirred awake. Alice gave Y/N a wink. “Hop in.”

By the time Bella, still visibly shaken and silent from the weight of the flight and what awaited them, slid into the back seat, Alice had already punched the gas, speeding them out of the garage and down the winding roads.

The small red-roofed buildings of Volterra came into view as the morning sun climbed above the hills. The streets were packed. It was St. Marcus Day, and the entire city was dressed in crimson cloaks and celebratory chaos. The townspeople flooded the cobbled roads, laughter and music mingling with the church bells ringing at noon.

But all Y/N could feel was dread.

“This is it,” Alice said tensely. “Edward is planning to step into the sunlight in front of the clock tower at noon. That’s just minutes away.”

Bella's eyes widened in terror. “Then we’re too late—”

“No,” Alice cut in, sharp and focused. “We have just enough time. Bella, you’ll have to run. The alley by the clock tower leads to a courtyard with a fountain. He’ll be just past it.”

Bella didn’t hesitate. As Alice skidded the Porsche to a halt just outside the festival barricades, Bella threw the door open and bolted into the crowd.

Y/N followed after her, already pulling her bag over her shoulder as she jumped out of the car. She followed close behind, dodging townsfolk, children swinging paper swords, and dancers twirling in crimson robes.

Y/N spotted Bella pushing through the crowd, heading for the clock tower at the far end. The town bells tolled again—the final chime before noon. Y/N’s heart raced. Then she saw him.

Edward, shirtless, pale as marble, stepping slowly into the sunlight beneath the clock tower’s shadow. His skin glittered like diamonds. He looked like something from another world, ethereal and godlike—and terribly, terribly doomed.

Bella screamed.

“Edward!”

Time seemed to slow as she sprinted across the stone square and threw herself through the fountain, water splashing everywhere, just as Edward stepped into the light.

She crashed into him, wrapping her arms around his chest, sobbing and shouting, and Edward staggered backward, stunned. For a moment, his red eyes couldn’t process what was real—until they finally met hers.

“You’re alive,” he whispered hoarsely, cradling her face, emotion flooding through his hollowed-out features.

“Yes,” Bella choked. “We’re here. We’re alive. But you won’t be if you step out there again—”

Y/N finally caught up, breathless but focused. She grabbed Edward’s arm. “We have to move. Now.”

They didn’t even get a second to breathe before they heard footsteps.

Alice appeared, slipping through the crowd with ease. “Too late,” she murmured, glancing behind them. “They’re here.”

From the mouth of an alleyway emerged Felix and Demetri, towering and imposing in their dark cloaks. Just behind them walked a smaller figure with porcelain skin, crimson eyes, and an eerily serene expression—Jane.

“Edward,” Demetri said, his voice polite but firm. “You’ve caused quite the scene.”

Edward straightened, putting Bella behind him instinctively. “We’ll leave immediately.”

Jane smiled faintly. “Oh, but that’s not for you to decide.”

Alice grabbed Bella’s and Y/N’s wrists. “Let’s go,” she said quickly. “If we don’t comply, they’ll make a scene.”

Demetri gestured. “Follow us. The Masters wish to speak with you all.”

And so, surrounded by ancient cobblestone streets and the echo of celebration still reverberating around the city, the four of them—Edward, Bella, Alice, and Y/N—were led away into the shadows beneath Volterra, descending into the lair of the Volturi.

The Volturi Throne Room

The heavy stone door groaned as Felix and Demetri pushed it open. Cold, damp air wafted up from the ancient corridor, and Y/N immediately felt a pressure shift around her. It wasn’t just the temperature—it was the weight of something older than time, laced with blood, memory, and power.

She kept close to Alice and Bella. Edward walked ahead, protective but composed, though Y/N could see the tension in the rigid set of his shoulders.

The passage led them into a vast, echoing chamber—the Volturi throne room.

It was massive, with towering stone pillars, long black banners embroidered with crimson insignias hanging like veils of shadow, and torches that burned with a strange, blue-tinged flame. At the far end of the room stood three thrones carved from volcanic stone—obsidian and polished to an unnatural sheen.

Two of them were occupied.

On the left sat Marcus, slumped, pale, with a gaunt, almost corpse-like appearance. His eyes were dull, nearly lifeless, yet something about them pierced through Y/N—as if he saw everything and still cared for none of it.

To the right, sharp-eyed and severe, sat Caius. His white hair shimmered like moonlight, and his expression was that of constant disdain. He watched them enter with the suspicion of a predator. Every muscle in his posture was taut, calculating.

But it was the empty throne between them that Y/N kept glancing at—until a voice, high and eerie in its musicality, chimed through the air:

“Ah! There they are!”

Y/N turned her head quickly.

Striding down a side hallway with his cloak billowing like liquid night was Aro. His pale, nearly translucent skin made him appear more phantom than anything, and when he smiled, it was with far too many teeth and far too much glee.

He approached like someone greeting beloved guests, hands clasped in delight.

“Alice,” Aro cooed, his red eyes gleaming. “And Edward. Oh, it’s been too long, far too long. And Bella Swan... how fascinating.” Then his gaze slid to Y/N, and he paused.

Y/N suppressed the immediate wave of dread curling in her chest. Her magic, hidden deep beneath her surface, seemed to coil tighter, instinctively shielding itself.

“And you,” Aro said with delight, almost reverence.

She held her ground, heart pounding but outwardly calm. “Y/N.”

Aro stepped closer. “May I?”

He reached out a hand toward hers. Y/N glanced at Alice. The vampire gave her a subtle nod—play along, but don’t let anything slip.

She took Aro’s hand.

He grasped it with a gentle reverence and closed his eyes.

Y/N felt a rush of something—like wind through a cracked door—but she focused all her energy on clamping her magic down, silencing every thread, hiding every echo of the grimoire, every vision, every memory of the ring or the fire or Carlisle’s name from the surface of her mind.

Aro’s eyes opened slowly. He looked... puzzled.

“You’re hiding something,” he said, not accusingly—more like a curious child.

He let go, his smile never fading. “You are something special.”

Bella shifted behind Y/N, her hand gripping Edward’s arm. “What do you want with us?” she asked.

Aro turned, his expression bright again. “Well, my dear, you must understand—we are the guardians of our kind. When rules are broken, consequences must follow. Humans who know too much—well, you present a... dilemma.”

Edward stepped in front of Bella, his voice hard. “Bella won’t betray us.”

“No,” Aro mused, “I believe she would not. But it is not always intent that causes danger—it is inevitability.”

Alice’s voice rang out, clear and confident. “She won’t be human forever.”

All eyes turned to her.

Aro’s smile slowly widened. “Oh, dear. What a fascinating claim. But how can you know?”

Alice took a breath and stepped forward. “Because I’ve seen it. Bella will become one of us. I’ll turn her.”

Aro's expression lit with wonder. “A seer. I didn’t know. Marcus, did you know?”

The seated vampire barely blinked.

Aro turned back and reached for Alice’s hand, which she gave willingly. His red eyes fluttered shut, and the room went still. Y/N could feel the air change—as if Aro were breathing in thoughts instead of oxygen.

When he released her, he looked positively euphoric. “Magnificent! Your visions are unlike any I’ve tasted. So precise, so wide-reaching... and so beautifully suited to our needs.” His voice dipped, almost seductive. 

Caius’s voice cut through the room, sharp and displeased. “You offer mercy for one girl’s word of a possible future?”

“We could always do it now,” Aro said pleasantly. “Turn her here and now—solve the problem, as it were.”

“Absolutely not,” Edward said.

Y/N’s pulse quickened, but she kept her mouth shut.

It was then Caius shifted on his throne, his eyes narrowing. “Her,” he said, pointing at Y/N. “You—what is your name again?”

Y/N glanced up. “Y/N.”

“Y/N,” Caius repeated slowly, like he was tasting the word. “Yes. That is the name you use now. But I’ve seen you before.”

A silence spread through the room like cold mist.

Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”

Caius leaned forward. “I know your face. I remember it.” His lips curled slightly. “From before my turning. Long before. Before the fall of Troy.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted. “That’s not possible.”

“You think not?” Caius mused. “There was a woman... a girl. Eyes like storms. A mystic... they burned her in the hills near Athens.”

Edward frowned. “You’re saying she was alive three thousand years ago?”

Marcus finally stirred, his voice a whisper of wind. “Some souls do not perish. They cycle.”

Y/N couldn’t move.

“Enough,” Alice said firmly, stepping beside Y/N.

Aro nodded, almost regretfully. “Very well. Let it be. For now.”

Caius still stared at Y/N, suspicion written in every etched line of his face.

Aro waved a hand. “You may go. But remember, friends... fate can be so unpredictable. Do not tempt it.”

Felix and Demetri escorted them back to the door, silent now, more watchful.

As the heavy doors shut behind them, Y/N finally exhaled, her heart thundering in her chest.

Alice whispered under her breath, “You did well. You hid it.”

But all Y/N could think of was Caius’s face.

Had he truly seen her before? And if he had—what did that mean for who she really was?

March 20, 2006 — Nightfall

The stone corridors of the ancient citadel were quiet again. Twilight had long since bled into black, and even the flickering torchlight seemed hesitant to disturb the silence that followed the day's strange encounter.

Only the three of them remained in the great throne chamber. The guards had withdrawn. The mortals had gone. The immortal visitors were far from earshot.

Caius stood with his arms crossed near a column, the hem of his cloak brushing the floor. The usual tight coil of disdain resting in his features had softened into something rarer: contemplation.

He could feel Aro’s eyes on him.

“Still,” Aro said softly, from his place by the central throne, “you seemed... affected by her. Y/N.”

Caius didn’t move, his voice clipped. “I recognized her.”

“Not a resemblance?” Aro asked, stepping down one marble stair. “You were certain.”

“I said what I meant.”

Across the room, Marcus sat unmoving, his gaze unfocused, as though staring through centuries.

Aro’s voice dropped a little in tone. “I can’t recall you ever making such a claim before. You rarely speak of your human years at all.”

Caius’s jaw tightened. “Because they were irrelevant.”

“But not now.”

Silence fell again.

After a moment, Caius turned to face his brother fully. His eyes, pale and ancient, narrowed slightly as if bracing against the memory he was about to allow breath again.

“She was called Astria then.”

Aro’s brows lifted. “A Grecian name. Fitting.”

“She was born in Athens, during the reign of her father—Pandion the First.” Caius paused, eyes unfocusing slightly as if the shadows in the room carried echoes. “He was a cautious king. But it was her mother who inspired fear in the court. Zeuxippe. The naiad. Or so the myths claim.”

“She was believed to be a naiad. And in those days... belief was everything.”

Aro’s expression remained curious, but he didn’t interrupt.

“She was the king’s last child,” Caius continued. “A daughter, born under a sky so flooded with stars that the priests of Athena declared her blessed—divine, even. They called her Astria, the ‘maiden of stars.’” His mouth twisted slightly, the ancient syllables oddly soft on his tongue after so long.

“And you?” Aro asked. “How did you know her?”

“My mother was her nourrice,” Caius replied, voice harder now. “A servant trusted to raise royal children. She fed her, bathed her, slept beside her while the queen wept.”

“Ah,” Aro said softly, intrigued. “So you met the little princess.”

“I barely remember the meeting itself. My mother brought me along one evening. She was teaching me to grind herbs, to crush dried figs into the warm wine to help infants sleep. I waited outside the chamber, but Astria found me.” Caius gave a sharp exhale—not quite a laugh, but there was softness, fondness. “She wanted to know what I was doing. She asked if I was a healer.”

“Curious even then,” Aro murmured.

“She was... bright. Brighter than the others. But it wasn’t just wit. There was something else in her eyes. Something... wrong for a child.”

“Wrong?” Aro tilted his head.

“Too much knowing,” Caius said simply. 

A pause.

“I thought maybe it was just her father’s influence. Or her mother’s stories.”

“But it left an impression,” Aro said.

Aro's POV

It startled Aro—more than it should have.

Caius was offering his hand.

For over two thousand years, he had known this man. This brother. This cold pillar of wrath and pride. And in all that time, Caius had never once allowed Aro to touch his skin and access his mind.

Not once. Until now.

No flourish, no grand declaration. Just the simple, steady presentation of a pale hand.

Aro paused before taking it. This wasn’t merely a gift of trust—this was an invitation to the sacred. To the guarded temple of Caius’s memory.

Wordlessly, Aro reached out, wrapping his fingers lightly around Caius’s. His skin was ice. His mind—ancient, sharp, fortified—flooded open like a stone vault yielding to a master key.

And then—

The first vision hit him.

A garden. Athens. Probably mid-spring.

He was looking through Caius’s six-year-old eyes, shorter than he was used to, the light of a Mediterranean sun warming the edges of a dusty palace garden.

Low voices echoed through stone columns: “Caius! Caius, where are you?” It was his mother’s voice. Warm. Patient. A bit annoyed.

He—Caius—was crouched behind a hedge. And beside him—

A girl.

Four years old. Her eyes were large, too large for her face, and they gleamed.

Aro froze.

There she was. Y/N. Astria.

It wasn’t a resemblance. It wasn’t similarity.

It was her.

She put a small finger to her lips, shushing the young Caius, who was trying not to laugh.

“I want to show you something,” she whispered, eyes sparkling.

And then, without hesitation, she turned her little hand upward.

A single breath passed.

A flower bloomed in her palm.

Aro could feel young Caius’s awe like a heartbeat. The child’s breath caught. His mind had no word for “magic,” not really—but it was what he thought of.

Astria giggled, delighted by his wide-eyed wonder.

“See?” she whispered. “The flowers like me.”

The memory dissolved—

—And a new one surged in.

A high summer day. They were older. Caius was ten. Astria eight.

They were running—barefoot and breathless—through the narrow side alleys of the palace compound, giggling in bursts as footsteps thundered behind them.

“You two little monsters!” a teenage boy’s voice shouted.

“Run!” Astria called, her voice full of laughter.

Caius was right beside her, clutching the edge of his tunic which was now bright blue—thanks to the dye they had smeared on it as a prank.

Behind them, two furious older brothers: Theutras and Butes. Royal sons. Heirs. Stiff, proud, and easily humiliated.

The dye trick had not gone over well.

The two children darted through the olive grove, slipping out of sight beneath a hanging vine and climbing swiftly into the low branches of an ancient fig tree.

They stifled laughter. Astria’s feet dangled from the branch. Her elbow knocked against his. Dirt streaked her cheek.

“Caius,” she whispered between giggles, “let’s never stop being friends.”

He laughed. She grinned. And they spat in their palms, sealing a sacred child’s promise.

“Best friends forever,” she said.

“Always.”

The memory shifted.

A beach. The sky heavy with the dusk of an approaching storm.

Caius was fifteen now. Astria—thirteen.

She sat curled in a woolen wrap on the sand, her arms wrapped around her knees, and she was crying—the silent kind. No sobbing, no theatrics. Her cheeks were wet and her body shivered with the weight of uncontainable power.

A few feet away, Caius stared out at the grey sea, his face hard with tension.

“They want to lock me away,” Astria whispered, voice shaking. “Procne said she’d see to it. Philomela said I wasn’t ‘meant’ to be born.”

He didn’t answer. His fists clenched.

“They think I’m cursed,” she added. “But it’s not a curse. It’s me. It’s what I am.”

Her voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to set the room on fire. I was angry and... it happened.”

“They’re jealous,” Caius said. “Afraid.”

She looked at him, desperate. “Even my brothers. They’re whispering about the succession. About whether I’m a threat.”

“What about your father?” he asked.

Astria’s lips trembled.

“He still calls me ‘my light,’” she whispered. “But I can see even he is scared now.”

And then the wind picked up.

It whipped through her hair. The scent of rain surged.

And as her tears fell, the clouds wept with her.

It rained—not gradually, not politely, but in a sudden, heavy downpour that soaked them both in seconds.

She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

“Maybe,” she said, almost to herself, “I’m not supposed to stay here.”

Caius looked at her then, not as a child, not as a friend—but as something sacred, something unnamable.

The vision dissolved.

Astria was fifteen years old now. The little girl from the palace gardens had grown into a solemn, haunted young woman. Her once radiant spirit seemed dimmed, like a fading candle struggling against the wind.

Her father, King Pandion, had died just a week before.

The light in her eyes—the spark Caius had always seen—had almost vanished.

Her oldest brother, Erichthonius, was now King of Athens, and the palace halls whispered with venomous words.

Her siblings no longer treated her as the beloved sister, but as a blemish, a dangerous anomaly. They mocked her relentlessly—whispers in the dark corridors, cruel jabs at her power that they feared and did not understand.

They tried to provoke her.

To trap her.

To force her to reveal the depth of her abilities, so they could imprison her, isolate her, erase the threat she represented.

Caius was there—always there.

The one steady force in her chaos.

He was not afraid.

He knew.

He knew she was not evil.

He knew her light—however faint—was still there beneath the bruises and bitter smiles.

But his heart ached for her, because the world around her was closing like a noose.

The memory shifted again.

Astria was seventeen.

She had grown taller, her features sharper, hardened by years of scorn.

Her sisters, Procne and Philomela, had been married off—exiled from the palace, traded like pawns in a cruel political game.

Erichthonius sought to marry Astria as well, but no one wanted an aoidos, an enchantress, for a wife.

Rumors of her powers had spread like wildfire beyond Athens.

No noble family wished to risk their bloodline.

Caius had not spoken to her in months.

Blinded by his own ambition, he had sought favor in the courts, craving status and influence—caught in the dizzying pull of power.

He had ignored her messages.

Ignored her pleas.

Ignored the light she still tried to kindle within him.

Astria had reached out.

He had turned away.

The vision darkened.

A week before Astria’s eighteenth birthday.

The tension inside the palace was suffocating.

Her powers, long repressed beneath layers of fear and cruelty, lashed out.

The humiliation she had suffered at the hands of Erichthonius—the beatings, the cruel taunts—had shattered her fragile control.

Her magic surged uncontrollably. In a tragic burst, it killed the king’s eldest son, her own nephew, a boy of only eight.

The palace erupted in chaos, and Erichthonius’s eyes burned with rage.

“You are a curse,” he declared, “A poison upon Athens that must be cut out.”

Caius stood defiant beside her, fury raging like wildfire in his chest.

He tried to shield her, to defend her from the court’s venom.

But the verdict was harsh, merciless.

“She must be burned,” Erichthonius pronounced, his voice cold and final.

Then, Aro saw it as if through Caius’s eyes—hot, unforgiving sunlight, the crackle of dry wood stacked beneath a pyre.

Astria, crying, was bound.

Her eyes met Caius’s one last time.

He could do nothing.

He could only weep.

The flames climbed.

The smoke swallowed the sky as her screams were heard.

And with it, the last light of a girl born under the stars, flickered out.

The Final Memory Unveiled

The air in the room thickened as Aro’s mind delved deeper, piercing the last veil Caius had kept tightly shut. It was the memory Caius never meant to share—too raw, too personal, and yet it slipped through the cracks, unbidden.

Athens, three years after Astria’s death.

Caius was twenty-three.

He was no longer the boy hiding in palace gardens or the friend bound by childhood promises.

He had risen through the ranks of the Athenian court, a man hardened by loss and ambition.

He held a position of influence—power, prestige—everything he thought he wanted to fill the hollow inside.

Yet, beneath the surface, a torment lingered, gnawing at his soul.

The memory began on a cold, clear night.

The city was asleep, streets empty except for the faint flicker of torchlight from distant guards.

Caius walked alone along the outskirts of Athens, away from the marble columns and bustling forums.

He was deep in thought—haunted by the ghost of Astria, the girl he had failed to protect, the light he couldn’t save.

As he moved through the shadows, a sudden sharp pain pierced his forearm—sharp, burning, electric.

He cried out, a raw, guttural scream ripping from his throat.

But the city—his people—heard nothing.

No footsteps hurried to his aid.

No voice answered his plea.

He was alone.

Alone with the searing pain and the cold realization that his life was slipping away.

The wound throbbed violently, a venom spreading beneath his skin.

In that moment, his thoughts were not of himself—but of her.

Astria.

The girl he had loved like a sister, the one whose light had been snuffed out too soon.

He thought he was joining her—crossing into the same eternal night where she waited.

He thought he would finally be free of the crushing guilt that had weighed on him for years.

The guilt of not standing stronger, not shielding her from the cruelty of her family and fate.

The venom worked quickly.

His vision blurred. His muscles ached. His breath hitched in his throat. Then, the transformation began.

Pain gave way to an unnatural strength.

The cold of death was replaced by a fierce, almost intoxicating vitality.

His senses sharpened—sounds, smells, and sights exploding around him.

The night air felt alive, humming with ancient energy.

His skin cooled, heart slowed, but a fire burned within—an immortal spark.

He would not be weak.

He would not allow the past to claim him.

He would protect what remained of light in the world.

Though Astria was gone, her memory fueled him.

He would carry her name forward—not as a curse, but as a beacon.

Aro pulled back his hand, breaking the connection.

The room was still, the weight of the vision heavy in the air.

“This turning,” Aro murmured, voice soft with reverence and sorrow, “shaped the man you are.”

Caius’s eyes were dark pools of pain and resolve.

“Yes,” he whispered, “it was a death and a rebirth. The price I paid for the power to never lose another light like Astria.”

Aro understood then why Caius’s gaze had lingered on Y/N, why the memories haunted him.

Because somewhere beneath the centuries of darkness, there remained a thread connecting past and present—light and shadow.

And that thread was not yet broken. And it scared Aro. 

Tag list: @inky-bonnie @irelanrose @i-cant-pick-an-aesthetic09 @wandererthemadhatter @magical-spit @daechgustinad @audiiix @twilightbloodmoon @callmesev

[angelasscribbles]

The Big Mistake

Series: Mistake of a Lifetime

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings: Riley x Leo, Riley x Hana

Word Count: 1,104

Rating: MA

Warnings for this chapter: alludes to sex, probably some cursing

A/N: Ya’ll haven’t had anything new from me in a while, so I decided to take this out of my WIP folder (where it’s been sitting, completed, for quite some time now) and offer it up. I make no promises about when this will be continued, as I have so much going on right now in real life. But, here it is. Happy Sunday.

My other stuff: Master List.

Riley blinked her eyes against the glare of light slipping through the floor to ceiling curtains she was facing. Her eyes darted from the elegant brocade curtains to the plush carpeting on the floor. She sat upright in confusion.

This was not her hotel room.

Her room was on the first floor of a nondescript budget friendly hotel she had booked online.

Judging by the plush furnishings and the high quality art on the walls, she was in a five star hotel. Through the curtains, she caught a glimpse of the city. The view was pretty good, so she must be on the top floor.

A muffled groan and rustling of sheets caught her attention. She turned her head to discover the reason for her confusion. Stretched out next to her in the double king sized bed was a shirtless man with tousled blond hair and rippling muscles. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to remember his name.

It started with an L. Lee… Leon or Louie or something like that.

His blue eyes blinked open as she tried to ease out of the bed without waking him. “Hey, where you going?”

“You caught me. I was just going to slip out quietly and avoid the awkward morning after small talk.”

“Okay. But at least let me buy you breakfast first. I’m not a complete cad.”

It was tempting. Free food, hot guy. Morning sex wouldn’t be the end of the world. “Okay, just let me text my girlfriend so she knows I wasn’t kidnapped last night.”

“Hana, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, how’d you—” She froze as she caught sight of her left hand. Lifting it in the air, she examined the diamond ring that sparkled and glinted on her ring finger. “Um… what did we do last night, exactly?”

“The usual,” he smirked, “Got drunk, danced a lot, there was sex. Lots of it if memory serves.”

“Is that all?”

“Why? What else—” He sat straight up in the bed as one particular memory shoved its way to the forefront of his consciousness. “Shit!”

She turned toward him and thrust the ring in his face. “Please tell me this is a novelty ring!”

“I can’t tell you that because I’m pretty sure it’s not.”

Her head shook vigorously from side to side. “No, no, no, no, this can’t be happening! We did not get married!”

“Well…”

“How was there a jewelry store open in the middle of the night?”

“I know a guy—"

She flung the covers back and bolted out of the bed, scooping her clothes off the floor. “No, there’s no way we got married! Don’t you need your birth certificate for that? Don’t you have to get a marriage license first?”

“Generally, yes. But there’s a reason that wouldn’t be an issue for me.” He got up and rummaged around the room. Once he found what he was looking for, he presented it to her.

She clutched last night’s dress to her body with one hand while she took the paper from him with the other. She stared down at it in horror. It was a marriage certificate all right. Riley Brooks and Leo Rys, joined in holy matrimony. Her hands started to shake. “No, no, no, this isn’t happening!”

“I mean…. Would being married to me be the worst thing that—”

She glared at him. “I don’t even know you!”

“Well, okay.” He put his hands up in the air. “But we seemed pretty close last night.”

“This isn’t funny! Hana is going to kill me! I mean fucking murder me!” Riley and Hana were in an open relationship, but she was pretty sure that marrying a total stranger would be a deal breaker.

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “I can fix it.”

“How?”

“Just…. Get dressed. We have to go to the palace.”

“The palace?” She blinked at him as her sleep and alcohol laden brain tried to make sense of what he was saying. “Why?”

“My father can just grant an annulment.”

“Your father?”

“Yes, my father! The king. Remember, I told you last night—”

Her eyes widened as she sucked in a shocked gasp. “You were serious about that?”

“Yes. You thought I was lying?”

“Of course, I thought you were lying! Men will say any kind of shit to get a woman into bed!”

“So, you thought I was lying but you still slept with me?”

“I thought you were doing it ironically! It was such an obvious lie that no one would believe it, so you were saying it as a joke. You know, poking fun at ridiculous pickup lines. I thought it was funny and charming you fucking prick!”

“Hey now,” He held both hands up in front of him in the universal symbol of surrender. “It’s not my fault that I was honest with you and you chose not to believe me. Maybe you have some trust issues you should work on.”

“Of course, I have trust issues. Men do asinine shit like trick women they just met into marriage!”

“Oh, men do that, do they? This happens to you all the time? How many strange men have you married?”

“Fuck you.”

“You already did that. But I’m not averse to round two.”

“Oh, there is no way I’m sleeping with you again!”

Leo shrugged. “Your loss.”

She opened her mouth to say something rude when a memory from the night before broke through.

“…it’s an arranged marriage. I don’t see any way out of it, short of just…running away…”

“What if you married someone else?” she blurted out.

“What?” He laughed.

“I mean… you can’t marry her if you’re already married to someone else, right?”

“Right.”

She closed her eyes in mortification. The marriage had been her idea.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Concern laced his voice.

She was taken aback by how quickly he’d gone from cocky and flippant to kind and solicitous.

“Nothing… just…” she thrust her dirty clothes toward him. “Do you have a T-shirt and some sweats or something I can borrow? I can’t put these back on.”

“I… yeah, ok, go take a shower and I’ll make sure you have something that fits when you get out. And I’ll order breakfast.”

“I don’t think we have time to—”

“Come on. You have to eat.”

“Fine. Whatever.” She huffed as she slammed into the bathroom. Glaring at herself in the mirror, she tried to quell the panic rising in her throat. How the hell was she going to explain this to Hana?

Their epic summer abroad had just taken a disastrous turn.